Our cat* is a proper mentalist. For the first nine years of life, it was a cold, calculating, face scratching little bastard with a mind sharpened to the point of evaluating every decision on how it could end up with more food. I knew it was a bit of a player on the transition from cutesy, puring, soulful ‘get me, get ME‘ to ‘see ya, wouldn’t want to be ya‘ taking all the time it took to free it from the local Cat Rescue.
And it is because Darwinism has yet to equip your average domestic feline with opposed thumbs that we ever saw the ungrateful bugger. Only the successful operation of a tin opener separated it from being a latch-flap pet – well that and its’ visceral joy at trapping fear shitting mice in a bin shaped wall of death scenario. At 4am. Every night, In our bedroom. For a fucking eternity.
Thankfully the passing years have slowed the vicious little sod down, so it’s rare now that I find my morning stumble interrupted by the squidgy horror of bare feet accessorised by bloody intestines. Instead, it has switched tactics, and is now fully in touch with its’ bonkers side.
First the looper fucker decided to take on a sleepy rabbit which ended in a towel based rugby tackle of the shit scared ** bunny, and the softest of rebukes from Carol “Now, please don’t bring rabbits into the house anymore. If that’s ok. Oh here’s some prime steak to get over the trauma”
And now it has taken to climbing the side of the log in a doomed attempt to gain entry through a tightly closed window. In the spirit of context, I should explain that due to lack of cat exit/entry system, I manually flap it every night in the manner of the Flintstones’ opening sequence.
It appears to have taken this quite badly, and after a few bloody amusing cat wailing plaintively against a locked door situation, the brain damaged nutter has taken to making a frankly dangerous ascent of the North Face of the Pine – only to find it can’t get back down.
So what does it do? Does it wait patiently to morning? Does it retrace its’ steps and hang about until it is let back in? Does it fuck?***, instead it yowls like the mad bastard it is and waits for a) some kind person to let it back in or b) a not so kind person to try for a home run using nothing other than a i) cat and ii) stick with a nail in it.
And now it’s taking to hiding in the bushes, sulking like a nine year old*** and refusing to return to the mother lode until a a family member prostrates themselves on the deck, with cat food delicacies rubbed into their hair.
I really want a dog. A proper pet you don’t have to bend down to pat. Something loyal, steadfast and friendly. I’ve been scanning the local adds for “Dog for sale: Eats anything, Loves Cats”
* Semantically less troubling that “Carol and the kids’ cat which shares a house with me, while I spend every day inventing new horrors to prove how much I hate it”
** Let me insert the word literally here.
*** Unlikely after the op. One is annoying. Any more and it’d be a swift combination of sack, water and bricks.
**** A sulk so deep they call it Cousteau.