Smells and Bells

We named him Smells and Bells when he was a kitten, because of the way he used to sniff at every new object and experience, then ever so slightly shake his head, as if in greeting, emitting a faint jingle from his collar as he did so.

He stopped sniffing shortly afterwards, having soon made himself familiar with every object in the house, but the bell kept ringing throughout his kittenhood, as he leapt around chasing balls of string, wind-blown curtains, birds, frogs from the neighbour’s pond and anyone or anything foolish enough to move when Smells and Bells was around.

After running and jumping he would usually sleep, in short bursts, always in the cutest places; the fruit bowl, Gavin’s rucksack, the laundry basket, on any piece of paper we happened to be reading. He got in the way, stopped us doing what we were doing, ensuring that we smothered him with attention, which we did anyway.

He was still a kitten, even though he was master of the house by now. We feared his being outside for long, only letting him out during the day, and within reach of our saving gaze. We imprisoned him in the house at night for his own safety, but he found a way down to the garden, sneaking through the bathroom window, along the windowsill to garage roof, leaping the last in an impressive bound. It was several weeks before we even realised he was doing it, by which time it was too late to worry. "His first trick," we called it.

His next trick was opening the fridge door. He realised that was where the food was stored, watching as he did with professional curiosity as every piece of meat, fish, or luxury was brought out from within. He’d spend hours tapping at the fridge door, echoing our actions, but it was several weeks before he managed to open it, then all he could do was watch as it closed itself again, causing him to arch his tail and march away.

Eventually though he worked out how to prop the door open, and was able to rifle food from its shelves. We laughed when we caught him, adoring his audacity and innovation. Food started disappearing from wherever we hid it; cupboards, jars, even mid-cook from a hot and dangerous oven.

When money started going missing we never for a moment believed it was the cat. How could it? Why would it? The spate of burglaries in the area we, like every right-minded person we knew, blamed on the gypsies. It wasn't until the bank job that we suspected anything.

We found out about it on the local news. The biggest robbery in the town's history and the police, needless to say, were baffled. The only clue, they revealed to the watching public, was a small round, metallic bell found in the bank vault. If anyone had any information about the bell they would like to know.

We joked about it when we found that Smells was coincidentally missing Bells from his collar. But we stopped laughing when we found the money in the cat basket. £250,000 in five pound notes.

We split the money two ways, using our half to pay off the mortgage and go on a world cruise. What Smells did with his we'll never know, but within six months he was out of cash and ready for the next job. This time we helped, driving him to the bank in the neighbouring town, keeping watch for guard dogs or passing police.

The robbery was a great success. Four million pounds they say, the thieves must have been tipped off about a big deposit earlier that day. Were we? Hard to say, hard to know. For we were ripped off, never saw Smells again, with or without his Bells.

Where is he now? Who knows, where do super-criminal kittens go with their retirement hoard?

With the money left over from the earlier raid we bought another kitten. We haven't named him yet.