They are in my bedroom again, messing about. The pong of this silicone stuff is absolutely awful. Don’t they know I have to sleep in there? I have taken myself upstairs – if she’s messing about in the bathroom/my bedroom, I am going to slob about on her bed.
Haven’t seen any of the gang today. I fear that BogBrush Bob may be under house arrest. Marby has taken to the simple life of stopping indoors and Tipsy could be anywhere. She’ll come running when she hears the rustle of a packet of treats.
Which leads me to the definition of ‘out’. It would appear there are two in Auntie’s household. Out means that Snoopy is able to get into his pen and nowhere else. Out Out means that Marby is free to roam the streets looking for feline prostitutes. Which is a bit frustrating for him as he has had his bits removed. And a girl’s only trying to make an honest livin’…………….
Well, that’s all the fuss over. I have taken to my bed. All this excitement is just too much. Thank God cats never get married.
There’s nowt on telly. It’s wall to wall pictures of a bloke in uniform with not much hair getting hitched to a girl in a big frock. She has lots of hair. She should give him some…..
We are now having something called a ‘Bank Holiday’. Mother usually loves these as it means special pay, but those meanies at NHS HQ can’t afford the extra dosh. Do they know that any spare cash makes the difference between Gourmet Gold and Aldi’s own?? Tonight I will starve. If I die it’s the Government’s fault. I will be forced to come back and haunt them……………….
Mother on the other hand, ain’t starvin’. She is having a ‘tea party’ with Auntie. Wonder which one of them will be the ‘Mad Hatter’…..
Apparently I am supposed to be insulted. I am no longer a pet. I am a ‘companion animal’. A group of people who devote their lives to ‘animal ethics’ say it’s derogatory. Her indoors is now a ‘human carer’.
I don’t mind being called a pet. I am loved very much. I am fed, watered, have somewhere great to sleep and, even though I moan about it, get taken to the vet when I need to go. Besides, do these people not realise that cats are Gods? It doesn’t matter what you call me. I still think I’m better than you………
I like to think I’m intrepid. A bit ago, some varmints set fire to a shed down the road. Unfortunately, there was a pressurised container in there which went off like a giant firework. The Fire Brigade were most upset that they couldn’t shift me from my vantage point on the boundary wall.
But I’ve never got the hang of a catflap. It involves too much of a leap of faith into the unknown. Knowing my luck, BogBrush Bob would lie in wait to ambush me. So, when Mother had a new back door, it was minus a cat flap. So now I have to ask when I want to go out. More to the point it’s easier for her indoors to lock me in. Which she does on a regular basis. Since the development of my splinter group ‘Special Privileges Owed to Cats’ (SPOC) I’m thinking of claiming that I am a political prisoner…….
I have very comfortable sleeping arrangements in the bathroom. I’ve got a great bed shaped like the head of the Whiskas cat. This set up allows me to get some decent sleep. About 11pm each night I even put myself to bed.
Mother has decided to have a new bathroom suite. For one night only, I am evicted from my boudoir. I am honoured to sleep on ‘the Bed’. This lasts until 5am when I’ve had enough. This bed ain’t big enough for the both of us – and the sound of snoring is disruptive to my delicate earholes. I’m off outside for a kip on the pigeon hut …. Herself is none too pleased at having to get up to let me out, but by now she should know who the boss is around here.
Mother has two goldfish. She calls them my cousins, but I fear she has a tenuous grasp of animal biology. They are called Dave and Nick (after Cameron and Clegg). All the coalition fun without a single mention of the Alternative Vote system. I often drive myself dizzy watching them swim round and around, going nowhere… Come to think of it, it’s very much like politics really….