Back from my week in the country and I have a correction to last week’s column to make. In it, I referred to the cat I was looking after with the following words: “Tybalt is not exactly a loving or affectionate cat to anyone except A—,” A— being the person I was tending the cat for. I am very happy to report that as it turned out, Tybalt realised fairly quickly which side his bread was buttered on, or which dish his Sheba went in, and from pretty much the first evening he decided that I was more or less acceptable.
He also worked out I was a sucker, and one day made it as clear as he could that there was no theoretical upper limit to the number of sachets of food he could eat at a sitting. I sent a message to A— asking what the upper limit actually was and she said, “One, but then I’m not trying to bribe him,” and as I read it I heard the unmistakable sound of a cat who has had too much Sheba throwing up in various parts of the kitchen. It was really quite an impressive amount, far more than I’d put in him, but at least he did it on the kitchen’s slate floor rather than anywhere carpeted.
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