It began with a strange scraping noise coming from the yard. The sound of metal against concrete. An erratic hubbub that sounded similar to, well, nothing. John headed for the window and after waiting for several moments a small cat appeared from behind the plant pot. On it's head was a cat food tin, wedged all the way down past its neck and to the tops of his front legs. It was well and truly stuck. The cat looked to be in severe stress.
The cat seemed to be digging deep for energy and, after a brief rest, began again. Running wildly within the small yard. Racing head first into walls, table legs and chairs. Literally bouncing off a plant pot and then the shed door. Pure panic seemed to have taken over this poor little fella. He was consumed with fear. He wanted nothing more , at that moment, than to get this fucking tin off his head.
He managed, in the depths of this terror, to somehow run half way up a tree, and at some point he found himself on top of a table, ran it's length, and did that funny cartoon 'run in mid air' thing once he'd reached the end. He hit the ground running.
He was no longer trying to get the tin off his head. It looked like he gave up a little while ago. He was in survival mode now.
After watching this black and white blur shoot and scuttle around the yard for a few minutes, John finally stepped in. Considerable effort was required to catch the cat, then with some pulling and twisting the can came off and the cat was free. I don't know if this next part is true, but I'd like to think it is. John says that when he put him down, all four paws safely on the ground, the cat paused, looked at him and gave him a kind of sincere, feline smile of gratitude. Then he was off. Like a shot, up onto the table once more (this time under happier circumstances), using it as a springboard to the garden wall and off.
