Holey moley

Spock’s very tight spot!

Real People - - CONTENTS - Heather Shiels,33, Bolton

Shov­el­ling spag bol left­overs into the bin, I be­gan to stack the plates in the dish­washer. Then, once the ma­chine was on, I nipped up­stairs.

Time to make sure the kids were get­ting ready for bed.

I set­tled four-year-old Emma and turned to Thomas, six.

‘I want to cud­dle Spock be­fore I go to sleep,’ he an­nounced.

Spock was our 15-week-old tabby kit­ten.

Hubby Paul, 33, is mad about the Star Trek movies, and as soon as he saw our tiny fur­ball’s pointy ears, the lit­tle scrap had his name.

‘I’ll fetch him,’ I told Thomas, smil­ing. Trudg­ing down­stairs, I peered around.

Where had he got to? A mewl­ing sound came from the kitchen so I fol­lowed it, but there was no sign of Spock. Miaow!

Blood rushed to my head

– the sound was com­ing from the di­rec­tion of the dish­washer!

Had Spock beamed him­self up into it? The wa­ter was al­ready swirling into the ma­chine. Fran­ti­cally, I rushed to­wards it. Would we have a soggy moggy? Hur­riedly, I jabbed the ‘stop’ but­ton. But then an­other miaow sounded… from a cup­board nearby.

Re­lief coursed through me. Crouch­ing down, I pulled open the door and spied a tail and a bot­tom… but no head.

‘There you are,’ I chuck­led. ‘Out you come.’

The naughty lit­tle cu­tie must have trekked his way in when I’d opened the cup­board door to get out a tablet for the dish­washer.

I gen­tly placed my hands around his tummy to coax him out, but his legs skid­ded slightly to the side and the rest of him wouldn’t budge.

I kneeled on the floor and peered in more closely.

Spock was in the cor­ner of the cup­board be­neath a socket.

With a sick­en­ing feel­ing, I re­alised he’d poked his head through a hole left when a space had been cut into the unit to in­stall the power point. ‘Come on,’ I whis­pered. But it was no use… Spock was jammed tight.

Miaowwwww! he protested. Couldn’t he get out the same way he’d got in?

Nope. He re­mained stuck fast. Poor lit­tle fur­ball!

Paul and the kids came troop­ing down the stairs, so I ex­plained how Spock was stuck.

‘But I’m sure he’ll get out again,’ I said, brightly, look­ing at the kids’ wor­ried faces. MIAOWWW!

Oh, heck! Cue more soft tug­ging, but

noth­ing prised Spock’s head out of the three-inch hole. What next? Maybe I could get my hand round the back of the kitchen unit and some­how push his face back out, I thought. Scram­bling down on the floor, me and Paul man­aged to push out the bot­tom of the cup­board. Wedged with my arm un­der­neath, I shoved as far for­ward as I could… but it was im­pos­si­ble. Mewwww.

Spock sounded fright­ened. More coax­ing. More tug­ging…

I held on to him tight like… well… a Klin­gon. But he’d well and truly gone be­yond his fi­nal fron­tier.

I di­alled 999.

‘First port of call is the RSPCA,’ ex­plained the fire brigade op­er­a­tor.

Soon I was get­ting ad­vice. ‘Ap­ply cook­ing oil and mar­garine,’ said the per­son from the RSPCA.

I poured some oil into the palm of my hand and mas­saged it around Spock’s neck.

Next, I took a dol­lop of mar­garine from the tub and smoth­ered it around his neck, too.

I tried again to lever him out, but he was still stuck.

Poor Spock’s miaows were be­com­ing more dis­tant.

He was get­ting very dis­tressed. Pan­icked, I rang the RSPCA again. This time an in­spec­tor, An­gela, came.

‘I’ve never seen any­thing like it be­fore,’ she said.

Paul took the kids up to bed while An­gela tried the oil and marg combo.

Even­tu­ally, shak­ing her head, she made a call, and four fire­fight­ers ar­rived… all these peo­ple to res­cue our lit­tle kitty! Spock was now si­lent.

The fire­fight­ers de­cided to take out the dish­washer from its moor­ings and try to get round the back of the unit.

‘There’s a live wire on the other side,’ said one of the fire­fight­ers. ‘It’s a won­der Spock wasn’t elec­tro­cuted.’

Quickly we turned off the power, but there was no way round the back.

‘We’ll have to cut him out,’ said one of the fire­fight­ers.

An elec­tric saw fired up, ate into the wood and trav­elled down­wards. Then they used a drill, to ex­tend the hole above Spock’s head. ‘There,’ said the fire­fighter. An­gela slowly prised Spock’s head up­wards into the drilled hole and… re­leased him.

He’d been trapped for twoand-a-half hours, but now we could cud­dle our silly kitty.

Later at the vets, Spock was given painkillers for a sore neck and was soon back to his play­ful self.

Our Spock is des­tined to live long and prospurr. Phew!

Our silly kitty got him­self into a very tight spot Fire­fight­ers came to Spock’s res­cue

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