Sorry about that apocalypse guys

Now I love my cats, I really do.  At any given moment I’m only  a few whiskers short of being a proper crazy cat lady.  I had previously been looking forward to this and reconciled to the fact that I will probably end my days being eaten in my sleep because I bought the wrong brand of kittie bics.  However a recent experience has caused me to rethink this.  Let me share my pain with you……..

Imagine the scene if you will – it’s a cold, wet night and I am sitting quietly at home, wrapped in a blanket whilst lovingly crafting gifts for the festive season (ok I’m swearing like a trooper and bleeding from a crochet hook induced injury.  See

Anyway, there is great clatter and cacophony and in comes a small, psychotic cat shrieking like a hell demon who has just discovered the matches are missing.  I of course leap up in great alarm to rush to her aid, tangling both legs in the blanket and damn near knocking myself unconscious on the coffee table. Fighting off the visions of being consumed by the felines rather earlier than I expected, I drag myself to my feet just in time to see her calmly depositing a dead mouse under the table.

Relief and mild revulsion mingling in my breast, I step up to  retrieve its sad little corpse whilst acknowledging the pride of the mighty hunter.  At this point it turns out that said rodent was only feigning death and with an almighty squeal, it jumped up and launched itself straight for my jugular as the aforementioned mighty hunter ran straight behind the sofa.  Clearly I was dealing with a zombie mouse with rage issues and probably a poor relationship with its mother.

Despite my obvious terror and the risk of inadvertently joining the legions of the undead and/or losing my remaining brains, I basically built a fortress of boxes around the rodent of the apocalypse to try and herd it into a place of safety.

All the while, frustrated hellcat is screaming and inciting kitty riots outside the sitting room door. Anyway, in the style of the Pied Piper’s really inept but well meaning third cousin, I lure the now extremely perky and distinctly homicidal zombie mouse into a box and carry it safely through the house to the garden. Of course, I was being followed by an army of baying felines, convinced that they can mob handedly (pawdedly?) destroy the satanic vermin.

In view of this I very firmly close the back door behind me.  That would be the door that automatically locks when you close it and needs a key to get back in.

I realise that at this point I have no keys, no mobile, no shoes and no sense of personal dignity. I was trapped outside in the rain and mud with an unrestrained, undead mouse that may or may not launch an assault upon my unprotected back as I attempt to break into my own home using nothing but a selection of garden produce.

Also, in my amazing, planning wisdom I had neglected to remember that I have a cat flap so the whole shutting the door against the marauding mousers was pretty much the third most ridiculous thing I’ve done this week…………sorry, fourth most but I’m not allowed to talk about at least two of those things until the trial.

Of course at this point, the highly disgruntled moggie popped out of the cat flap and firmly and decisively bit me as revenge for the theft of her mouse.  She then calmly waltzed back inside where it’s warm to laugh at my pathetic attempts at being McGuyver.   It’s amazing what you can do with a trowel, a garden hammock and some over ripe parsnips when faced with imminent hypothermia and the guttural squeaking of the animated cadaver of the rodent of the damned.

Apologies for the horde of zombie mice I might have inadvertantly created and released on an unsuspecting population. Try not to smell like cheese or brains for a while


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