This is actually the title of one of my favorite novels by P.G. Wodehouse, featuring Bertie Wooster and his valet, Jeeves. Bertie’s favorite Aunt has wagered a huge sum on a certain racehorse. This horse has stiff competition from a neighboring horse. The neighboring horse has formed a close bond with a certain barn cat, and has been known to go off its feed and mope and become frantic when the cat is missing. Hence, Bertie is assigned the task of kidnapping the cat, to disable the horse, to ensure Aunt Dahlia of winning her bet. Of course, this hare-brained scheme leads from one disaster to another, until only Jeeves can sort out the mess.
Below, however, is a different cat-napping story and it’s a true one. Happened some 12 years ago, by my best estimate.
Mom and Dad, Barbara and I were all sitting around the breakfast table at our parents’ house when Barbara, looking out the large front window, exclaimed, “Look at that! Now that’s an expensive cat to let wander loose. That’s about a four hundred dollar cat. Abyssinian. They’re great cats, because they act more like dogs.”
“Looks exactly like a mountain lion in miniature,” said Mom.
“Isn’t wearing a collar, even,” I said.
“And he isn’t neutered, either,” Barbara sighed. “Looks like we’d better rescue him.”
So, grabbing some of dry cat food, we went outdoors and began calling. “He-e-e-e-re, kitty-kitty-kitty!” But the cat just looked at us from under a flowering shrub. When we approached, he ran twenty yards away.
We spent the whole morning trying to lure or grab that cat, but he was too quick for us, and too frightened. We ended up leaving a big bowl of cat chow in the glassed-in little room we rather pretentiously called the solarium, and leaving the sliding door to the outside open. The plan was, when the cat became hungry enough, he’d come into the solarium, and one of us would sneak around to the outside and slide the door shut behind him.
“He must not even have an owner,” said Barbara. “Because if he did, you’d think he’d be used to people and not act so wild.”
“From now on, that’s my cat,” I said. “Mine. I’m going to take him home and name him Absalom and tame him.”
“You can’t just steal somebody’s purebred cat!” Dad grumbled, over his newspaper.
“Sure you can,” said Barbara. “He’s homeless.”
“You don’t know that!”
“Well, if he isn’t homeless he may as well be.”
“You at least gonna run an ad in the newspaper?”
“No way. The whole idea is, if this kitty even has an owner, to get it away from him! What kind of person lets a valuable cat run loose, without a collar and without being fixed? That's totally irresponsible!”
Dad just sighed and returned to his reading.
Barbara and I had turned our attention to our knitting projects when Mom came into the family room with a big smirk on her face and said, “Go look in the solarium.”
So we tiptoed up to the glass door to have a peek. It was a cat, alright, a big, long-haired, gray cat, feasting on the food in the bowl. I groaned. We chased him out of there. And closed the outside door.
After lunch, we all decided to take naps. It was mid-afternoon when I awoke, the last one to reassemble in the kitchen.
“Why don’t you check the solarium one more time?” Barbara suggested, after I had finished my milk and cookies.
“Naw, it’s been all day. I’m ready to give up.”
“Well, just go check! Go on!” And a certain something in her eyes told me I'd better do it.
And there he was, Absalom, in the solarium with all the doors shut, hiding under a bench that held potted plants.
“You caught him, you caught my cat!” I squealed. “Oh, thank you!”
“You can’t just take that cat,” said Dad. “That’s stealing.”
I didn’t care. It seemed perfectly justifiable to me, and more importantly, to Barbara, who after all, was a veterinarian. If she thought Absalom needed a home, then he did.
I squeezed into the solarium, opening the sliding door as little as possible and closing it quickly after me. I cornered the cat, picked him up, sat him in my lap, and began talking to him, softly. “Your name is going to be Absalom, and you and I are going to get along fine.” But not quite yet, we weren’t. He was crying and growling the whole time.
I can’t remember what it was I decided I needed to get from outside, but I do remember saying to Barbara, “Do NOT let that cat out of the solarium under any circumstances! I’ll be right back.”
I was behind the house, returning to it with whatever it was I needed, when I spotted the Abyssinian coming toward me along the brick walk. It had taken all day to catch him, and now here he was, loose again. I was so mad I lunged at the cat, snatching him off the ground before he even had time to realize I was after him. “That darned Barbara!” I said to myself, and I marched back into the house, the cat in my arms.
“I told you not to let him out!” I said angrily.
“I didn’t,” said Barbara.
“Well then how did he get out?”
“He didn’t. Look!” So I looked into the solarium, to find Absalom still there, where I had left him. The cat in my arms was a duplicate!
“Oh, no! Now what? I don’t think I can spring TWO cats on poor Demetrios. One’ll be hard enough for him to accept.”
“But they’re obviously a pair. You’ll just have to try to get Demetrios to see the light.”
“So now my daughters are going to steal TWO cats?" asked Dad.
That decided me. “Absolutely!” I said. “And this one is going to Abelard. Absalom and Abelard, the Abyssinians. I can’t believe my good fortune!”
“You can’t do that!” Dad growled.
The cats growled, too, as I sat with them in the solarium, crooning softly to them, petting them even more softly. They were doing their best to ignore me and comfort each other.
Then came the whistle. It was a long, loud, sharp whistle, as of someone calling a dog. Both cats stiffened. Two pairs of ears, which had been flattened, suddenly stood up straight. The whistle was repeated. The cats meowed loudly. There was no mistaking it; that whistle was for them.
Well, maybe not. Maybe they were just curious about the sound. I didn’t really believe that, though, so, leaving them in the solarium, I walked in the direction from which the whistle had come. In a minute, I was facing a man who looked as if he might have come from Abyssinia. Well, someplace near there, not the actual place. From Egypt, maybe, he was.
“You looking for a dog?” I asked.
“No. Two cats. Abyssinians.”
“Come look at the two I rescued today, who were wandering around loose, with no collars, and see if they’re yours.”
So he did and they were, and that was the end of our cat-napping plans.
At least he didn’t get away without a lecture from Barbara about keeping valuable cats indoors and having them neutered.
The man only partially heeded the words of the indignant veterinarian; he had the cats neutered. But for the next ten years or so, until our parents moved out of that house, the two Abyssinian cats were to be seen daily, exploring their yard and garden.
They were the first breed of cat little Madison, Barbara’s daughter, ever learned to recognize.
