Second Motherhood

The 'cor-blimey-look-at-that-whopper' egg laid by Mrs Pumphrey on Wednesday has been proudly on display in the kitchen to be thrust upon various visitors for 'Oooohing' and 'Aaaahing' over, and other such general voicings of amazement and admiration. And then, last night, it suddenly disappeared.

'Who's eaten the giant Pumphrey egg?' I demanded.
Everyone in the house at the time (Andy, my mum, Chris and Leane) all denied any illicit egg consumption. Tybalt said he wouldn't touch an egg if it was the last food on earth, Pandora said, what egg? where? can I have some cheese? aren't I cute? and Phoebe, as usual, was asleep and didn't say anything.

Up early this morning, after a fretful night worrying about egg-knapping, and wondering how long this stifling weather was going to continue I appeared in the kitchen to find Phoebe wide awake and with her paw over her lips.

'Sssssshhhhh!' she whispered. 'The baby's asleep.'
'Baby?' I said. 'What baby?' (I thought, she can't be referring to Pandora because as far as Phoebe is concerned, Pandora is the delinquent teenage wild-child spawn of the Devil Cat of Hell.)
'My baby,' said Phoebe, proudly.

Now, I know Phoebe is always quite keen to get outside, being the only one of our cats who has previously experienced the Great Outdoors, but her modus operandi is usually to find the first piece of long grass which she will gobble down quickly and then return to the house to vomit it up on the kitchen floor. I wasn't aware she'd had any untoward assignations and besides, when she arrived at Andy's surgery many years ago as a scraggly stray with two new-born kittens, she was cleaned up and spayed immediately because there are already enough cats in the world without encouraging multiple-litters.

'Phoebe, ' I said, kindly and gentle, 'you can't have any more babies.'
'I hatched the Giant Pumphrey egg,' said Phoebe, proudly. 'And look what came out!'

'Good Lord!' I said.
'Isn't she lovely?' said Phoebe proudly. 'I think she looks like me.'
'In the manner she is black and furry, yes,' I said. 'But in the manner of the bill and the webbed feet, then no, this is a duckling and not a kitten.'
'Well, you think what you like,' said Phoebe, dipping her elbow into the water she was running for her baby's bath. 'But Rubba is my baby. I hatched her and I am going to look after her. And now if you'll excuse us, it is baby bath-time.'

And she hustled me from the bathroom and slammed the door.

'Can cats develop mental illness?' I asked Andy.
'All the time,' said Andy. 'Especially those that reside at Much Malarkey Manor.'