Mr Figaro Cat is a Wilful Little Sod

I have had a couple of great cats in my life. From age 4 to 19 I had the pleasure of living with Charlie, a chilled out black and white fluffy boy. Then, up until a few years ago, we had another tuxedo cat, Cookie, who was my bestest pal. We used to chase each other around the house and garden, but he was generally a bit anxious around people he didn’t know and never ventured too far from the house.

My eldest daughter has a cat, called Figaro. He’s a bit famous, having 10k followers on Twitter and featuring in an article about the best cats to follow on Twitter in 2022. I sometimes make a guest appearance as his grandad (which is very weird). Anyway, we look after him every now and then and eldest & BF have jetted off to some exotic destination in the Indian Ocean and we’ve been keeping him warm, fed and safe.

He spent much of Monday under eldest’s old bed, apart from coming down for some food. On Tuesday afternoon he completely disappeared. Couldn’t find him anywhere, until I detected a tiny movement IN the bed. He’d managed to bury under the duvet and snuggle down, completely hidden, and didn’t make a sound when we called him. Of course all this sleeping meant he was raring to go in the evening. He did an unfeasibly long poo in his litter tray & I let him out into the back garden to explore while I disposed of it. I looked out of the window for him 3 minutes later and he’d vanished. The last time he’d stayed over he’d escaped under (& over) the fence to the front of the house so knowing he had form for this kind of trick I put my coat on and went to the front door. As soon as I opened it he dashed in.

Scary!” his little face said and he shot through the house to the kitchen.

Hmm. Well at least he was back inside. I found him at the back door, demanding to go out again. I kept him in for a while but figured whatever had spooked him would keep him in the back garden. I relented and out he went. I started filling the dishwasher.

Once finished I went to call him in. The little bugger had legged it again. I went back out the front with my large torch and spotted him over the road poking around on a neighbour’s driveway.

“Fig!” I hissed.

Oh, hai, am just wandering about.

“Come here, now!”

He sauntered over, got to our path and lay down, rolling around on it. “I LOVE being outside. I ADORE your path.”

I sighed and got the Dreamies out. Fig noticed but didn’t want to come inside. I put one on the hallway floor and stood behind the door. Sure enough he came in to eat his treat and I shut the door behind him. Ha! One-Nil to the human. I went to usher him towards the kitchen but he gave a hiss and swipe and shot upstairs, despising me for my trickery. He lay on the landing next to our bedroom door, one moment threatening to shred my hand if I touched him and the next looking all chilled and relaxed and giving every indication that this is where he wanted to spend the night. No chance, mate.

I was not going to be out-foxed by a moggie, not matter how cute and famous.

I went down to the kitchen, put some of his favourite fishy yoghurt into a bowl and unlocked the back door. A very distinctive sound. Sure enough, Mr Fig trotted in and pawed at the door. I presented him with his Lick-e-Lix.

Oooh, I LOVE this, nom-nom-nom.”

Night-night sucker, I thought as I closed the kitchen door and went to bed.

Tonight, he had his revenge (and we haven’t got to the ‘going to bed’ bit yet, which worries me a little).

I had let him out into the back garden around lunchtime to give him some fresh air and make sure he wasn’t so energetic at midnight. For some reason he’s more nervous in the daylight than at night, so he didn’t escape and actually came back into the house after about 15 minutes. We let him out in the evening too, while we had post-dinner tea and coffee. After 20 minutes or so we went to find him and of course he’d escaped again. I went round the front and he was in a wary stand-off with one the neighbours, a black cat called Poppy who has no concept of ‘this is not your house’ and who has a tendency to jump in through any open window.

As soon as I appeared, Figgy got braver, Poppy got scared and disappeared back to safer ground. Figgy then decided to lord it over his new territory, strutting about and rolling on his favourite bit of path. Whenever I got close to him he ran further away. It was literally like having a giggling toddler running away from a parent. He crossed one road, had a good sniff of a neighbour’s garden and probably left a little present. I went back to the house to get my torch & Dreamies. Figgy went off, round the corner onto the ‘main’ road (it only leads to a level crossing and some farms), loving every minute. He did come close enough to eat a Dreamie but was then off again, scaring another local cat who was minding its own business. I attempted to shepherd him home but he jinked past me and into another garden. I tried the usual trick of walking away, hoping he’d follow, but he didn’t care that much. With a fair amount of coaxing (and helped by a loud train passing by the edge of the village) he eventually ambled back towards the house.

While I was standing there, calling him and rustling his packet of treats, I looked around and noticed Poppy was sitting nearby. “I’ll be your cat. I’m a good girl. Can I have a Dreamie?

After much sniffing of a neighbour’s van, Fig noticed his nemesis. He bravely chased her off, got scared, ran away a bit, realised he was on a lovely bit of path, rolled around and then legged it again as I got near.

I was getting pretty fed up by this point. I put my torch back in the house and went to have stern word with my tormentor. Luckily, the fear of having Poppy around made him drop his guard and come to me for a reassuring stroke, so I grabbed him and got us both back into the house. Whereupon he made a right old song and dance about being imprisoned against his will, that we were a bunch of fascists and that I wasn’t his dad and I couldn’t tell him what to do. Much meowing and scratching at the front door. In his little furry head our house was Stalag Luft III and he was the Cooler King.

I gave him some Dreamies. He shut up and ate.

He was a bit grumpy and bolshy for a bit but has generally forgiven me – he even jumped on my lap for a 2 minute purry cuddle and he’s now asleep in my in-tray as I type this. In about an hour I’m going to have to lock him into the kitchen again, which may be interesting. Heaven knows what’s going to happen tomorrow.

And we’ve got another week of all this. I blame his parents.


9 thoughts on “Mr Figaro Cat is a Wilful Little Sod

    1. And he keeps trying to steal my work chair. Just got back from a trip to get a cuppa and the cheeky bugger was on it again. I guess he just wants to be around me (but in the comfiest place possible).

      Liked by 1 person

    1. Fortunately he has settled down & chilled out a bit. And he stays close to the house when we let him out. I think it was my hovering around him that made him more daring & disobedient! ๐Ÿ˜

      Liked by 1 person

  1. Lol. I’m assuming Fig has gone home by now, Nick. I hope the rest of your week together wasn’t too traumatic for either of you. Cats are a hoot, but they definitely have a mind of their own and aren’t as willing to cooperate with humans as dogs. I think I would have lost my patience and confined Fig to the stalag. ๐Ÿ™‚ Thanks for the laughs.

    Liked by 1 person

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