24 Traps
We searched the garden: behind flower-pots, in the shrubs, amongst the wood-pile, in the chicken coop. Nothing.
“Well, that’s that, then,” said Joe. “They’re gone. We’d better tell Sandra and stop her finding new homes for them.”
But I wasn’t giving up that easily. I thought hard.
“Where could they have gone? Do you think they were stolen? But we haven’t told anybody about them, nobody knows they’re here...” I was thinking aloud.
I carried on searching until I heard a tiny squeak. I froze and listened again. No, I wasn’t imagining it, another squeak. I looked around. Where was it coming from?
“Joe, listen! Did you hear that?”
“Yes, I did...”
So Joe and I played Follow the Squeak which led us to the barbecue. The barbecue was waist high, and below the grill was a metal box that Paco had welded for us. It was a lovely simple design: a box that holds burning charcoal, with grooves to rest one’s kebab sticks. There was no doubt, the squeaks were coming from behind the box. I pulled the box forward a few inches, to reveal MumCat and three kittens, all squashed into the tiny space behind.
“What are you doing in there?” I asked Mumcat. “Surely your box with the straw in it is much more comfortable?”
“If that’s where she’s chosen, that’s where we should leave her,” said Joe.
“But they’ll fall out!” I protested. I really didn’t think that MumCat had given her new nursery enough thought.
“The kittens aren’t moving around much yet,” said Joe. “I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”
We retreated back inside to watch from the kitchen window, and we didn’t have long to wait. The kittens hadn’t properly found their feet yet, but they could squirm beautifully. Before we could intercept it, one of the big kittens had wriggled to the edge, teetered, then tumbled to the ground with a squawk and an unpleasant dull thud. I ran outside, but MumCat had beaten me to it.
First she gave her baby a good wash, then she scruffed it, and leaped back onto the barbecue, the fat little kitten dangling limply from her mouth. The kitten seemed unhurt in spite of the perilous drop and the undignified landing on the unforgiving paving stones below. I shook my head. No, the barbecue was not a good choice, even Joe agreed.
I reached into the back of the barbecue, and winkled out the kittens, one by one. Then I carried each carefully back to the straw-filled box in the wood-shed. The two girls cried and fought all the way, but the little chap sat in my hands, calmly surveying his surroundings. Unfortunately, MumCat did not agree with my decision. By the time I reached the box with the third kitten, she’d already whisked the first one away, stashed it back in the barbecue and was returning for the second.
“You and I need to talk,” I said to MumCat as she collected the last kitten. “This won’t do. The barbecue is not a good place to raise your family.”
So I sat down on the step and MumCat wound herself around my legs, arching her back for strokes. I told her that the barbecue was a foolish place to keep her babies, that they’d keep falling out, there wasn’t enough space, etc., etc. She stated that the woodshed was too public, and that she objected to the other village cats disturbing her family during the night. I asked her if she was willing to compromise? How about if I made her a nice bed in the cupboard under the sink, next to the barbecue? I’d jam the cupboard door ajar so she and the kittens could get in and out, and they’d be safe. At least they’d be on ground level and couldn’t harm themselves.
“I don’t know why you talk to that cat. She’s a Spanish cat, she doesn’t even speak English,” Joe said.
I ignored him. I went inside and collected a couple of old sweaters, to make a comfortable bed in the cupboard. Finally, I lifted the kittens into the cupboard and stood back to watch. MumCat had already checked out the cupboard and now demonstrated her approval. Entering, she flopped down on her side, purring, encircling the kittens. They nuzzled her and settled down to feed while she washed their heads. The new nursery was a success.
I loved the new arrangement because I could see the cupboard clearly from the kitchen. MumCat was the perfect mother and the kittens thrived. Their markings changed even more: the little girls’ ears darkening while their coats stayed snowy with haphazard beige streaks. The little boy grew more beautiful every day, blessed with typical Siamese colouring, darker than his sisters. His ears were too big for him, probably borrowed from a bat-eared fox, but I forgave him that. One of the little girls, the naughty one that had tumbled out of the barbecue, developed a comical smudge on her face. She looked as though she’d stuck her nose up a sooty chimney, so Smut seemed an obvious name. Joe, who’d sworn that we wouldn’t name these feline scraps, christened the other little girl Beauty. And, for obvious reasons, the little boy became known as Choccy-Paws, abbreviated to Chox unless he was in trouble.
11 days old
For the first week or so, we saw little of the kittens, but as they became bolder and developed more control of their feet, little faces began to appear, peeping round the cupboard door. Of course, adventurous Smut was the first, followed by Beauty, and Chox a day later. They invented their first game, one that kept them amused for a good proportion of every day. The game was called ‘Paws under the Door’ and involved one kitten lying on its side outside, swatting at its siblings’ paws that fleetingly appeared in the gap under the door. I’d jammed the door slightly ajar with a wooden wedge so there was no risk of squashed paws.
While our kitten family was thriving, I worried about the other cats in the village. I’m perfectly aware that it’s the same all over Spain. The Spanish rarely neuter or spay their own pet cats, so the problem escalates. Cats run wild and their numbers are not controlled. Every spring countless new batches of kittens appear. The weak ones rarely survive but the remainder grow up to produce yet more kittens to add to the feral population.
I wondered how we could help. Even though our finances were limited, couldn’t we do something? It was when we were tidying the garage one day that an idea occurred to me.
When we first bought our house, the previous owner had left all his farming paraphernalia. There were scythes, hoes, shovels, a beehive and all sorts of other curious objects we couldn’t identify. There was also a cage, which after examination, we established was a trap. It was quite long and narrow, with an entrance that could be hooked open. Any creature that walked inside and touched the mechanism was trapped as the cage door slammed shut. I wondered what sort of creature the previous owner had trapped.
“Joe?”
“Hmm?”
“What do you think of this idea?” I asked, blowing the dust off the trap. “What if we put something tasty in this trap, and try to catch some village cats? We could run them down to the vet, get them neutered, and then set them free again.”
Joe stared at me, then gave his nethers a good scratch.
“Do you know how many cats there are in this village? Even if we caught some, it would hardly make much of a difference, would it?”
“I know, but it’s a start isn’t it?”
“It sounds expensive,” he said. “How much does it cost to neuter a cat?”
That troubled look had returned to his eyes. Was it money that was bothering him? I knew things had been tight since the Credit Crisis and that Joe’s military pension had shrunk alarmingly. Was it money he was fretting about? Yet again I made a mental note to tackle him about it as soon as an opportunity arose.
“Well, I don’t know... I thought I’d ask Sandra at Alstrays. I know their vet will do it at cost price. It wouldn’t cost much, would it?”
“No, maybe not. How would we set the trap?”
“We could put some ham or something into it, then leave it overnight on that waste ground next to the cemetery. I know we can’t afford to do many, but anything would help, wouldn’t it? It would stop a few litters of kittens being born.”
“Hmm...”
Joe didn’t sound convinced but he helped me bait the trap that evening. As the sun lowered in the sky, Joe and I carried the trap and found a good spot on the wasteland. The birds had already gone to bed and the village was deserted. I put a nice lump of ham in the trap, knowing that most cats would find it irresistible.
The next morning I was impatient to see if the trap had been successful. Even as Joe and I approached, we knew we had a result. The trap was the centre of attention for at least a dozen village cats, some circling it, others crouched in the grass, watching. Two cats were actually standing on top of the trap, trying to fish their paws through the bars.
“That’s amazing!” I said. “Look, isn’t that nice? We’ve obviously caught a really popular one and all its friends are trying to rescue it! I wonder if it’s a female or a tom?”
The cats scattered as we drew close and we were able to see inside the trap.
“Oh! I can see it now! It’s a big black and white...”
“Magpie,” said Joe.
The poor magpie was living its worst nightmare. First it was trapped in a cage, then tormented by dozens of cats, and finally dreaded humans had arrived to make its life even more miserable. It flapped and threw itself at the cage sides, desperate to escape.
“Oh, poor thing!” I said.
Joe lifted the cage high in the air, sliding the entrance open. The magpie exploded out in a blur of black and white and landed on a branch in the nearest tree, screaming obscenities at us and the cats. Then it preened its ruffled feathers and flapped away.
“We’ll try again tonight,” I said. “I don’t think that magpie will make the same mistake twice.”
I could tell Joe wasn’t enthusiastic, but that evening we set out for the wasteland again, trap and ham in hand. It was a little later than the night before and the street lights cast long shadows. Being a Friday, the village had filled up for the weekend but we encountered nobody on the way. The Spanish are creatures of habit, and we knew that at eight o’clock most families would be eating their evening meal.
We were just approaching the spot where we’d left the trap the night before, when I sensed we were not alone. I squinted into the night and identified the cause. A shadow pressed against the cemetery wall. Two shadows, to be precise, glued together. I peered into the darkness and recognised the figures.
“Shhh!” I whispered, grabbing Joe’s arm.
“What’s the matter?”
“We’re not alone. Leave the trap here. We don’t want to disturb them.” I jerked my head in the direction of the cemetery wall.
Joe narrowed his eyes, peering into the dark and understood immediately. “Oh, right! Okay.” He set down the trap as quickly and quietly as he could, and we speedily retreated.
“That was Lola Ufarte and Geronimo, wasn’t it?” said Joe when we were out of earshot.
“Hmm... Yes, it was Lola Ufarte, but that wasn’t Geronimo with her.”
“It wasn’t? Who was it then?”
“Sofía’s policeman boyfriend.”
“Oh no! Are you sure?”
“I’m afraid so. I’m positive it was him.”
“Has Sofía broken up with her boyfriend?”
“No. Carmen-Bethina told me today that Sofía was expecting her boyfriend to come up to the village tonight.”
“Well, why is he with Lola Ufarte then?”
“No idea. But I do know Sofía had a bad headache today, Carmen-Bethina told me.”
“So, Mr. Policeman was at a loose end, and...”
“Yep, looks like Lola Ufarte stepped in and, er, entertained him.”
It was a great pity, but we weren’t very surprised. Lola Ufarte was a girl who liked to enjoy herself, as my lovely mother-in-law would have said.
“Don’t say a word to anybody about this,” said Joe. “We mustn’t interfere. They’ll sort it out for themselves.”
So we hugged the information to ourselves, not wanting to be the ones to break such unpleasant news to Sofía.
We got up early next morning to inspect the trap before anyone else found it. The birds were singing lustily and the sky was that clear blue a brand new day brings. Our feet left trails in the dewy grass. I stole a glance at the cemetery wall and saw that the grass there was flattened.
No cats circled the trap today so we reckoned the magpie had learned its lesson. But there was something in the trap.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t a cat. It was a hedgehog. It didn’t seem distressed at all, gently nosing the gaps between the bars with its pointed snout.
“Oh dear,” I said. “I didn’t even know there were hedgehogs here in Spain.”
Joe rolled his eyes but said nothing. Gently, he opened the entrance to the trap and the hedgehog trundled out. It sniffed the ground in all directions and ambled away, apparently none the worse for wear. At least it had enjoyed a free meal.
“Can we stop this silly game now?” Joe asked. “We’re never going to catch a cat.”
“Oh, just one more try! We’ve just been unlucky, that’s all. It’s a very good trap.”
Back at home, I checked out Spanish hedgehogs on the Internet, just out of interest. As usual, Iberianature.com told me all I needed to know.
Algerian hedgehog
It informed me that there are two hedgehog species in Spain: the European and the Algerian. The European ones are darker in colour and bigger than their Algerian cousins, but not often found along the Mediterranean coast. I concluded, therefore, that ours was Algerian. Apparently, Algerian hedgehogs’ spines are softer than those of European hedgehogs and their ears are bigger. I also learned that the Spanish used to capture and eat hedgehogs, though thankfully they are now protected.
The Internet also taught me that the ancient Egyptians believed hedgehog fat cured baldness. I stored that nugget of useless information in my head in case it ever came in useful. You never know, it could be the winning question on some silly TV quiz show.
We waited until Sunday night when the village was quiet before setting the trap again.
“This is the last time,” Joe said. “If we don’t catch a cat tonight, we’re giving up. This is getting ridiculous.”
I put a nice big piece of ham in the trap, and we walked away. I prayed it would be third time lucky and crossed my fingers.