12 April, 2011

CatWatch 2011.

This morning as I stood outside chatting to a neighbour, I heard a faint yowling from somewhere above my head. When I looked up, what do you think I saw?


That's right. Kit got brave.

The yowling was because while she had been brave, she had overestimated her powers of climbing back down.

I tried tuna. I tried taking Sophie out to lure her down. I tried taking our (woefully inadequate) ladder out in the hopes that if I got closer to her, she'd come down. Nada.

I tried the RSPCA, who told me (twice, over two hours) that they'd call me back and let me know when somebody could come out and help me. After I called a third time, I finally got a call back. They informed me that she'd have to have been up there for at least 24 hours before they'd even send someone out to assess the situation, and that even then they'd only call the fire department out to get her down. And the point of the RSPCA is? No clue.

I called the fire department, who informed me that they NEVER come out to get cats down out of trees, for any reason. Somebody's lying to me...

I finally called a tree surgeon, who came out within an hour with his guys. He climbed up with his rappelling gear, but unfortunately the noise he made getting up there scared her even further out towards the tips of the branches she was on. Did I mention she was a good 25 feet up? Did I mention that the tips of the branches are over the street? Yeah.

I can tell you're wondering where this fascinating tale will lead next. Imagine this:

A rope slung around the branch upon which Kit rests. A burly Englishman (who in the course of his tree climbing activities did that blowing the nose with no tissue thing) yanking on the rope as hard as he can while Kit clings for dear life to the branch, as the tree minions hold out a tarp between them upon which to break her fall. A yowling Kit, dangling above the street, finally losing her grip and plummeting to earth, landing safely on the bag and then being confined to the house while yours truly ran into town to get the £50 the tree surgeon charged for his services. Mind you, with the amount of trouble he had getting her down, he definitely would have charged more... if before he came I hadn't dashed upstairs and put on a dress that makes me look REALLY pregnant... and if I hadn't used a REALLY southern accent while he was here. You use what you got.

The moral of the story? We have inside cats.

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