Four go mad on catnip

Everyone who has ever been owned by a cat will know that there are any number of indignities that we just accept as being a natural part of being in thrall to our dictatorial, mercurial, fluffy overlords. We try to communicate by replicating their assorted squeaks and mews knowing full well that they find us faintly ridiculous (and always worrying that we’ve just said something unspeakable in Cat).  Sometimes, however when we really want a point to be ignored, only our own language will do so here are some things only cat slaves ever really have to say:

  • Get your head out of my coffee mug, I am not sitting up playing laser pointer all night whilst you’re caffeining your tits off again.
  • Get out of the bathtub, I’ve only just hoovered it.  Of all the places that you could chase your own tail like the Tasmanian Devil on crack, why there?  Oh yes, because it makes the most noise at 2am, silly me.
  • I really wish she wouldn’t sit right in front of the television. For the first week of Master Chef I thought all the contestants had cat arses for heads
  • Please stop licking the Christmas decorations, you know I find glittery turds unnerving
  • My sofa appears to be snoring
  • You are neither a pot nor a pan so do not get into that cupboard young lady!
  • Do not knock my wet laundry onto the floor, when I’ve just hung it up. No, licking it does not make it better
  • Stop screaming at me when I’m trying to pee! I don’t start screaming every time you head for the litter tray do I? Afterwards sometimes, admittedly
  • Seriously guys, can’t you just do kittybix and chill?


Having written this, I suspect that parents of toddlers may have some familiarity with the concepts. Cats are basically just toddlers that you can leave alone without being arrested and who are fractionally more likely to shit in the right bucket.

You can’t help but be kind of fond of the malevolent little gobshites though.  Despite their insistence on taking part in every phone call I make, their uncanny ability to know when I’ve had a truly awful day and produce Exorcist levels of vomit in response and the refusal to accept that a bowl can still contain food if they can see even a suggestion of the bottom, they are kind of cute.

Also, we could learn a lot from them sometimes.  Despite their insistence on total human domination and their usual desire to bat several shades of shit out of each other over lap based rights they can come together for the common good.  The common good in this case being sharing the rights to the warmest spot in the flat.  It’s like the Gaza strip could be if cats were in charge of war (which would only take place at 2am and involve considerably more tinkly balls)




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