Thursday, June 26, 2008


What a week it’s been — hot unadulterated puss cat action from the moment the final milliseconds of Sunday night blurred into Monday morning.

I say this, why?

Go here, to Robin S and her lostest cat, and here, to Fairyhedgehog’s joyous whoosh of youthful pusk akimbo.

When I started this blog three months ago (on April 1st, as a spurious joke) I had no intention of revealing anything about myself other than that I was a closet suicidal maniac who frequently dressed as a woman and mainlined on diluted Parmesan cheese — with trained chimps.

If anyone had told me then I’d be posting pictures of my dead cat and waxing purrical about his feline charms, I’d have said, “don’t be ridiculous. What a bizarre assertion. Pass me the Chlorpromazine — and fast.”

I really have no idea what I had in mind as I perused the day-glo loon shaft of oblivion into which my first post was ultimately — and blindly — hurled.

“Whatever I post,” I thought, “it has to be low maintenance, so I can get on with my life without having my shaving rituals and fingernail painting sessions disrupted.”

So — I prepared a series of posts, to be offered for public consumption every three or four days like stale digestive biscuits passed around in a tin at a charity jumble sale for Whack The Bewildered Quadruped.

I never envisaged much of a response.

Maybe some sad old spanner will chance upon me, looking for spare parts for all his old childhood Tonka toys, and maybe he’ll leave an anonymous comment along the lines of YOUR A FUCKBRIAN.

That you, my welcome visitors, have departed your worldly lives and fluttered as metaspecta to chirp here, forsaking briefly your clearly visible horizons, is, for a person like me — habitually cursed till now to play out my days in self-imposed exile — a treat. I don’t care if that isn’t a sentence.

Anyhow — to cats, and still echoing vacuums therof.

Plog was my first ever cat, and if I was an acrobat contortionist, I’d kick myself in the head for leaving it as long as I did to experience full honours Cat Enthusiasm.

Before Plog, I persisted in the nightmare world of hamsters, dogs and imaginary friends, deluded in my pre-cat naivety into believing that

a) Dogs were fun
b) Hamsters alone were borne from the Fount Of All Cuteness,
c) Imaginary friends had imaginary friends of their own, which they would toss aloft in a whirl till the tips of their tails flopped, loosely gripped, snug in the smuggest of grins.

Not so.

On his finest days, as I crawled across the kitchen floor, scrubbing up baby puke like a Dickensian washer woman, Plog would leap onto my back, demanding to be borne amidst the furniture like a benevolent emperor — exactly as he’s stood in the photo; exactly so yeah, I’m a cat. And when we left him for a fortnight, trusting our neighbour to operate the key to his private sanctum and locate the tins of Special Food For Cats, we forgave him his dimwit-inspired initiative when we came home to discover he’d been forgotten, and had snook in through the kitchen window, helped himself to a packet of Corn Flakes and unleashed a fortnight’s worth of foul-smelling Plog plop on every work surface bar the shelf halfway up the wall with the TV on it. Any lesser cat would have been throttled on the spot for magicking so disgusting a bacteria theme park from the coils of his rectum — but not Plog. As ever, I called to him and threw him over my shoulder, trusting his skeleton would turn to jelly in the interim, so he’d fall, like a cushion, against my shoulder.

Am I sad that he’s gone? Of course, and I celebrate him as a finite spectacle of goodness, realising all must turn to dust.

But that he’s here, on this blog — a phenomenon beyond the bounds of his catly cerebral wherewithal and briefly pusscatoonoid life — is an oar blade slapped against my idle, turned aside cheek, hoisting me from limbo towards days as yet unspent.

I’ll leave it at that for now.

Or, maybe not.

meaow meaow


Kiersten said...

I ache to give my daughter a cat. I think it would make her whole world a better place. You should have seen the loving, tender, rapt attention she gave to our disgusting caterpillars. She was so excited and invested it was kind of sad.

Poor thing needs a kitty. Alas, my son is allergic. And a terror. I wouldn't want to inflict him on any creature to helpless to get away.

Enjoyed this post, WO. I'm glad all of us lunatic women found you and are slowly luring you out of your exile. If only as words on a screen.

Whirlochre said...

Caterpillars are kind of cute but you can't teach them to leap through hoops — at least, not till they're older.

Kiersten said...

And by then they've locked themselves away.

Also, do cats make cleaning up vomit less revolting? If so, I may need to get one, allergies or not.

Whirlochre said...

Cats are perfect for cleaning up vomit — especially the Persian ones.

Kiersten said...

Oh, so gross.

So, so very gross.

Whirlochre said...

You just arm them with a little old kitty catty cloth and away they go. What did you think I meant?

Robin S. said...

That you, my welcome visitors, have departed your worldly lives and fluttered as metaspecta to chirp here, forsaking briefly your clearly visible horizons, is, for a person like me — habitually cursed till now to play out my days in self-imposed exile — a treat. I don’t care if that isn’t a sentence.

Love you, too, Whirl.

Please don't go anywhere.

P.S. Your cat was gorgeous - and he had a face on him, know what I mean? A real face on.

Sarah Laurenson said...

Love this post, WO. You have an amazing, distinctive, fun voice. And cats have been my constant companions lo these many years. Love the independent, furry, cantankerous buggers.

McKoala said...

Dogs eat vomit.

I rest my case.

writtenwyrdd said...

I lost two of the three cats this past six months. I miss them both. Each cat is uniquely cat-pissy and they all belong to the Loyal Order of Snarkiness. Cats even make vomit cool. They puke and then look at it like an art form before wandering off. Cat performance art, that's it!

Whirlochre said...

Morning all.

Somewhere in the world, there is a blog post similar to this, only about dogs.

But do I care?

Kiersten said...

Hey, I loved my dog. She was this scrawny, wiry little pug with the sweetest temperament.

Of course, she never fell in the toilet. The cat did one morning at 4:30 as I was getting ready to go to work. Made me so happy.

Whirlochre said...

I loved my dog too. Despite being a vicious corgi, she was a great pet. Every five year old's dream. She never leapt into the loo though. Must be a pug thing — the face, I suppose.

Kiersten said...

No, no, the CAT fell in the toilet. The pug was much too short to pull that off. Kiki, the prim kitty princess of the household, would sit up on the rim and delicately drink out of the toilet. Until that one morning when she lost her balance (clumsiest cat I've ever seen) and fell in.

It was great.

Whirlochre said...

Plog's little sis, Moonie (also, sadly departed) used to sit on the edge of the bath watching me read whenever I opted for a soak.

One day, she jumped in, and between the two of us, we yelped all the world's most popular caterwaul expletives before she finally leapt out and dashed through the cat flap...into the snow. Luckily, she wasn't entirely stupid and returned immediately for a good drying off. Me? I bled for a week.

Kiersten said...

Poor both of you. Also, funny.

Whirlochre said...

Maybe when I'm 83 and demented beyond all reason in some horrific care home, this will be the one story I remember...

Kiersten said...

Whereas right now you are demented within reason, and it's just one of many stories swirling around the abyss.

Would you then have a completely rational terror of all things furry and four-legged? Because if your only memory was being attacked in the bathtub, imagine the horror.

Whirlochre said...

When you're 83 and having your backside scrubbed by a nurse with a broomstick, the flailing pet of your youth would surely be the perfect image to help you blot it all out.

Sarah Laurenson said...

My cat Imp, who left this world not that long ago, stood on my knees as they stuck out of the water. I had images of the water turning bright red and gently removed her from the vicinity of the water. She used to jump in the tub after my shower and drink the water that remained, that is until the day I had soaked prior to my shower and the tub was still full of water.

Whirlochre said...

Now, that's a weird thing, Sarah. My one remaining cat waits outside the bathroom every morning for the shower to be used and switched off so she can lap up the lukewarm soapy water. No matter how many bowls of nice fresh water I put down in the kitchen for her, she turns her nose up every time, preferring either the shower, or the green gungy stuff on top of the compost bin outside.

Mary said...

This post is the funniest I’ve read in days. :) Weeks, even!

I have a sneaking suspicion that cats come back as humans... and humans come back as cats.

Whirlochre said...

Whereas molluscs have just the one molluscs — after which the lights go out forever.

Nice to see you again, M.

Robin S. said...

Hey Whirl.

I don't have anything to say- just hi.

Whirlochre said...

'Hi' will do.

Beats 'laminate flooring' or 'we have kidnaped yor viper send dolars NOW.'

ChrisEldin said...

Do you still check older posts?

I hope so...

I'm sorry about the loss of your cat.
My youngest son last year started crying when as I tucked him into bed. He was just getting it that we all eventually die. He wasn't worried about me or DH. His tears were for his rabbit.

Whirlochre said...

Yes — getting the 'death' thing is no fun. I remember seeing an episode of Star Trek where Lt. Uhuru beholds herself in the mirror as an old woman. After that, the loss of multiple hamsters was never going to be anything but trauma...