The Terror of Oakura

We never got to find out his name, but he terrorised us for two days, so let’s call him Osama.

It was a beautiful moonlit night when we arrived in Oakura in the winterless North in New Zealand.

It was the first night of our honeymoon and after a few days of living it up like teenagers, it was time to take things easy. The priest at our wedding had upset some of the congregation by making reference to how our nuptials involved two people in “mid-life”. I wasn’t particularly bothered to be honest. I’ve been called worse and it is a statement of fact after all. The complaints came mainly from people older than us because if we’re in mid life, where does that place them?

So in keeping with our mature status, we avoided the party venues of Hawaii and Hong Kong for our honeymoon and instead rented a beach house in a little village 30km from the main road. Serenity was our objective.

We arrived late at night and had to navigate the odd Kiwi tradition of leaving keys in obscure places to the point where gaining access to the building you have rented takes on the appearance of an Agatha Christie mystery. Keys in hand, we finally pulled into the driveway of our dream getaway.

Osama met us as we climbed out of our car. He was unkempt and had clearly seen better days. His coat was ragged but hinted that it had once been a noble blue and his stomach suggested that he had wined and dined mightily before falling on hard times.

Now he was reduced to begging and like the orphans of Bombay, he wasn’t very tactful about it. I’m made of sterner stuff however and I brushed past him to carry our bags inside. Undeterred, he tapped at the glass door as if demanding entry. We quickly shut the curtains and tried to ignore him and when his plaintiff pleas became louder, we simply turned up the volume on the TV.

Osama wasn’t going to give in so easily. He waited until we went to bed and then positioned himself beneath our window to ensure that we’d be awake all night. That’s not an uncommon occurrence on the first night of a honeymoon, but it wasn’t so pleasant in our case. We tried throwing buckets of water over him but that would only encourage him to come back for more.

It was clear that he never slept and his moaning went on until we rose half dead the next morning. Enquiries with the neighbours led us to understand that he was a serial offender who preyed on the good nature of the visitors to the holiday home we were staying in. The lack of a good night’s sleep had tested our generosity however and we were not the mood to give him the time of day. The neighbours assured us that the authorities had been notified and that Osama would be picked up that afternoon.

We went sight seeing, safe in the knowledge that a good night’s sleep awaited us. We returned as dusk was setting in over the Bay of Islands. We stood on the beach outside our holiday home to enjoy the full moon as it glistened over the pacific. Then we heard the now familiar cry. We turned and Osama was standing behind us, mocking us for our naivety yet still demanding our attention and succour. I chased him away but he returned when we were sleeping before once again setting out to destroy our peace. This time he waited until 3am before beginning his piercing song of lament and loneliness from beneath our bedroom window.

By this stage our thoughts had turned to murder. A night time pursuit ensued when we chased him around the garden. He took refuge in the shed and we quickly bolted the outside door and high fived each other in the belief that we had solved the problem. Thirty minutes later however, he arrived back at our window to brag that a mere padlock was not going to hold him back.

We despaired and resigned ourselves to another restless night. Osama had beaten us and to make things worse, Osama was a cat!

I’ve never liked cats, I must admit. I’ve often thought that they are the hand tool of the devil with those beady little eyes and lazy mannerisms. But when you’ve been haunted by one for two days, your thoughts go from dislike to outright hatred. In the sleepless hours of the night that were initiated by his whining, we worked on the three best ways to kill a cat.

A friend in Melbourne told me that the best way to get rid of possums is to leave out a saucer of milk with two Disprin dissolved in the liquid. She cautioned however, that this would also rid you of next-door’s cat. In our case, we reasoned that it would rid us of Osama and also take care of any possums that were knocking around the neighbourhood.

My second suggestion was to ask my lady wife to hold the cat on the ground while I reversed over him with the large four by four vehicle we have borrowed for this trip. This had the added risk however, that I might also run over the arms of my loved one, which is not a good way to kick off married life.

Our final thought was to drive him 20km out of town before dumping him at the side of the road. It was pointed out to me however, that the New Zealand bush is unforgiving and that Osama would either die a slow painful death from hunger or be torn apart by a wild animal. After the previous two nights, either option seemed fine to me but my bride blushed at this cruel and unusual punishment.

In the end, we managed to get him into a cardboard box and took him to the SPCA. They use injections rather than bullets, but with some luck Osama the cat will be meeting the same faith as that other Osama, some time tonight. We slept in peace.