One of our cats, Missy, were she to be human would undoubtedly be a blonde bombshell. She has the feline version of Hollywood good looks and “salon quality hair”. Beautiful markings, well-proportioned and the ability to turn on the charm, she is hot and she knows it. I have no doubt that should the unknowable gods of the cat universe suddenly bestow the curse of humanity upon her she’d make a nice living for herself as a gold digger.
As it is, she is completely pussified for the moment and, due to the soft touch nature of the humans she allows to exist in close proximity to her utter greatness, lives the enviable life of riley.
One of the feline rights she lays claims to is the right to physical elevation.
The implementation of this right entails a fortuitous combination of her inherent ability to leap many times her body length in height and my ability to not move out of range fast enough so that my shoulders provide a convenient, cat sized landing gantry.
You get the picture I am sure: in a previous life I was a pirate (possibly Black Beard, probably Cap’n Unknown) and Missy was my parrot.
On the whole I put up with the re-appropriation of my shoulders with a good spirit. Having a purring cat nuzzling your face tends to win over even the hardest of hearts.
But. I do draw the line at Missy’s shoulderobics when I am (to quote an old saying of my grandfather) “pointing Percy at the porcelain”. The thought of Missy – ever so surefooted 99% of the time – mistiming her jump and sliding down my frontage, claws out while an intimate part of me is about its work and in her direct line of descent makes me very wary of allowing her onto my shoulders when I am making my intimate water.
So I show her the hand. Literally. I put my palm into her face and directly block off her angle of launch. This has the result that she hovers on the bathroom sink, ears back, looking very peed off while I pee. Normally.
Not so last Saturday.
Last Saturday Missy got tired of “talking to the hand”.
Last Saturday Missy thought “sod it” and launched herself anyway.
Last Saturday Missy somehow managed to bypass my palm, make a failed attempt at entering geostationary orbit and impossibly hook a claw into the inside of my lower lip. Thankfully her purchase had not bitten deep and a split second later saw her disengaged and in freefall to the floor while I cushioned her landing with some robust air-filled expletives.
End result: sulky cat for the rest of the day and me with a cat scratch inside my mouth that had miraculously all but disappeared by teatime (the scratch that is; not my mouth – despite my wife’s fervent wishes to the contrary).
Still, it could have been worse. I could have ended up with a lower lip like Mick Jagger at a gurning contest. Or, worse, no lower lip at all.
And at the end of the day, thanks be to high Heaven, Percy was unmolested. Because that was still the priority, OK?
It’s just like my unmarried Aunt Ethel used to tell me: Percy’s and pussies don’t mix.
And with that sage advice a-ringing in my ears, I shall be keeping the bathroom door very securely locked in future.