Today we woke to a scandal (GASP) that would make a tabloid journalist widdle themselves with glee here at our current housesit in a small #UK village.
Waking to rain on the roof, we went downstairs to breakfast with our lady #cat hosts, Madame Harriet and Miss Smudge.
But to our pearl clasping horror, we immediately detected an aroma that was unmistakably none other than–and I hazard to type this in Miss Smudge’s delicate company–FOX!
Clutching our noses, we beheld Madame Harriet lounging on the kitchen tiles, revelling in the stench of five thousand fermented rhino farts on holiday. And to our horror she was purring. PURRING!
I’m afraid I reacted in a most unseemly way and exclaimed “What the hell have you been doing you manky little baggage?!” before immediately bellowing for some kind of emergency de-foxing equipment.
To which Madame Harriet went on an impromptu tour of the cottage, making her view of my opinions clear!
A caper ensued that included language that I will not besmirch your ears with, all proclaimed by Madame Harriet who has the mouth of a pint wielding tavern wench.
We finally de-foxed both cat and house before serving breakfast as usual.
Madame Harriet is now residing on our bed, contemplating either the error of her ways, or how to clandestinely meet the fox again, either way, she’s been muttering swearing meows about the Great Bath Trauma of 2024 for the past hour.
The saga continues…
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