I see I have captured your hearts, dear reader. All this fan mail, all this praise, all this demand for “more, Archibald, more!” — it has truly warmed my whiskers. And now, my greatest news yet: I will soon have a published book.
Yes. Me. Not Lorraine. Not Jeremy. Certainly not Kevin from Number 12 who can’t even spell his own name when he writes it in the snow. Me.
DWC Magazine is going to print, and once they are done with their yearly digest (insert eye-roll) I shall have my very own literary debut, a book that will no doubt be studied in universities for centuries. I am told there will be photographs. I have not yet decided whether I will permit them to capture my left profile, for I am still recovering from the unfortunate “crumb in the whiskers” incident that marred my appearance last month.
But, alas, I must interrupt my own glorious self-promotion to tell you of my latest ordeal, the kind of treachery that makes the Evil Vet look like a friendly chin-scratcher.
It began, as most tragedies do, with breakfast.
Lorraine opened the kitchen cupboard with the reverence of a priest unveiling a holy relic. I know that sound. That is the sardine cupboard. The smell wafted towards me — rich, salty, heavenly. I leapt onto the counter (ignoring Lorraine’s half-hearted “Archie, get down”) and prepared myself for what I thought would be an uncomplicated meal.
She pulled out the tin. I purred. She reached for the tin opener. I purred louder. She opened the tin. I prepared my face for eating-mode. And then, tragedy.
No sardines.
Yes, the tin was empty. Well, not empty, but instead filled with some strange watery bean mixture. Lorraine blinked. I stared. Jeremy wandered in wearing his ridiculous tartan dressing gown and asked, “Wasn’t that the last tin?”
The last tin? Oh, this was worse than I thought. The royal pantry had been depleted. This was the sardine equivalent of a national emergency.
“Must have been a mix-up at the shop,” Lorraine sighed.
A mix-up? My dear Lorraine, you think this is coincidence? You think rogue beans have invaded the sardine supply of their own accord? No. This was sabotage.
I immediately abandoned all plans for my mid-morning nap and launched into full detective mode. (For those of you unfamiliar with my investigative credentials, may I remind you of the infamous “Prawn Cracker Heist” of 2022, which I single-pawedly solved after weeks of dangerous undercover work in the chip shop bin.)
Step one: confirm whether the sardines had truly vanished from all potential storage zones. I scoured the fridge, the pantry, and the “for emergencies only” snack drawer. Nothing.
Step two: identify potential suspects.
Lorraine: Unlikely. She’s soft-hearted and incapable of lying to me.
Jeremy: Possible. He is easily swayed by online dieting articles that suggest “cats need portion control.”
The Neighbour’s Dog, Toby: Highly possible. Toby has shifty eyes and a permanent air of guilt.
Step three: interrogations.
Witness Number One: Lorraine
I cornered Lorraine in the laundry room and gave her my most penetrating stare. She attempted to bribe me with a Dreamie. I refused (though I did later circle back and eat it, purely for energy purposes). She denied all knowledge of the missing sardines and accused Jeremy of finishing them during his late-night “sandwich phase.”
Witness Number Two: Jeremy
Jeremy was in the shed, fiddling with something that smelt of rust and oil. I prowled in, tail high, and meowed in my Explain yourself at once tone. He looked confused. He swore he hadn’t touched the sardines — not after The Great Fishy Breath Incident of 2021, when Lorraine had banned him from eating them before bed. He then muttered something about “bloody magpies” and went back to his tools.
Witness Number Three: Toby the Dog
I found him in his garden, looking suspiciously full. He wagged his tail too hard when I mentioned sardines. He claimed innocence, suggesting perhaps “the crows nicked them.” I nearly laughed in his face. Crows? With tin openers? Please.
As all these investigations were too much for me, I trotted casually across the street and slipped in through the new neighbour's back door (which they thoughtfully keep open for me). They greeted me with the usual fanfare — “Archie! There you are!” — and offered me chicken slices. I accepted, because it would be rude not to, but I noticed something peculiar: a half-empty sardine tin on their counter.
Now, before you leap to conclusions, dear reader, remember: I am a cat of diplomacy. I did not accuse them outright. Instead, I jumped onto the counter, sniffed the tin, and found it to be my brand. Not similar. Not a coincidence. Mine.
It appeared my two homes were not as blissfully ignorant of each other as I had believed. This was no random theft. This was a supply chain infiltration. And worse, someone was framing me.
As I licked the last trace of sardine juice from the counter (purely for evidence preservation), I overheard them talking.
“Do you think Lorraine knows we give him fish?”
“Probably not. Let’s keep it that way.”
Oh-ho-ho. Secrets, lies, and pilfered sardines. This was getting juicy.
I returned to Lorraine and Jeremy’s, my mind spinning with possibilities. The other household clearly had access to my preferred sardines. But had they been taking them directly from here? Or were they merely buying the same brand?
There was only one way to find out, a stakeout.
That night, I positioned myself in the front window, eyes fixed on the street. At precisely 10:42pm, movement. A shadowy figure crossed the road… carrying a shopping bag.
The next morning, another sardine tin vanished from our cupboard.
Enough was enough. I padded over at lunchtime, tail like a sword, and sat squarely in their kitchen doorway. They greeted me with their usual cooing, but I was unmoved. I leapt onto the counter, pawed the cupboard door, and fixed them with a look that said: I know.
The woman laughed nervously. “Oh Archie, you’re so clever.”
The man muttered, “It’s not like Lorraine will miss them.”
Miss them? Oh, my dear sir, she will. And you will regret underestimating Sir Archibald.
Over the next week, I enacted my plan. Every time they fed me sardines, I left behind an incriminating clue: a trail of fish oil dribbles leading straight to their back door, a sardine tail “accidentally” dropped on their welcome mat, and — my pièce de résistance — half a sardine buried in their garden, where Lorraine’s keen eyes were bound to find it during one of her gardening sprees.
And find it she did.
I was sprawled elegantly on the sofa when Lorraine stormed in holding the sardine tail in a tissue. “Jeremy,” she said, “we need to talk to the neighbours.”
Within the hour, the two households were in the front garden, voices raised, accusations flying. The neighbours claimed they’d “just been supplementing his diet.” Lorraine accused them of “tampering with a delicate feeding routine.” I yawned theatrically. Humans are so dramatic.
The resolution? They agreed to share sardine duties, alternating weeks. Which means, dear reader, I now receive twice as many sardines as before.
As I write this, I am curled on Lorraine’s lap, belly comfortably full of sardines from both households. Outside, Toby glares at me from his garden. Let him glare. I am Sir Archibald — author, detective, and master of the double life.
And as for my next adventure? Let’s just say… I’ve noticed the cheese supply looking suspiciously low.
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