Not to me this time. My life has been safe and quiet ever since the Great Fungicide Fiasco which ended in a shaved Pompuss over a year ago.
This time it was the heslave – the one who kicks me off the end of the bed and uses a cushion to push me off my favourite chair. ( I get my own back by dribbling and leaving my excess fur on his dark clothing). Anyway, last weekend he decided to spray the weeds down the steep bank in front of the house. It had been raining and the bank was slippery so of course he overbalanced and cartwheeled down the slope, wrenching a knee and blackening an eye.
Panic stations! She had to get a rope, tie it to a solid post and throw the end of it down the bank so he could be dragged back up. It took her three attempts to throw it and even though I sat there willing to help she ignored me.
I know I couldn’t have done the St Bernard thing with a barrel of brandy around my neck but I could easily have taken the end of the rope in my mouth and scampered down the bank to give it to him. What’s more – I was willing. Even if he does kick me off the bed most nights.
My stupid slaves don’t seem to realise that I am capable of being heroic as well as decorative.