Those blasted baby thrushes took forever to get out of bed and flap their little crunchy wings.
But once they’d gone, poor old Olive, the cat in whose shrubs they were lazing and loafing about all this time, was allowed out again, and so was I. The cat flap was unlocked.
We are On Parole, apparently.
I didn’t quite know what to do with myself at first. Leaving prison can be disorientating.
Then I remembered: the shed…
the back lane…
But I kept coming home again, because Rachel mustn’t start worrying about what I’m up to. I come indoors from time to time and show her: “Look! No mousies! No birds! Definitely no young thrushes!”
Rachel says I’m overdoing it, and that she doesn’t trust me as far as she could throw me. What an unpleasant expression, I told her, for a self-professed cat lover. She said she doesn’t think she’s ever thrown a cat, but I wouldn’t put it past her.
The boys felt it was safe to go out again too. Before my parole, they were scared to go out without me.
Although Hamish doesn’t like to stay outside for too long. He quite liked being in prison. I think it was the dinners, the television, the toy mice that appealed to him… And he’s hardly adventurous. Not like me at all.