Allan Miller

I must have been about ten years old when we went on our first — and last — family holiday abroad. I remember the hotel dining room had a glass frontage, so that you could watch the world go by as you ate your paella marinera or tortilla Española. Or in the case of my family, pie and mash or chicken à la basket.

One morning, we were tucking into a full English when Mum spotted a stray cat sitting on the pavement. Whilst our waitress’s back was turned, Mum surreptitiously wrapped some bits of bacon in her napkin, then sneaked off to feed the kitty.

We assumed from the furtiveness with which she’d gathered the leftovers, that she was going to discretely entice the moggy around the corner of the hotel. But, somehow — even though she herself had seen the cat through the window — she failed to register that everyone in the dining room could clearly see her feeding breakfast leftovers to the stray, and several of its feline friends, right outside the hotel entrance.

When Mum finished dishing out the meaty treats, she turned around and walked back into the hotel, looking extremely pleased with her good deed for the day. Unlike the spectators, she was blissfully unaware of the dozen or so stray cats who followed her back into the building.

Once inside, the little meow meows ran off in different directions. The receptionist chased one that was heading up the stairs, and our waitress made a valiant attempt to prevent a flea-ridden tabby from reaching a basket of bread rolls. The ensuing commotion was met with much amusement from the children in the dining room, but to my amazement, Mum tutted disapprovingly, as if the chaos had nothing whatsoever to do with her.

The next day, when we again sat down for breakfast, there were three or four hundred cats prowling around outside. Word had spread amongst the pussy population that there was a crazy cat lady in town. More and more of them were gathering and pawing at the windows to get in, like a crowd of cat zombies hungry for scraps. 

By nightfall there must have been 20,000 cats surrounding the building.

The hotel manager went out,banging a saucepan lid, trying to scare them off. Their paws were on him in seconds. The poor soul didn’t stand a chance. As the cats poured into the hotel, the residents made a break for freedom. When the last cat was inside, the doors closed. As we all sat outside licking our wounds, we could see the cats enjoying the meals we’d hastily abandoned in the dining room. 

We turned towards Mum. She was tutting and shaking her head again. Just then one of the cats exited the hotel. It was the stray that she’d given leftovers to. It had something in its mouth which it dropped on the ground beside her before scampering back into the hotel. 

It was a sausage. 

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Utter nonsense! You can’t remember what happened, because you were only a wee boy at the time. The cats never got into the hotel. And the manager did not go outside banging a pan lid. 

He went outside on all fours and tried purring his way to safety, but the cats saw right through his fake whiskers.

After about a week, our food supplies began to run out. The cats sat outside and watched us fight over scraps. Eventually, we realised that if we didn’t escape we’d miss our flight home, so we waited until the cats were snoozing in the midday sun and gingerly tiptoed through them. We would have made it too, if my arse of a son hadn’t stood on one of their tails. 

Immediately their hackles went up. They advanced on us, and we were about to suffer the same fate as the hotel manager, when one cat leapt in front of us, and miaowed something to the other cats. I think it was their leader because the other cats backed down and formed a corridor for us to walk through to the airport transfer bus. 

And do you know who that cat was? The one you always make fun of me for feeding leftovers to. So, if it wasn’t for me, you would have ended up as cat food.

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Oh yeah, I remember now. The roads all the way to the airport were lined with cats, and it wasn’t until we were up in the air that we could finally relax. I also remember that at some point an air stewardess asked if I’d like to visit the cockpit. Amazing to think that in the 80s that was quite normal. I was so excited, until I met the pilot — Captain Tiddles.

What Allan said about the prompt:

Allan Miller is a Scottish writer of humorous prose. His stories have been published in such places as Lucent Dreaming, Gutter, Full House Literary, Porridge, Neither Fish Nor Foul, and Trash Cat Lit, and is forthcoming in The Bare Bones Book of Humour. He featured on the shortlist for the Welkin Mini 2025, and was nominated for the 2025 Genrepunk Editors’ Choice Award.
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