Also, yesterday, when we got back home from Addenbrookes and were on our street already, we noticed one of our neighbours who lives several houses away from us on the same side. We said hello to each other, and then she added that she’s waiting for her pussycat, Bertie, “to finish his thing and come home.”
The thing is, Bertie is also a mature black cat with somewhat plushy fur, and his figure is on the heavier side, which basically gives you a spitting image of Pickle (although, Pickle is the bestest pussycat by any means).
And then, a large black and somewhat chonky cat emerged from the night shadow. “Pickle!” I exclaimed jovially, “Who is a good Pizdunchik? You are! Who was waiting? Come here and let’s go home!” The cat immediately made a tiny noise and fell on his back revealing his belly.
“I’m sorry, but it’s Bertie,” the neighbour said shyly. “I recognised him straight away.”
I felt confused, and so did L. The cat came to me and put his paw on my leg. “Pickle, are you Bertie?” I asked him. He meowed louder, with no doubts in his voice. L. was still visibly perplexed and the lady, too.
“And now, I’m not that sure anymore,” she said, “You called him adorable Russian names [I choked a bit], and he seemingly responded. Looks like this Bertie isn’t mine.”
“I think so,” I nodded, and fake Bertie purred unquestionably, asking me for nibbles and cuddles.
UPD. Real Bertie was hidden right behind the corner of the neighbour’s house, waiting when the situation is resolved.
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