It is official.
Our cats are agents of pestilence and biological warfare.
I can only surmise that my enemies – of which I have many, (some highly placed in both the Royal family and the television industry – how else do you explain my non-starting TV career and being forced to break up from Kate Middleton just so she could marry William?) – conspired to enlist my own cats in a dastardly plan to lay me low.
In a plan as fiendish as strapping nuclear warheads to dolphins and training them to swim into Chinese ports my cats were laced with some kind of highly active flea attractant. Before they could say “Whiskas gives us the shits” they were complete little insectoid biozones carrying the flea payload equivalent of a million megaton atomic bomb.
Detonation occurred some weeks ago in an undisclosed location somewhere in the house. The explosion was despicably silent. We didn’t even know the thing had gone off until we started to get hit by the fall-out: horrid red blotches and welts began to appear on our lower limbs. In themselves they were quite painful and annoying but these were only phase one.
Phase two was the constant irritation that these welts (or bites if you prefer) engender in the weltee. Suddenly, our own unconscious and subconscious mind was being used against us. We began to scratch. Scratch whilst performing other tasks. Scratch in our sleep. Scratch when we knew without a doubt that we were scratching and knew that we really shouldn’t… because scratching only made things worse. Welts turned into open sores and wounds that wept blood.
And. Still. Itched.
We hit back. Chemical warfare. The cats as unwitting agents had to take the full blast. Both of them got Frontlined to within an inch of their feline dignity. They weren’t happy. They were inexplicably moist and experienced a chemical odour between their ears that they could not shake off.
I don’t know how many fleas we wiped out with that first strike but I do know it was us that scarred the sky so that the sun could not shine. No wait, that was from The Matrix. Sorry.
It wasn’t enough though. Frontline failed. And the front got pushed back and back until we found we had been overrun.
And now we have no choice. No choice at all.
It’s dirty bomb time.
We have an appointment with a vet on Saturday. A veritable veteran of inter-household hostilities such as we are experiencing at the moment. We are going to drop the big one. We are going to wield the power of the gods and unleash the power of a thousand suns.
Well, maybe not quite that but we are going to gas the entire house. We are going to wipe out all insectoid life within a range of 40 metres.
I’ve posted warning signs to give them one last chance: "Pack up your powerfully sprung hind-legs and head for the hills while you still can. Signed Dr Oppenheimer."
What a pity the bitey little buggers can’t read.
Mwah ha ha!
14 comments:
I've always wondered whether houses were really gassed. The only time I saw it happen was on an episode of Mcmillan and Wife, when an asylum escapee tried to trap McMillan and wife in the house while it was being gassed. Who do you fancy more - McMillan's wife or Kate?
Gorilla Bananas: I'd have to sample them both and then compare the two. Is gassing during the event a prerequisite?
Frontline will save you vet bills in the future. Flea-ridden cats get intestinal infestations of worms etc that make them sickly and cough until they throw up all over the place.
I'm going to assume that you won't be tempted to leave the cats in the house whilst the fogging is underway?
Good luck!
It's not just the beasties...it's the damned eggs which hatch out after you think you've zapped everything in sight.
We did gas a room once....the thing looked like one of those Mine of Serpents fireworks and it stank the place out for days...but it got rid of the problem.
Please accept this comment as my intention to cancel your generous but ultimately dubious and itchy dinner invitation for tomorrow evening.
I'm afraid that I have an appointment with "fill in the blank"...
Good luck with Horishima 2.
English Rider: once we have "escorted" the cats back from the vets they will without a doubt remove themselves in high dudgeon for a few hours of their own accord. We can gas away with impunity. As for Frontline, we are beginning to doubt its continued effectiveness and may ask the vet about alternatives - I believe some vets offer injections. The cats will love those.
The fly in the web: that's not selling it to me but I fear we have run out of other options.
Craig: all I wanted to do was share the love. God, some people are so ungrateful.
ah yes, that's why we douse our felines with Advocat each month!! (Actually, one year when I was flatting we had all gone our own ways for Xmas and I was the first back after the holidays. Walked in the front door and by the time you could say "Jaysus Mary and Joseph, my legs were black to the knees with dastardly fleas!
Amanda: I hates 'em. I really do. And things have got temporarily worse as the fleas have now left the cats and are biting for all their worth with their last gasps. I am seriously thinking of hiring a flamethrower.
Indeed, cats are the agents of the devil...just look at their eyes...no not into them...
Nota Bene: when the end of the world comes... I'm not sure if I will be worse off or better for having succoured two agents of the supreme evil...
We don't let our cats out so they can't bring fleas, dead mice or birds back in. They can shit and piss and puke up hairballs everywhere but in their litter tray though, if that's any consolation.
Rol: we're all clear on the hairball, shit and puke events. But fleas, dead mice and (so far, live) birds... yup, we do those in spades. It's swings and roundabouts, isn't it?
Whilst you paint a very funny picture Steve, I think I would have taken the easy way out and just moved house (minus the cats).
Good luck in getting rid of the critters.
Very Bored in Catalunya: there was talk of petrol and a lighted match at one stage...
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