Why do things always go wrong at the time you least need it? My friends’ father was on holiday in the States last week, and while he was there, he asked the neighbours to look after the cat.

The only thing is, Calum (the cat) was 16 years old.

And, well, let’s just say that when they opened the door on the third day, he didn’t come running.

Mind you, as he only had three legs, he didn’t do all that much running anyway. However, to their horror, they discovered that, unfortunately, Calum had used up the last of his nine lives in the night.

Okay, at this point the story isn’t so bad. He was 16. He’d survived a car accident that left him with three legs. He’d had a good run. (Even if it resembled a hop more than a run). These things happen. Surely it wouldn’t be too much of a surprise?

All they had to do was find a box and... well… that’s where the story goes astray.

Unable to contact the holidaying parents of the pensioner pussycat, the neighbours were stuck with a dilemma.

Do they deprive the family of a final goodbye and part with the £200 they were told ‘disposal’ of the furry little fella would cost? Or do they give him a respectful burial in the back garden?

The decision was taken out of their hands when they realised a fresh grave in the garden of a house currently on the market wouldn’t be good for business.

So, they took the only decision open to them. They packed him into the freezer alongside the frozen peas and a tub of Creamy Caramel ice-cream.

Feeling quite pleased, the neighbours went home. Only to return in a hurried panic a few minutes later with a note for the freezer door warning the estate agent not to let prospective buyers open the door.

Although to be fair, a freezer with enough room to swing a cat in, is quite a selling point.

It could have been worse.

Like the time I was put in charge of minding an apartment and managed to leave a tap dripping into a sink which then overflowed on to the floor and out to the balcony for about 14 hours.

When I arrived home to ‘The Cascades’ as we now call it, I quickly mopped up the mess and went to bed thankful for a lucky escape. Or so I thought.

However, when I surfaced the next morning I discovered the cork tiles on the floor had started to dry and curl up so much they resembled the prawn crackers from the local Chinese.

Terrified I phoned a helpful friend, and with the help of a few tubes of superglue and a strategic wedging of the broom against the ceiling to hold down the, by then, curling kitchen counter, I lived to fight another day.

Sadly the same can’t be said for Calum.

Rest in peace (not peas) little guy.