April 2010 Archives

Don't know if I'll vote this year.

I mean, can you trust moggie politicians after the latest leak?

We don't know which cat leaked over next door's prize-winning marrow.

It didn't survive, though. The marrow, I mean.

There were claims that Cinders - top cat round here - was responsible, but she blamed it on a 'mole'.

Don't believe her. A mole couldn't lift its leg that high.

First visit home for three days. That's because there's just so much to kill out there.

Arrived through the French windows in something of a dishevelled state, admittedly: you can't be dapper and root through undergrowth for mice at the same time.

Got less than a warm welcome, probably because I had a live rodent in my mouth at the time. There were shrieks and pleas to rescue thing.

It ended in an undignified melee in the downstairs toilet, with the mouse wedged one side of the pipes and me the other.

After striking his head against the wall three times and treading on my tail, for which he paid a heavy price, Mike finally trapped the terrified animal in one of his trainers.

Sadly, my intended prey was dead when they shook him out of the shoe and onto the rockery.

My way is a lot more humane. Death by a smelly trainer has got to be slow and agonising.

After that drama, the human lodgers discussed something that chilled me to the bone.

They said I smelled, which I do. So would anybody who washed themselves with their own tongue and answered the call of nature in the garden.

They want to bath me, which is terrifying.

Last time it took two days to remove me from the taps - and you wouldn't believe the mess I made of those plugs.

Once they mentioned 'plug' I got into a real hissy-fit: water and electricity are a lethal combination.

If God had intended cats to bath, he wouldn't have given us a tongue that reaches everywhere.

What I hate about baths is those awful rings you get round the tub.

I've got a great way of stopping that happening - make square tubs.

The mousing season has begun.

I'm part of the country hunting set, which is an important social event. Town cats may be content with rummaging round wheelie bins, but nothing beats the thrill of the chase - unless you're being chased by a rottweiler.

That's why I can't understand the humans having a row over the ban on hunting with hounds. If you're a cat, that's a blessing.

The first ray of sunshine and the rodents are out - and this year looks like being a good year for the rodents.

There's a real art to mouse-catching. We can't bait a trap with cheese, but, then, humans can't catch a mouse by chasing it around the garden, then swiping it with their hands.

A good 'mouser' needs speed, skill and patience - plus an owner who won't rescue the animal as soon as you bring it inside.

I display my 'kills' on the patio, which is something of a talking point during barbecue season.

Last night I bought three mice indoors because I think every creature should see at least one 40-inch plasma TV before they die.

Besides, I like TV dinners. I saw it as a mercy killing - EastEnders was on.

Each time, Julie let out a blood-curdling scream and called for help. Don't know why - I had no intention of trying to mutilate her.

Then there were the usual attempts to rescue the rodent, while keeping me at bay.

They even tried to revive one mauled animal: mouse-to-mouse resuscitation, I think they used.

My favourite prey are the small, furry creatures that taste like bacon.

What's their name again?

That's it... hamsters.

The humans have splashed out and bought some of those tins of gourmet cat food.

I've never heard of a gourmet, let alone caught and eaten one.

It says on the label that eight out of ten cats prefer it, which is amazing: these gourmets must be able to talk to cats.

My mate Ginger says gourmets are really good chefs who work in high-class restaurants.

If they're so good, why are they knocking up cat food? I'll bet they don't serve many moggies in their eateries?

Still, it's the thought that counts.