There had been a roll of duct tape somewhere too, then I remembered I'd used that up taping one of my old jackets on to a sick goat to keep her warm.
Rummaging further revealed a squashed roll of insulation tape, so I took it inside, located a spot where the cat couldn't help but see it and created a tape-square on the lounge floor. Then I waited.
So did the cat. Not sure what the cat was waiting for but it certainly wasn't overly enthused at the sight of my carefully crafted square.
I checked the internet to see if there were further instructions: Was there a specified size or colour of square? Nope, just a square, kind of cat-sized.
No movement on the cat front, so I gave her some incentive. I went to the other side of the room, tried to look appealing, and called the animal.
The cat saw no reason to move.
Despite the fact that I had spotted this cat at the SPCA, adopted her, brought her home and lavished attention on her, the only person she deigns to pay attention to is my husband.
This isn't unusual. It has been a phenomenon in our household for ages. My husband steals pets.
The first time it became obvious was many years ago when my sister in Whanganui had purchased a beautiful young Siamese cat. When she got the cat home and decanted it from its carrier into the hurly burly of her busy, cat, dog and child-filled household, things went awry.
The cat shot under the couch.
When my sister rang me two weeks later it was still there.
"I can't be bothered with this cat any longer," she said.
"It will only come out from under the couch if it's dragged. It scratches the children and bites the dogs. It will only eat one brand of cat food, it hates everyone and I'm going to give it away."
I - of course - suggested she give it away to a really good home. Mine.
I had long wanted a Siamese cat.
My husband was travelling that way for work so he agreed to collect the animal. My sister was going to be out so she said she would leave the cat, in its carrier, on her back step for collection.
When hubby arrived there was no carrier or cat. A quick phone call to my sister's mobile phone assured him there had been when she left home.
One of the dogs was messing about with something in the corner of the back yard and when my husband went to look, there was the cat carrier, cat still inside, having been rolled all over the back section by the vengeful dogs.
On to the back of the work ute it went, grubby old Swandri chucked on top, for a cold breezy trip home.
When I tipped it out in the middle of out lounge after its traumatic experience the poor thing staggered about with its eyes crossed (I later found out that was how it always looked) climbed into the bottom of my sewing cabinet and stayed there for three days.
When eventually it came out it cleaned itself, surveyed its surroundings and headed for a comfy lap. My husband's.
From then on, all he had to do was sit down and he'd have a lapful of Siamese cat. On the odd occasion it was sitting on my lap, he would ask it "what do you think you are doing?" And it would promptly relocate to his.
So it was no real surprise when, after giving up on the cat-in-a-square trick last weekend and going out to feed the horses I get a text from my husband.
"Like this?" it said.
And there was a photo, of the cat. In the square.
