Tell-tail

One of my cats is a squealer.

She doesn't meow plaintively to attract passing tomcats. She'd have great difficulty doing that from the confines of a third-floor flat. Even if she weren't spayed.

Nor does she serenade the full moon or late at night when her human servants are trying to sleep. 

Oh no. This kitty is a tell-tale, a blabberer, a grass, a snitch.

Three times this morning she whined loudly and beseechingly through the flat, doing her utmost to draw my attention - as if this were possible to avoid without the aid of earplugs - to some grave and/or dire emergency, eventually coming into my office and rubbing up against my legs while continuing her high-pitched, high-decibel dirge.

Having watched my fair share of Lassie films as a kid, I was quick to recognise the urgency of the situation and act accordingly. Something was clearly wrong. A child had slipped down a disused well, a man had fallen off his horse and knocked himself unconscious, an old crone had been bitten by a rattlesnake, and only a quick-witted, bold and assertive human could save the day with the help of his trusty animal sidekick. 

No such person being on hand, I decided to step up to the plate in their stead.

My first clue was that the cat's sister was nowhere to be seen. I had therefore undeniably been alerted to her peril.

Had she climbed behind the bathroom sink (again) and become trapped? Had someone inadvertently closed a cupboard she was inspecting, thereby exposing her to the bogeymen who habitually reside there? Had she tried to swallow yet another long piece of string and was now silently gagging on the final metre? Had she been blown off the window ledge and dashed to smithereens on the concrete paving slabs below?

A thorough inspection of the flat revealed no sign of the unfortunate creature. And since both cats refuse to answer to their names there was no point in calling her.

That was when I noticed the open door to the balcony.

As my tabby alerter slunk off contentedly towards the lounge, satisfied that I had finally understood her warnings, I cautiously stepping outside, convinced that I would be met with the spectre of a poor, defenceless kitty mauled to shreds by the neighbourhood magpies, impaled lifelessly on the leg of an upturned piece of garden furniture or squeezed inescapably between the railings, most of her weight dangling perilously over the abyss and certain death.

To my great relief, it was none of these or the myriad other nightmare scenarios that flashed across my mind as I strode out into the bright sunlight.

She was sitting on the garden table, calmly watching the birds and insects flutter and buzz by. True, tables are an absolute kitty no-no in our household, but in no way commensurate with the palpable distress so vehemently expressed by her siren sibling.

I lifted her down off the table, reminding her gently about the error of her ways, and returned to my office.

A little later, the desperate, pleading meowing started again, and later a third time. On each occasion, I headed directly for the balcony door, and each time the other cat was on the table. No more, no less.

Knowing it was wrong, her sister had simply informed on her.

And that makes her a stinking, dirty rat. 

Albeit a feline one.