I now feel pretty bad about this.
Before I tell you what I did, and you all decide that I am a wicked horrid Gransnetter, please let me give you some background.
Of the 3 cats, Lily doesn't go out, therefore has no need to be let in. When Maurice wants to come in, he sits on his hind legs and with both front paws beats an insistent tattoo on the front door. The speed and volume that he can manage is pretty impressive. I think he may be a secret drummer with an underground cat beat combo.
Digby (aka Squeaky Digby) sits on the kitchen window sill. This is fine if I happen to be in the kitchen, but I cannot spend every moment that he is out watching anxiously for his return, looking like a cheap remake of The French Lieutenants Woman. (If I did I would never get chance to come on here!)
I have probably already said somewhere that in our little cul-de-sac of 7 houses, the cats far out number the people. Digby is an amiable soul, and seems to have made friends with most of the population, both human and feline, with the exception of Bailey. She is a young biscuit coloured oriental (Burmese, I think) and bullies Digby terribly, despite the fact that he is around 3 times her size. I have told him to man up and use his (considerable) weight advantage, but to no avail.
About an hour ago, I leant out of the bedroom window to see if his nibs was sitting on the kitchen window sill directly below. He wasn't, but Bailey was crouched next to my car, a sure indication that Digby was hiding underneath it and frightened to come out. He has in the past sauntered out trying to give the impression that he was just checking the suspension, but he doesn't fool me.
Aaaaanyway, there just happened to be a large glass of water on my bedside table and..........................
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