While the Cats' Owners are Away . . .

Whenever we go away, we have an insanely elaborate set-up for The Cats. It used to be easy: they would have access to the utility room and a friend would come and top up their food and water and cuddle them if they deigned to make an appearance. 
That was before the Summer of Woe.

During the Summer of Woe, Jet, my favourite (I know, I know, but if you knew her sister, she’d be your favourite too), allowed herself be seduced by a new neighbour while we were away. The neighbour fed Jet on Waitrose cat food and, for reasons best known only to the neighbour, called her Dora.
Once we had wrested our pet back from the arms of the devil, we vowed never again to let her roam free in our absence; thus whenever we go away, Jet is shut in with a litter tray - Husband being too mean to allow to pay for a stay at the Cat Hotel.
Sadly, Jet’s sister, Inky (otherwise known as Fatty or Psycho Cat) cannot be allowed to stay in the house unsupervised, owing to her propensity for scratching, puking, peeing, and . . . other disgusting behavioural problems. She is a feline nutter, twitchy in the extreme, and must be KEPT OUT while we are away.
Luckily for The Cats, and for me, I have a wonderful friend who understands the lunacy of this situation and is happy to help by feeding both animals, one in and one out. This arrangement has worked well for two years of family holidays.
Not so this summer.
Witness the scene on arrival back from our two weeks in Cornwall . . .

 “Meeeeeow. Meeeeeeeow!”

“That sounds like Psycho Cat in there,” I mutter, as I wrestle with the double-lock on the kitchen door. “What’s she doing in there? She’s supposed to be out.”
Small Boy peers in through the window as I lose my battle with the keys and my control on my language. “Mum, I thought Jet was always locked in to stop her escaping and Inky was locked out to stop her peeing on things.”
“Yes,” I grunt, wiggling the key and kicking the door.
“But that’s not Jet in there – that’s Inky,” Small Boy helpfully points out.
“I . . . KNOW!” I say, falling into the house as the lock and the door suddenly agree to cooperate, sending me sprawling. My right foot kicks an ominously full litter tray across the kitchen and my left steps in cat sick.
“Meeeeeeooooooow!” Psycho Cat complains, rocketing past me to freedom, only to reemerge seconds later with a plaintive request for food.
“So where’s Jet then?” Small Boy persists.
“Er, Mum . . .” Daughter is waving a small piece of white paper at me. “Have you seen this?”
It’s a note from our cleaner informing us that a window in the sitting room is “a bit broken”. On closer inspection, said window (a rotten lattice affair with soft lead surround, all too easy to vandalise) is revealed to be peeled out of its frame and hanging limply.
“Oh no! Burglars!” Small Boy shrieks, rushing upstairs to check his money box is still in tact.
“Possibly,” I say. “Although . . .” I gingerly feel around the edges of the window frame, withdraw my hand and hold up a wad of—
“Black fur?” says Husband.
At that moment, the escaped cat, Jet, appears on the patio outside the broken window. Her yellow eyes blink at me slowly and her long black tail flicks in a decidedly nonchalant manner.
“Jet!” I cry. “Did you do this?!”
She licks her whiskers with her small pink tongue and carelessly washes one paw, plainly enjoying my discomfort.
“Did you swap places with Psycho Cat?” I witter, aware that I am asking questions of a dumb animal, but too bewildered to do otherwise.
Another flick of that tail and Jet flashes me a look that is clearly asking me:
You didn’t seriously think you could keep me in against my will, did you? Who’s the dumb animal now?
No answer to that, really.