The joys of pawrenthood

At the risk of sounding like a crazy cat lady (that ship may have sailed with the title…) I love my furry children, and sometimes I like other people’s furry children more than their human children. I know - *gasp*.

Me and my 'sister'.

See I grew up in a house where the dog was my ‘sister’ and the cat was my ‘brother’ and as siblings go they were top-notch. Better, in many ways, than my human siblings. The furry brethren, for instance, did not lock me in dark rooms and shout ‘rraaaaarrrrrrrr’ outside the door, they did not mock me endlessly for pronouncing pseudonym ‘pee-se-doe-nee-um’ (I was 9!) and they did not tell me I came from the knackers because I was the only ginger in the family. Ah yes – all good ‘character building’ stuff… apparently.

I do remember a bit of aiding and abetting when my (human) brother used to hold me down for my (canine) sister to give my face a liberal licking, but she thought it was the ultimate expression of love. I’m not adverse to a little doggy slurp on the hand of course, in fact one of the best things that happened to me this week was being licked by a puppy in the street (my life is so very full!) but I’ve seen a bit too much of what dogs eat to relish a tongue facial.

Like mother, like son...

     Cat drool and sand-paper ‘kisses’ are no better, given the dead things that their mouths get wrapped around and the flies they like to snack on (bleurgh!) But their purrs can cure all ills. I had a rather stressed friend round recently, who felt infinitely better after a liberal application of red wine and G-cat purrs.

In terms of a morning arousal (no – not that kind of… get your minds out of the gutter!) I find the purry alarm clock to be far superior to a grating ‘bleep-bleep-bleep’, a dose of smashy-and-nicey style radio DJ or a screaming baby. And if it’s stupid o’clock, at least you can shut furry children in the other room by way of a snooze button – I think social services frown on that type of thing with human children.

Butter wouldn't melt...

Now they are far from perfect. At times they are nothing but trouble in a hairy package. Just a couple of their finest moments include bringing a live pigeon into the living room (I’ll never know how she got it through the cat-flap) and peeing on our neighbour’s pillow (the shame!)

They’ve had me in tears, forcing me to euthanise the mice that were beyond saving, and I’ve had occasion to call the police because of them (not as crazy cat lady as it sounds, honest, G-cat got himself locked in an empty flat, so I had to track down the key-holder).

But then they turn on the fuzzy charm, look at you with big innocent eyes, and it’s all forgotten – till next time…

Some of my nieces, nephews and favourite hairy friends...

Desperately seeking inspiration

I’ve been playing hide-and-seek with inspiration, my fair-weather friend, for a couple of days now. I can’t find the little bugger anywhere.
I’m working on an assignment that demands ideas on ‘widely different subjects’. I’ve already covered my mainstay, travel, and I’m guessing booze and food, my other major ‘areas of focus’ are not going to cut it in the differentiation stakes.

My new muse?

Perhaps I need to get myself a muse? M-cat is currently in repose beside me, legs akimbo, and I think she may be auditioning for the part – she’s giving me a very sultry upside-down look. Hmmm… upside-down… maybe a different perspective…

Nope. Looking at the world upside down has done nothing but give me a slight headache (and increased my risk of throwing a hip). And no – the headache is nothing to do with my booze-based buddies thank you. My body is a temple and no drink has been taken for three whole days(!) Although maybe that’s the problem, maybe the creative and grape juices need to mingle. They do play very nicely together - and have spawned manys the (a)musing…

Positively glowing with inspiration...

Alas I can’t pop my cork just yet. Aside from the fact that drinking alone on a Thursday afternoon for the purposes of creativity may have those unidentified imbibers knocking at my door, I have to go for a run later. In the rain. Deep joy. My dedication knows no bounds and my body is indeed a temple …of doom.


Apparently Jack London said;
'You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.'
And so I shall. I think running with a club in hand might raise a few too many suspicious glances, so hopefully tracking down my stimuli and force-feeding them endorphins will do the trick. Right you slippery little suckers – I coming to get you!

D-I-WHYYYYYYYY

On this lovely Easter bank holiday weekend, while many of us are gorging, spare a thought for the poor fools who thought it would be a good idea to use the long weekend to get round to those ‘little’ jobs round the house.

While you lie there prone with your chocolatey distended stomach aloft, they too are probably lying down – either trapped under the shelving that’s just collapsed and rendered them unconscious or curled up in the fetal position as the true magnitude of what they’ve taken on hits them.

I’ve seen grown men cry over laminate flooring. Not my better half, I hasten to add – he’s a dab hand with click-lock, but I have seen him truly broken, head in hands, when our 100-year-old postage-stamp-sized flat has revealed yet another of it’s ‘quirks’ at the end of a long and dusty day. Who needs straight walls and floors when you can have ‘original features’? He’s utterly convinced that all its previous builders and workmen were cross-eyed. I put it down to DIY demons.

These little imps have a wicked sense of humour. They enjoy setting booby-traps on the ‘easy’ jobs, like putting the water pipes in the wall just behind your drill so the simple hanging of a mirror morphs into an emergency plumbing situation. They particularly like encouraging pets to get involved - sharing the latest in paw-print paint interior styling, weaving around the ankles of the DIYer on the stepladder in an opening-scene-of-casualty style, or helping with flat-pack furniture assembly by batting the most essential screw across the floor and through a crack in the floorboards – never to be seen again.

If you, or any of your loved ones, have fallen prey to bank holiday DIY, you have my deepest sympathies. Try to keep your sense of humour when the demons show off theirs.

I’d offer to help, but I have a pressing appointment with an Easter egg.

Murphy the cat and the DIY demons 'help' with the new bath panelling...

Adventures in cat cuisine

Today I learned that the French for Pollock is ‘Colin’, so if you are named Colin (bless you) and are planning on travelling to France - tread carefully. I wholeheartedly encourage parléying une petit pue de français (when in Rome/Paris and all that) but beware the danger of your new French chums hearing ‘Hi – my name’s Pollock’ when you introduce yourself.

This useful (?!) little titbit came courtesy of a packet of Felix ‘As good as it looks’ - a title that has always struck me as an interesting branding decision. Our cats have yet to master the monetary system (the lack of opposable thumbs and pockets makes carrying small change a nightmare, so they tell me) and to us humans, the ones generally making the purchase, it looks, quite frankly, revolting. Now Whiskas ‘Oh so fishy’ on the other hand – they have hit the nail right on the head. What a stench. I’ve learned to avoid serving it before having people over, otherwise it leaves the floor wide open for the cheeky buggers I hang around with. ‘It’s the cat food’ ... ‘umm-hmmmmm, of course it is’.

The bosses keeping an eye on operations.

While carrying out my shopping duties for the furry feline bosses (dogs have owners, cats have staff) I also noticed that they are now, at the ripe old age of eight, ‘seniors’. Before we know it they’ll be going off to college…*sniff*

*ahem* Anyhooo... I then did a little mental calculation (which, granted, is probably wrong – sums are below if you’d like to check my homework) and I concluded that by comparison, and by cat food standards, I too am a ‘senior’. You could have knocked me down with a pack werther’s originals. If I hadn’t already eaten them.

Cat/Human seniority calculation

Ripe old age for cat = 18

Ripe old age for human = 72 (…ish!)

72 ÷ 18 = 4

Cat ‘senior’ = >8

Human ‘senior’ = >32 (!!!)