October 2011 Archives

Miaooow, Keogh fans.
Surprised the lady of the house loves me so much. I'm independent, don't listen, don't come in when called, stay out all night and when I am at home, I just sleep.
She absolutely hate those traits in her own husband.
But pets are a gender thing. If you're a man, you like dogs. That's because they obey without question. I don't think that's an admirable quality. Unless you're terminally stupid, sooner or later you're going to think: "Know what? Fetch your own bloody stick."
They like dogs because canines can be trained. Cats can be trained, but we weigh-up the pros and cons before putting that training into practice. I mean, it's beyond me why police dogs don't take a few minutes to think: "Surely, catching this armed robber is worth more than a biscuit? There's a £2,000 reward on his head, for a start."
Cats could retrieve 'downed' pheasants, but don't get to keep them. So what's the point?
Dogs are noisy, cats are not. Next door's terrier barked so much at night that they bought him a burglar.
A lot of men hate cats. One man hated his wife's cat so much, he drove seven miles from home and dumped it, but by the time he got home, there was the cat sitting on his driveway. So next day he drove the cat 14 miles from home and dumped it. When he got back, there was the cat again wandering up the driveway. Totally frustrated, he drove the cat 21 miles to a dark, untamed forest, where he dumped it again.
Three hours later his wife got an urgent call at home. "Darling," said her flustered husband, "is the cat there?"
"Yes," said the surprised wife. "Why?"
"Just put him on the line," near pleaded the husband. "I need directions."
Women like cats, particularly older women. Just last week, a cat which belongs to the old dear across the road gave birth to a litter of kittens. "How could it happen?" shrieked the OAP to the vet. "She never leaves the house. How could she meet another cat."
"What about that old tom sitting on the sofa?" enquired the vet.
"Don't be ridiculous," snapped the old dear. "That's her brother."

Miaoooow there, Keogh fans!
There's a new moggie on the block, and this one has made headlines - well, very small ones - in the local paper. That's not much to boast about: On page seven last night was a bloke who cycled home after his vasectomy.
This cat has a real shaggy dog story to tell. She's originally from a place called Cornwall - hence the strange accent - which sounds pretty dire: lots of rocks, plenty of sea. Only thing to do is surf, and cats don't surf.
A couple holidaying in the Godforsaken place - who wants to holiday in a place where the only pleasure is getting wet? - mistook her for a stray, took her back here and she did a runner.
Her Cornish owners found out and have been down hunting for her. They've also put up posters, which is a bit silly: she can't read. They've offered a reward: if it's fish, I'm going to grass her up.
Not surprisingly, the Cornish moggie has no intention of going home. There's a better quality of life here: a meals on wheels service, courtesy of the council binmen; the birds are a lot less vicious than seagulls; there's precious little sand to have kicked in your face and you don't have to climb a one-in-five gradient to find a decent spot to use as a toilet.
She's painted a nightmare picture of life in the resort. There's clotted cream, which is more solid than liquid: try setting a new lap record with that, crowds of drunken holidaymakers in the summer and streets so narrow you can't swing a cat: a point illustrated on a number of occasions by the drunken holidaymakers.
It may be a small place, but it has its own breed of pedigree cat - the Cornish Rex.
Wikipedia describes the breed as 'adventurous and very intelligent'.
I doubt it. If they were that adventurous they'd get the hell out of Cornwall. If they were that intelligent, they wouldn't be there in the first place.