July 2008 Archives

Seven bloody days I've been waiting for the Lockleys to come back from their holidays.

And when they did return in the early hours, they were all rusty.

That's what you get if you shave your fur off.

Did they invite me? Did they hell as like.

Instead they invested in a cat-sitter: a chap who came in each day, fed me, then rolled on the floor next to me. 'Bonding' he called it.

He even threw a few fluffy toys down, which is insulting. I stopped using mouse substitutes long ago.

If he really wanted to bond, why didn't he follow me up that 12 foot tree at the bottom of our garden?

He called me 'beautiful', but after being bitten for the third time he called me the same thing Mike does. It's not complimentary and it isn't fit to print on a cat collar.

I gave him a 'next time bring a bird in your mouth' look and skulked off.

The cat-sitter, who's called Trevor, was recommended by them-over-the road because he gets on so well with their pampered puss.

He would.

She's Persian - all long hair, big eyes and a longer name than a Welsh railway station: Princess Peach Blossom of the Full Moon The Third, or something.

She doesn't get out much: too busy rolling on the lino with the cat-sitter, probably.

I'm all Wolverhampton - and named after a Wolves striker, which is something I'm taking up with the RSPCA... I support Villa.

I don't know why that cat looks down her nose at me. Her owners plan to pay to have her mate with another Persian, apparently.

I think that's appalling.

This neighbourhood may be rough, but we've never had a vice problem before.

Just a thought ...

You know cats always land on their feet?

And you know toast always lands butter-side down?

What happens if you strap buttered toast to a cat's back?

See you here on Sunday for more 'mews' headlines.

I don't understand why women love us cats so much.

I don't listen.

I don't come in when I'm called.

I stay out all night and when I do decide to come in, I just want to be left alone and sleep.

Yet Julie rewards me with cuddles and treats.

When Mike does the same, she throws his dinner in the bin.

It seems unfair, but I'm not complaining.

If you want to be a famous cat like me, you've got to think big.

Thousands of years ago, we were worshipped as Gods - make sure your owners don't forget it.

Remember - dogs have owners, cats have staff.

I'm not proud, though: I don't care whose leg I rub against to get a tin of cat food.

Poor old Ginger has bought it - I'm talking about the BIG op.

To stop him staying out all night, his owners had him neutered. It hasn't worked - he still stays out all night.

Turns out he likes to watch.

He's the latest in a long line of pals to have suffered misfortune.

On Monday, Brandy got hit by a 4x4 - the wake taking place at the bins by the bus shelter tomorrow.

The driver picked up the mangled moggie and took her to her house.

"I'm most dreadfully sorry," said the motorist, "can I replace her?"

"Dunno," sniffed Mrs Jervis. "What are you like at catching mice?"

Mind you, Mrs Jervis is stupid.

When Brandy had her first litter, the OAP was so shocked she got the vet round.

"How could it have happened," she near sobbed. "Brandy never leaves the house - she couldn't have possibly met another cat."

"What about that old tom sitting on the sofa?" asked the vet.

"Don't be stupid," snapped Mrs Jervis. "That's her brother."

Just a thought, or two.

Can any one of you cats tell me how I can catch my tail?

It really is doing me head in.

And do radioactive cats have 18 half-lives?

Like I said, just a thought, or two.

Come back and visit me this Sunday. I have big news for you.

Bye for miaow .....

What the hell is going on?

Each night this week I've brought in a little present for Julie - if I keep her sweet, she might get me another catnip 'fix'.

Every night she screams. I don't think it's out of excitement, either.

That's so unfair. My mates Ronnie and Reggie - the farm cats up the road - get treated like heroes when they kill things.

Last night, to see if I'd get a different reaction, I brought a live rodent into the lounge. I thought Julie might like trying to slaughter the thing.

If you haven't tried it, how do you know you don't like it?

It's called bonding.

The demented woman spent a good ten minutes trying to wrestle the mouse off me - then flung it outside.

The claws were out.

Mind you, Julie deserves all she gets: I've drawn-up a short-list of those I reckon got me spayed - and she's top.

That ruined my chances of meeting a male on this message board.

What self-respecting Tom is going to answer a lonely hearts ad that starts 'young, free, single and spayed'? They're not going to believe you've got a gsoh after that ordeal.

I've got to be careful, though - the Lockleys can be pretty cruel.

The chicken they locked in the fridge has frozen to death.

Four piggin' times I had to bring that mouse back into the house! Four times she flung it out. On the last occasion an owl picked it up.

Bet the little creature appreciated that act of kindness. It could have met its maker on terra firma. Instead - thanks to Julie - it was hoisted a good 50 feet in the air first.

On Wednesday, a distraught pensioner knocked on our door sobbing. She said her budgie, Joey, had gone missing. It's blue and it talks, apparently.

Funny that - Joey didn't say anything when I had hold of him. I was going through my 'blue' period.

The blubbing OAP said she's put up posters around the village offering cash for the bird's return.

Damn - that's another cash opportunity lost - unless she accepts feathers.

If only mother had taught me to take prisoners...

Calling all cool cats out there! Get in touch.

I'm throwing a fish supper...just as soon as our neighbour takes that netting off his koi carp pond.