When we first bought out kittens (now young cats) Karen and I were smug. We were smug and self-congratulatory.
Because, you see, they came pre-litter-tray-trained. They knew how and where to do their biz. No having to squish our way through warm wet carpet patches (or worse: cold wet carpet patches). No having to play Hunt For Brown October by smell alone.
We figured that we were set up for life. When the move came to allow them out into the big outdoors we had this plan whereby the litter tray would move out with them, placed under a secluded tree for a day or two to spell out to them that here – here in this shady, balmy spot – they could continue to carry out their motions al fresco without compromising the kid-safe, disease-free element of our back garden.
And then, due to inclement weather, the change of season, too much going on elsewhere to maintain a watchful eye on the garden we forgot about them. We left them to it. The cats came and went as they pleased. They looked neither constipated nor pathologically obsessed with their toilet activities. Apart from the odd fur-ball or grainy brown pool of cat sick (catnip OD) the house was clear of feline anal produce.
They were happy. We were happy. We all enjoyed the cleaner indoor air and life continued.
They’ve got it, Karen and I thought. They’re digging holes and disposing of their own soil either in our garden or (more likely) in someone else’s garden. Fantastic.
And then I had occasion to venture out into the garden during daylight hours over Christmas.
26.
26 cat poos were dotted around one side of our lawn. Oddly the other side was perfectly cat poo clear. Not sure why this is. Maybe some odd natural occurrence along the lines of moss only growing on one side of a tree thus enabling you to work out magnetic North... maybe cats only poo on the south-west portion of any given lawn? Hey – I may have just discovered the manner in which pigeons navigate their way around the globe: cat-nav.
Anyway, the worst of it was (a) they weren’t even buried but lay there glistening on the surface in the early morning dew like freshly fried sausages and (b) I knew they were from out cats because I swear to God, after months of cleaning out the litter tray, I recognized them.
So. We were hit with the horrible truth at last.
All that training had fallen at the final hurdle. All that conditioning had unravelled at their first taste of freedom.
Once out in the field they’d gone feral. They’d cut off ties with HQ and gone completely rogue.
And now my garden is not my own anymore and I’m at a loss as to how to claim it back...
...other than to follow their example and mark out my own territory in the language that they best understand.
The trouble is the little buggers have nabbed all the best spots...
Showing posts with label kittens. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kittens. Show all posts
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Tuesday, September 04, 2012
The War Against Plants
There are plans afoot to remove all greenery from my household.
Shrubbery, foliage and photosynthesis have been designated public enemy status.
There are those – the powers who have come to be – who are working hard to turn the green and pleasant land of my living room into a desert. The windowsills, once a tropical paradise courtesy of B&Q, are already denuded. Deforestation is occurring at such an alarming rate I am thinking of launching a campaign on Facebook and asking Bono to perform a charity gig.
Yes. It’s that bad.
Our kittens – now at the feline teenager stage – have taken it upon themselves to munch, push, kick, pounce, harass, eat and slash every single plant organism we own to the point of death. Their favourite tactic is to turn themselves into a feline ballista. They launch themselves at the curtains, climb up and then, when they have reached optimum height and can guarantee that, with the help of gravity they can reach terminal velocity, they re-sheath their claws and freefall onto whatever hapless spider plant is basking innocently beneath them.
Should the triffids ever attack their nemesis is right here.
Were I to let Missy and Kiah loose in Brazil I fear the loggers would soon be out of a job and the rain forests would be out of existence. They would see Kew Gardens as a bit of light lunch.
Nothing we can do seems to stop them. Our carpets have had so much soil deposited onto them I could throw down seed potatoes and grow a decent crop for Christmas.
We’ve tried shouting, tapping their little nosey-wosies gently, even removing them bodily from the room.
They laugh in our faces. Or rather they stare at us without blinking, ears back and then carry on their carnage like we don’t exist. This, as you all know, is the cat equivalent of laughing.
So we are down to mechanical warfare.
Weapons of war. Something with a trigger.
A weapon of mass inundation.
We have accepted that it is now necessary to spray our cats with water whenever they do something naughty.
I feel a bit uneasy about it. It feels too much like water-boarding but really the only other option is the electric chair... and despite their destructive mischievousness we love them both to bits and don’t want to stamp down too hard on their feline rights.
And who knows?
Should a jet of cold water to the mush work without too much psychological damage we may even try it on the kids...
Shrubbery, foliage and photosynthesis have been designated public enemy status.
There are those – the powers who have come to be – who are working hard to turn the green and pleasant land of my living room into a desert. The windowsills, once a tropical paradise courtesy of B&Q, are already denuded. Deforestation is occurring at such an alarming rate I am thinking of launching a campaign on Facebook and asking Bono to perform a charity gig.
Yes. It’s that bad.
Our kittens – now at the feline teenager stage – have taken it upon themselves to munch, push, kick, pounce, harass, eat and slash every single plant organism we own to the point of death. Their favourite tactic is to turn themselves into a feline ballista. They launch themselves at the curtains, climb up and then, when they have reached optimum height and can guarantee that, with the help of gravity they can reach terminal velocity, they re-sheath their claws and freefall onto whatever hapless spider plant is basking innocently beneath them.
Should the triffids ever attack their nemesis is right here.
Were I to let Missy and Kiah loose in Brazil I fear the loggers would soon be out of a job and the rain forests would be out of existence. They would see Kew Gardens as a bit of light lunch.
Nothing we can do seems to stop them. Our carpets have had so much soil deposited onto them I could throw down seed potatoes and grow a decent crop for Christmas.
We’ve tried shouting, tapping their little nosey-wosies gently, even removing them bodily from the room.
They laugh in our faces. Or rather they stare at us without blinking, ears back and then carry on their carnage like we don’t exist. This, as you all know, is the cat equivalent of laughing.
So we are down to mechanical warfare.
Weapons of war. Something with a trigger.
A weapon of mass inundation.
We have accepted that it is now necessary to spray our cats with water whenever they do something naughty.
I feel a bit uneasy about it. It feels too much like water-boarding but really the only other option is the electric chair... and despite their destructive mischievousness we love them both to bits and don’t want to stamp down too hard on their feline rights.
And who knows?
Should a jet of cold water to the mush work without too much psychological damage we may even try it on the kids...
Friday, August 24, 2012
When You Have A Pussy You Never Pee Alone
A sure-fire way to overcome shy bladder syndrome is to have a very young boy in the household who needs to be taught correct man pee etiquette.
But there is only so much that can be taught via words alone, especially when your shared vocabulary reference points centre around Raa-Raa The Noisy Lion or The Cat In The Hat.
You have to give practical demonstrations which cover stance, distance from the bowl, water pressure and the inevitable final shake-off.
These are life skills that take a number of months for any pre-schooler to master sufficiently well enough that they can choreograph the perfect pee without getting their water on the floor, on their feet or, indeed, the gusset of their pants.
By the end of it though you should have a boy who can shoot the bum hairs off a gnat and a dad who finds he can now relax so well that he could pee live on stage at the London Palladium in front of Her Majesty the Queen and (unlike Prince Philip) manage a constant and smooth flow with no kangaroo-hopping at all.
And indeed that was the case with me.
Until the introduction of a couple of inquisitive kittens into the family dynamic a few months ago.
Curiosity might not always kill the cat but it is guaranteed to get its head wet...
Our kittens are much taken with our toilet.
They run from the sound of the flush but then return immediately to have a good nose around the bowl. At first, this was restricted to the lowering of tentative whiskers into the opening. It soon progressed, however, to walking on all fours around the rim.
Our attempts to discourage this behaviour have singularly failed.
And it has led to a disturbing new development.
I now find I cannot “water the trouser snake” without having a pair of pointy kitten ears and the back of a kitten head protruding from between my legs at about knee height.
Even more disconcerting though, on occasion, I now find a pair of glowing kitten eyes looking straight up at me and making insistent and hungry eye contact from somewhere deep beneath my trigger finger.
I’m finding that my flow is not as strong as it once was...
But there is only so much that can be taught via words alone, especially when your shared vocabulary reference points centre around Raa-Raa The Noisy Lion or The Cat In The Hat.
You have to give practical demonstrations which cover stance, distance from the bowl, water pressure and the inevitable final shake-off.
These are life skills that take a number of months for any pre-schooler to master sufficiently well enough that they can choreograph the perfect pee without getting their water on the floor, on their feet or, indeed, the gusset of their pants.
By the end of it though you should have a boy who can shoot the bum hairs off a gnat and a dad who finds he can now relax so well that he could pee live on stage at the London Palladium in front of Her Majesty the Queen and (unlike Prince Philip) manage a constant and smooth flow with no kangaroo-hopping at all.
And indeed that was the case with me.
Until the introduction of a couple of inquisitive kittens into the family dynamic a few months ago.
Curiosity might not always kill the cat but it is guaranteed to get its head wet...
Our kittens are much taken with our toilet.
They run from the sound of the flush but then return immediately to have a good nose around the bowl. At first, this was restricted to the lowering of tentative whiskers into the opening. It soon progressed, however, to walking on all fours around the rim.
Our attempts to discourage this behaviour have singularly failed.
And it has led to a disturbing new development.
I now find I cannot “water the trouser snake” without having a pair of pointy kitten ears and the back of a kitten head protruding from between my legs at about knee height.
Even more disconcerting though, on occasion, I now find a pair of glowing kitten eyes looking straight up at me and making insistent and hungry eye contact from somewhere deep beneath my trigger finger.
I’m finding that my flow is not as strong as it once was...
Monday, July 02, 2012
Dousing The Flame
Plainly I am a miserable bastard.
I am one of those wretched people who take no joy whatsoever in life’s special events but hide away, griping and sneering, and looking down my nose at the hoi polloi.
The conjunction of Venus and Jupiter back in March? I preferred to sleep in.
The Euro football thing? Past me by. Couldn’t care, didn’t care.
Wimbledon? If I wanted to watch women in short skirts grunting at each other I’d... hold on a minute, I might programme my set-top box to record that one.
Yesterday the Olympic Torch (or rather a facsimile of one of many Olympic Torches) passed through my home town of Leamington Spa. The route took it right passed my place of employment. The torch was on my very doorstep. Crowds and thronging masses lining the streets. Local celebs. Local dignitaries. The press. The police. The St John’s Ambulance brigade. The world and his dog all lined up to watch the world’s biggest Cornetto walked along streets which in a year’s time will not recall its passing. Or even care.
Was I there?
Nah. I couldn’t be bothered.
The wife had made cup cakes and they were fresh out of the oven and generously iced. I was on the sofa with a good book. The kids were playing happily together and not requiring adult involvement. The kittens had disappeared to their mysterious bolt-hole the exact location of which is still unknown to us.
This was quite possibly a once in a lifetime event happening in my own home town and I just felt nothing. Not a spark of interest. Not even a snifter of a fart. In years to come when people ask me if I was there and if I saw it I shall say no but my backside was grateful for the good scratching I gave it.
The most I have done is to check out some photos on Facebook posted by a friend who did motivate himself to go.
They are good photos but the spectacle of the event looks underwhelming. When you have seen one crowd you have seen them all. Unless they are armed, of course; crowds like that tend to impinge on the viewer far more personally. And as for the torch... well, I’ve seen it on the telly. I’ve seen it on the telly nearly every night for the last God knows how many weeks. I’m sick of it. It is of no more interest to me than one of those huge phallic pepper mills that Italian waiter’s grind over your lasagne in Bella Italia.
I’d like to put this indifference down to Olympic fatigue but the truth is I just don’t care enough about big “social” “all inclusive” events of any kind. They make me want to down tools and run off in the opposite direction. I even get some kind of secret thrill from spurning them and not being part of them. I don’t even see myself as a lone wolf or one-man-alone or anything cool like that.
I just don’t want everybody else’s bag to be my bag.
I don’t want to be part or included or one of the many.
And for some strange reason I feel bloody proud to have discovered that about myself.
Where was I when they shot Kennedy?
I was doing my own thing, Mac, doing my own thing.
I am one of those wretched people who take no joy whatsoever in life’s special events but hide away, griping and sneering, and looking down my nose at the hoi polloi.
The conjunction of Venus and Jupiter back in March? I preferred to sleep in.
The Euro football thing? Past me by. Couldn’t care, didn’t care.
Wimbledon? If I wanted to watch women in short skirts grunting at each other I’d... hold on a minute, I might programme my set-top box to record that one.
Yesterday the Olympic Torch (or rather a facsimile of one of many Olympic Torches) passed through my home town of Leamington Spa. The route took it right passed my place of employment. The torch was on my very doorstep. Crowds and thronging masses lining the streets. Local celebs. Local dignitaries. The press. The police. The St John’s Ambulance brigade. The world and his dog all lined up to watch the world’s biggest Cornetto walked along streets which in a year’s time will not recall its passing. Or even care.
Was I there?
Nah. I couldn’t be bothered.
The wife had made cup cakes and they were fresh out of the oven and generously iced. I was on the sofa with a good book. The kids were playing happily together and not requiring adult involvement. The kittens had disappeared to their mysterious bolt-hole the exact location of which is still unknown to us.
This was quite possibly a once in a lifetime event happening in my own home town and I just felt nothing. Not a spark of interest. Not even a snifter of a fart. In years to come when people ask me if I was there and if I saw it I shall say no but my backside was grateful for the good scratching I gave it.
The most I have done is to check out some photos on Facebook posted by a friend who did motivate himself to go.
They are good photos but the spectacle of the event looks underwhelming. When you have seen one crowd you have seen them all. Unless they are armed, of course; crowds like that tend to impinge on the viewer far more personally. And as for the torch... well, I’ve seen it on the telly. I’ve seen it on the telly nearly every night for the last God knows how many weeks. I’m sick of it. It is of no more interest to me than one of those huge phallic pepper mills that Italian waiter’s grind over your lasagne in Bella Italia.
I’d like to put this indifference down to Olympic fatigue but the truth is I just don’t care enough about big “social” “all inclusive” events of any kind. They make me want to down tools and run off in the opposite direction. I even get some kind of secret thrill from spurning them and not being part of them. I don’t even see myself as a lone wolf or one-man-alone or anything cool like that.
I just don’t want everybody else’s bag to be my bag.
I don’t want to be part or included or one of the many.
And for some strange reason I feel bloody proud to have discovered that about myself.
Where was I when they shot Kennedy?
I was doing my own thing, Mac, doing my own thing.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Here Kitty Kitty
Back in the day, back when I wrote this blog's very first inaugural post, I made a silent vow to myself:
No posts about fluffy cute kittens.
It's not that I don't like fluffy cute kittens or fluffy cuteness per se. I just didn't want this blog to be about that kind of thing. Next I'd be employing a blog template that featured flowers and dandelion seeds blowing in the wind and taking photos of my animal face slippers that I'd hand crafted myself from a "Make Your Own Slippers Go On It's Easy When You Haven't Any Friends" book that I'd bought from a stall run by Mr Yoghurt-Weaver at a hippy festival.
It just wasn't my bag and still isn't.
Nevertheless it cannot have escaped your attention that there is a picture of a fluffy cute kitten at the top of this post. And furthermore there is another one just beneath this paragraph:
In a fit of madness but actually after much on-and-off deliberation for the past 12 months Karen and I took advantage of some kittens that were being sold by a work colleague on Friday. Originally we were only going to take one but by the time we'd made up our minds to go for it there were only two left available from the original litter.
Sentimentality ruled our budget: we couldn't possibly split up these gorgeous little sisters and leave one all alone; two cats are no more expensive than one (I'm sure we'll learn the lie of that soon enough); they'll settle down much quicker with a companion that they already know.
Hence our family of four is now a family of six with the addition of the two darling girls you see pictured above. Kiah (mine) is very much a lap cat and pretty docile and yet has a bossy streak that even at this early stage cannot be mistaken. Missy (Karen's) is unsure about being picked up and yet very much likes being stroked and petted and is also the most adventurous and investigative of the two.
We collected them yesterday from Coventry and, after the trauma of the car journey (which they definitely did not like), they calmed down within seconds of their arrival and seemed very much at home from the instant we got them back to our place. They've slept well, eaten well and are now playing well.
In a house that up to now has had a male majority, I suspect things will never be quite the same again.
How does that awful Sugababes song go?
"Here come the girls..."
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