September 2009 Archives

Each night, the humans step outside and frantically call my name.

I hear them, but don't budge. That's because I'm a cat. If they wanted a pet that obeys commands, they should have bought a dog.

Egyptians used to worship us. Heaven knows how they got a cat to sit through an entire church service.

I usually wait until the male with the big belly curses and slams the patio door, clock the bedroom light going on, then scratch frantically to be let in.

This is almost as much fun as rubbing your legs against someone who's allergic to you.

It may sound a bit kittenish, but boredom is a real killer for cats. And for middle-aged moggies like me, there's very little to do.

Last time my owners flung a tennis ball in my direction, I just looked, thought 'I don't remember coughing-up that strange fur-ball' and skulked outside.

When you're young, little things like a tie or even your own reflection in the mirror can keep you fascinated for hours.

Half-way through your nine lives it gets a bit boring. Even the fluffy toy mice lose their appeal. For a while I thought they were real, but, then, for a while I thought I'd actually catch my own tail.

I find myself asking: "Is this it? Eighteen hours sleep a day, the occasional brush with rodents and an endless cycle of washing?"

There are those who like nothing better than curling up on the sofa with an episode of EastEnders. Our forefathers didn't hunt game in Africa so we could be stupified by soaps - that's the way I look at it.

My mate, a really hard individual called Mittens, reckons the best way to beat boredom is to hunt really dangerous prey. Something a bit bigger than the usual fodder of mice and sparrows.

I took his advice. "So why so down in the mouth?" he asked.

Because this week I've mostly been dining on duck.

The RSPCA are pretty quick when it comes to clamping down on cruelty to us moggies - and quite rightly so.

But they've not lifted a finger to stop humans giving us stupid names.

Swanning around with a title like Princess Primrose of the Morning Sun III - as the Persian show-cat up the road has to - can leave a feline mentally scarred.

What's more, by the time her owners have finished calling her in for dinner, the Persian's already got bored and disappeared for a light mouse snack.

Do you think I enjoy being called Keogh. My humans are Wolves fans and they named me after a Wolves players.

Could've been worst - the team's got a strikers called Iwelumo, who they quite like.

I mean, what happens when Andy Keogh retires? My name's going to be soooo out-of-date: like all those humans called Edna and Cyril.

And never mind that I support Villa. Every time they call me, my hair stands on end.
"You think you've got it bad," moaned the next-door neighbour. "I'm Whiskers - and they've even put the bloody name on my collar. It's got me into so many fights by the dustbins."

"Your owners are either stuck in the 1970s or have struck a sponsorship deal," I told him. "That's why the tabby up the road is called Collett's Worming Tablets."

According to a recent poll, the most popular cat name is Oscar, which is a little too American for my liking. I think Bafta sounds better.

Eighteen in the top 20 is 'Puss', which is about as inspired as calling your cat, 'Get Off That Sofa You're Getting Hairs On It'.

I've learnt to be very wary of humans who give their cat a title, too - such as 'Mr Marmaduke' or Miss..." This usually means they want the moggie to be their bestmate.

And who wants a best mate who stays out all night, sleeps most of the day and is regularly sick on your carpet? Someone who's pretty desperate, that's who.

There's a cat in these parts who's got the silliest name ever - Pharoah.

"Why Pharoah?" I asked.

"Because I leave a little pyramid in every room I visit," she winked.