Starting to sit more in the summerhouse but it was a brief sojourn today. A bit chilly, even in there. My mum could have closed the door but Marley was firmly on her knee and she doesn’t like to move him. That’s fine until she her knee seizes up and she can’t feel her toes! Cleo stayed outside, miaowing loudly. But when does she ever do anything else? Haven’t a clue what she wants most of the time.
I make my needs very clear – a helpless look means ‘feed me’, spinning around trying to catch my tails says it’s time for a run, retreating to the tiled hallway indicates I’m hot and my head on my mum’s knee tells her I want cuddles. Couldn’t be plainer – and she calls me thick!
We’ve had a really busy day, me and my mum. A fabulous morning being petted by my mum’s friends in our favourite coffee shop (with a few sneaky bits of bacon passed under the table) then to the vet this afternoon for booster shots. I got my second petting session of the day from the lovely young vet who put me so at ease that I barely felt the needle go in. But when she told me I weighed 45 kilos I thought maybe I should have said no to the bacon.
By all accounts the madam, Cleo, behaved herself and passed her check-up with flying colours. She made an awful racket in the car on the way there but was calmer afterwards – obviously knew we were on the way home.
Relaxing under the café table.
I have been forced, under threat of no bedtime biscuits, into publishing this pictorial eulogy to the cats. I was blissfully unaware of the significance of this Saturday which began with an invigorating swim on our beach followed by a sunny afternoon in the yard with my people and a delicious dinner with a serving of lamb and vegetables in my kibble.
Then, I”m told, a blog post is absolutely necessary otherwise the cats will be offended. OFFENDED? We’ve hardly seen them. Marley has been out all day (hunting, I expect) and Cleo did her usual round of catcalls then disappeared to sleep on the spare bed.
International Cat Day, I ask you; when is it International Dog Day?
Now we have a different rodent in the house as we pet sit the Irish cousins’ hamster, Cheeks, while they are on holiday.
Cheeks by name, cheeky by nature says my mum after he bit her while she was hand feeding him. She yelped and there was a LOT of blood. She said if he did it again he would be cat food. What, I don’t get a look in? Not that he would be a big meal but he would make a tasty snack.
He came with a shiny green ball which he can wander around in. That gets the cats’ interest, I tell you, as he bumbles from one room to the other. My mum had to chase him cos he was heading for the open front door.
I’m used to him so I ignore his exploring but the cats, especially Cleo, are fascinated. Cleo definitely fancies a snack!
I’m hotpawing it out the front door for my weekend romp on the playing fields with the Irish Aunt and sprog when I’m set upon by Cleo, puffed up into an enormous furry monster. Hissed, sunk her claws into my bum and frightened me so much I ran off down the path – but then she chased me!
Oh, the shame, being targeted by an itsy bitsy 9lb cat and then being run out of my own garden.
I got no sympathy from my family who were giggling and roaring: ‘Go, Cleo, get him!’, not concerned at all for my welfare, or pride. Then more shame as people walking down my street started laughing.
Think I’d better lie low for the rest of the day, get over the trauma and rebuild my dignity. And keep out of the way of cats.
Just look at the size of that tail!
This time I know for a fact the cat did it. I wasn’t in the house at the time so it can’t have been me. What’s the hullaballoo? What indeed – someone stole a sausage!
Apparently my mum cooked six sausages, ate three and left the rest in the dish on the kitchen worktop overnight. This morning there’s only two bangers – someone had snaffled a sausage. This discovery was made after I’d been brought back from an overnight stay at bootcamp so I was the prime suspect, as usual, followed by the Irish aunt (who is partial to sampling things my mum cooks).
But then the Irish aunt absolved me by saying there were only TWO sausages when she was in the kitchen so it couldn’t have been me. Phew, off the hook.
By deduction, it could only have been a cat. Cleo hardly comes downstairs so my money is on Marley, a sausage thief if ever I saw one, bit fat puss that he is. Thing was, there was no mess, not a squidge of sausage out of the dish or on the floor, and he is a very messy eater. So could it have been Cleo?
The only thing that matters is that I’m in the clear with a perfect alibi.
Now, what’s for tea? Can I smell sausages?
No! We now have another cat, making me outnumbered two to one. This one is called Cleo. She’s half the size of Marley but twice as loud, miaowing all the time. My mum talks back to her but it’s utter nonsense as far as I can make out.
Me and Marley have learnt to live together – I don’t sniff him and he doesn’t hiss at me – and now I have to start all over again with this one who, to be frank, seems a bit of a madam, chip off the Sherry mould. All I want is a peaceful life – is that too much for a dog to ask?
Look at her, thinking she’s superior already!