The Time We Nearly Stole Someone's Cat by Accident

One day a few months ago, a cat turned up on our doorstep.

This isn't an entirely unusual occurrence. Lots of people on our road have cats and I know most of them by sight. "There goes The Fox," we say knowingly, as a fat ginger tabby lumbers past. "I see Hoover has been at the bins again," we tut, appraising the tortie-shaped holes in our rubbish bags.

But this cat was new. He was a black-and-white tuxedo cat, like Tail, but he had a permanently worried expression. He looked like he had wandered out of a posh dinner party and lost his way.

We named him Blum. It seemed to fit.

Being the nice, hospitable people we are, we invited Blum in for a quick bite to eat.

He seemed very grateful, and - having cleaned his plate - headbutted his thanks politely before heading off. He was frightfully sorry, but he was running late for his next meeting and it was very important.

Over the coming weeks, we saw quite a bit of Blum. He knew we were always good for a dish of kibble and a saucer of cat milk, and he frequently stopped by on his way to host some charity gala or social function.

He had a curious habit of jumping up to headbutt things. If you held your hand just below waist height, he would bounce up and give it the full force of his nose.

We called this move 'the Blum'.

We soon found ourselves getting Blummed with alarming regularity, and we began to wonder whether he had a home to go to.

We were growing rather fond of him.

After pondering for a while, we decided to buy him a collar with our phone number on. That way, if anyone was looking after him, they could get in touch. And if they weren't, well ... maybe we could step in.

The collar was a quick-release one in fluorescent green. It wasn't easy to miss.

Blum evidently wasn't used to wearing a collar, and he wasn't very impressed by it. But he seemed to give it the benefit of the doubt.

That night, Blum pootled off, cheery as ever, sporting his new accessory with indifference.

We didn't hear anything for a couple of days. We didn't even see Blum in the street.

Then one afternoon at work, my mobile rang.

"Hello?" I said.
"WHO'S THIS?" came an angry-sounding man's voice.
"Who's this?" I said.
"THERE'S A GREEN WHATSIT ON ME CAT!" the man roared, clearly enraged.

Suddenly I realised who he must be.

"Ah, sorry about that," I said quickly. "We'd just seen him around and wanted to check he had an owner."
"HE DOESN'T LIKE COLLARS," growled the man.
"Well, I do apologise," I said. "Next time he's about I'll take it off."
"NO YER DON'T. I'M TAKIN' IT OFF MESELF," the man said, with an air of finality.
"Um, OK," I said.
"BECAUSE 'E HATES 'EM."
"Alright."
"AND HE'S MY CAT, YER SEE."
"I quite understand."

I thanked the man for calling and we hung up. Well, I was glad somebody was taking care of Blum, and cat people come in all guises. I thought that would be the end of the matter.

But the next day, Blum was at the door. He was still wearing the collar.

Smiling, I reached down and took it off.

You never know when we might need it again. An 'owner please call' collar is a key item in a cat lover's armoury.

Not wanting to hijack the scary man's cat, I sent Blum packing without his usual dish of Whiskas, and he scampered off happily. He probably had a tombola to run or an exhibition to unveil.

We still see Blum around sometimes, although he tends to keep to Scary Man's end of the road.

If you see him, you can bet he'll be headbutting the hand of a well-meaning passer-by.

Old habits die hard.