Trou du cul

While FP and I had been in La Rochelle, FP's parents had, very kindly, been keeping the cat at their house. The day I arrived to pick him up, Mr FP told me he was glad to get rid of him.

"Ah bon?!" I asked, wondering what Ollie could have done to upset him so.

"Oui," Mr FP nodded. "He's won the award for being the biggest trou du cul."

Oh-oh. Ollie, admittedly, is not a well behaved cat. He tips over vases full of flowers, paws your face when you're sleeping, climbs up christmas trees, claws his way up your jeans, and sits in the middle of house plants, but, up until now, our friends and family who have been affected by his petty crimes have managed to laugh it off. Because he's cute and furry. He must have done something pretty naughty to have been awarded the biggest asshole award from my soon-to-be father-in-law.

"What did he do?" I asked, scared to hear the response.

"Oh, nothing. Just insisted on sleeping on my head all night with his tail wrapped around my chin. I felt like I was wearing a Davy Crockett hat."

I laughed. "It could have been worse. At least he did sleep in the night instead of meowing at the door."

"True." Mr FP agreed. "But I took the liberty of awarding him the biggest trou du cul medal."

I looked at him, not quite getting it. Mr FP called for Ollie and before I saw him, I heard the little jingle jangle of the bell on his collar.

And when he came galloping towards me and I saw what Mr FP had made him, I laughed and laughed and laughed.