CAT BURGLAR

When I was a child in the late 1940s, we had a much-loved but eccentric ginger cat called Freckles. Freckles was an enthusiastic hunter, but he did not hunt for rats, mice or birds like other cats. His quarry was entirely different – and perhaps he considered it more useful to humans.

After a successful hunt, our young cat would arrive home uttering that distinctive hunting cry that cats give voice to when they are bringing home a trophy. He would enter triumphantly, bearing in his mouth a rolled-up pair of socks, which he would proudly lay at our feet. Sometimes he would bring home other things – a pullover, a child’s shorts or singlet, and once, with difficulty, dragging it by one sleeve, a grey woollen jumper.

We decided he must be jumping through people’s open laundry windows and raiding their laundry baskets. I was given the embarrassing job of going from house to house asking, “Does this belong to you? Our cat brought it home.”

Freckles gained quite a reputation in the neighbourhood, and children would sometimes come to our door enquiring about mislaid articles: “I can’t find my hat/swimsuit/ schoolbag. Has your cat taken it?”

I couldn’t help wondering if some

enterprising child ever used Freckles as an excuse for undone homework, telling the teacher, “The neighbour’s cat stole it!”

A few years later, we moved to another suburb. Perhaps the people there were more security conscious and there was a shortage of open windows, but whatever the reason, Freckles grew to a contented old age without ever again indulging in his strange pastime.