Bunty Takes Sanctuary at the Manor

PALM SUNDAY

   Well, well. Arraminta came to church! She insisted that she didn’t want to miss seeing the donkey and who was I to discourage her? In retrospect, she was right to do so, as the day will be remembered for generations to come. 

Nancy is a retired seaside ride, rather woolly but with nicely oiled hooves, on loan from the local animal shelter. She and the vicar led the procession off from the Plump Pig to enthusiastic singing of ‘Ride on, ride on in Majesty’, and we all sweated up past the council houses waving our palm fronds /pampas grass. It was here that our number were swelled by some boys on BMX bikes and the pace picked up to a brisk trot.

No one will ever know if it was the bicycle bells, the plastic bag in the hedge, or even Brexit’s encouraging nipping at poor Nancy's hocks that caused her to bolt, but let’s just say that had the vicar not had a very tight grip on her halter, she might have been halfway back to Brighton beach by now. 

   Some of the children were understandably, quite upset as she galloped off with the vicar bravely hanging on. The donkey dragged him face down along the B4221 heading towards the motor way until a passing tractor managed to force her into the hedge and poor Colin was able to let go.

   A clergyman with blood running down his face and gravel encrusted stigmata on both hands (we didn’t check his feet) is not a pleasant sight for little ones to witness, so after the St John’s ambulance people had finished bandaging him, and confirmed no actual fractures, we decided to call a halt to proceedings. His grazes will heal no doubt, and the people from the donkey sanctuary have waived their fee this year, as a gesture of good will, so no harm done.

   I have been concerned that Mrs Tibbs was putting on weight, but it would seem that she has not been gorging on the local rodents or indeed, stealing Brexit’s supper. Oh no! She’s been acting the tart with that Tom cat from Lucknow Cottage. We came back to an awful lot of mess, and a litter of seven kittens on my antique Kilim rug. 

I’m not a cruel woman but that carpet came back from India in the fifties with my father and I’m not having it used as a maternity bed. I had to be very firm, despite her mewing and scratching, and removed the lot of them to the kitchen. Arraminta found them a cardboard box and an old bath towel and put them in the corner by the AGA. 

Brexit of course went straight over to have a good look and came away with a bloody nose and his tail between his legs. There was never any love lost between him and Mrs Tibbs and I feel sure he won’t venture near again. Trenton ignored the whole thing, just like his master. 

The kittens will have to go as soon as they can leave their mother. I decided to offer one of them to Tanya Hooper I think.

Later I found Arraminta cuddling Mrs Tibbs. I think she may have been crying. 

   ‘It’s so awful not to be wanted,’ she said.

   ‘It’s not that we don’t like the kittens, darling…it’s just that we have enough wild life in the house. Daddy and I were looking forward to a nice quiet future. With you on your gap year and Jerome away at Cambridge, we don’t want to be tied down.’

   At this she burst out into sobs again until poor Mrs Tibbs was quite soggy. She really is a very sensitive girl. 

I have relented and told her she may keep a kitten…just one...and she chose a very sweet gingery chap. For now, it is called Tibblet, but the name changes hourly.

After lunch, I rang Tanya’s mother to see if they would like one and received a rather brusque refusal, so that still leaves us with six to place. 

Would it be wrong to raffle them? 

Crichton comments

The damned cat has produced kittens. 

I knew she would if we didn’t have her spayed. Well I’m not having anything to do with them. Cynthia has said Arraminta may keep one. And who is going to look after that when she goes back to school might I ask? 

The kitchen stinks of Whiskas and cat litter. 

Raining again.