Saturday, May 24, 2008

Destroy All Puss Cats



I have the morning free to rustle up some decent lines for the end of a vexing chapter — and what happens? My cat decides to indulge in every aspect of annoying puss behaviour in the space of five minutes, leaving my otherwise sublime composure writhing on the carpet like a millipede gangbang.


From the way she burst into the room, I guessed right away there was a phantom mouse on the loose whose floppy corpse she intended to toss from paw to paw till lunchtime. She didn’t catch it, though. One second she was chasing it, and the next, clawing at the carpet doing that odd side-to-side dance of confusion where you know that she knows that you know that she knows she’s got to do something to demonstrate she’s not entirely useless.

Next up was ambiguous meaowing. Lassie could probably convey the emotion of Romeo’s harrowing demise with a single feeble whine and a delicately angled paw, but whenever she opens her gob, my cat provides zero clues to what she wants/feels/thinks/believes, forcing me to interpret everything as a blanket demand to be booted up the arse.

Is it dinner you want? If so, your bowl is brimming with that special crunchy cat munch you simply can’t resist. Is it the outdoor life of an adventure mog you crave? If so, you have a cat flap of your very own, fitted to the back door by yours truly at great expense — mainly to the structure of the back door. Is it wee wee time? If so, your litter tray floweth over with piss-absorbing granules.

Is it—

Before I could run through the list of everything she didn’t actually want, she’d thrown a teasing claw onto my leg and pulled another inch of cotton from the already mortally bobbled fabric of my lounge pants. Huh! Fuss! Why do I always forget about the fuss? Or is that a rhetorical question?

Nothing for it but to wave the Anything Close To Hand Of Doom — a red rag to a bull, as it happened. Even if I purchased an Indy-style anti-cat whip, she’d play my rage to a whimper with her juvenile feline wiles, the scoundrel.

Right now she’s out on the landing coughing up what used to cover her abdomen before she scratched it all off looking for fleas.

Next time round, I’m purchasing me a terrapin. They live underwater in a bowl, have no fangs or teeth and can’t possibly shit on anything electrical. What can go wrong?

6 comments:

Anonymous said...

Ah yes. And it's worse when they get old and do like my old cat did--piss on the floor because, damn it, he can! He was pretty rowdy as a kitten, too.

Loved the Lassie bit. Cats demand you interpret; dogs seek to be understood.

Our Pug with his googly eyes and doggie head tilt conveys far more information (most of it plaintive) than the howls of the cat.

ww

Robin S. said...

leaving my otherwise sublime composure writhing on the carpet like a millipede gangbang.

Ha! I just read this to my husband. We're sitting at the table that sits in the V of the L-shaped kitchen-famiy room combo in our house. My 16 yearold daughter, Blondster, has a new kitten - we've had her two weeks - she's now eight weeks old. Guess where Blondster is now? A sleepover.
Guess where the little shit kit is?
Jumping on and off our table as we both try to work/blog/do stuff on our laptops. Yeah. Fun stuff.

You made me laugh like a madwoman.
Thanks for that - it made my morning!

McKoala said...

Kick the cat out and get back to work.

Whirlochre said...

And here was me thinking all furry creatures were united by a common bond.

I've gone with the spray-on deodorant, as it happens. I think the sound must remind my cat of her flea spray years as a kitten. One quick blast, and she's off.

Bernita said...

Turtles are best covered in chocolate.

Whirlochre said...

Wedding Day caterers report a plummet in demand for strawberries...