Meg of the DUMP

What a silly woman you are!’ Margaret thought, as she lay marinating in the damp, soggy mush of grass cuttings and leaves mixed with various prunings that she and her husband, Philip, had methodically removed from their garden last year.

It was very unlikely that she would have found Matilda here anyway, she considered. But, having exhausted all the usual avenues in the past five days, she was understandably resorting to desperate measures. Neighbours had been dutifully pestered, notices posted and calls to the local police, fire brigade and refuse collection services had revealed no trace of her missing cat. Every box, drawer and dusty cupboard in the house had been turned over. Three times. And as her anxiety increased, Margaret had even investigated the oven, microwave and washing machine for signs of recent habitation.

It was the gloom of futility that had driven Margaret back into the garden to scour bushes and the old shed where Matilda had been discovered in the past. But not this time.

Cats go to ground to die,