Flatus

Gas, wind, farting, flatulence, guffing, letting rip, blowing off, letting off, coughing in your rompers, tearing the sheets, cutting the cheese, giving a Bronx cheer, call it what you like, I know what I calls it - a Scouse hippie filling my boat with abdominally produced methane and making my eyes burn for the best part of a week. And do you know what the lummox presented him with for tea one night? Go on, have a guess. No? Well I'll tell you - a big plateful of sprouts. What on earth was he thinking? He may as well have forced hard boiled duck eggs down his throat, it couldn't have been any worse. The effects, as you can no doubt guess, were quite, quite shocking, almost paralysing. Particularly to someone of my refined and gentle disposition. Honestly, it'll take weeks for the miasma to clear. And then they laughed like a pair of naughty schoolboys about it the following morning. I rose above it all of course and treated them both with the contempt they fully deserved. The lummox should've known better and will pay for his indiscretion in due course (I left him a little gift last night - hee hee!).

And the noise!!! I didn't get a wink of sleep at night and had to make up for it by lying in bed until six in the evening to catch up. Honestly, he was rasping and trumpeting away all through the wee small hours, tossing and turning on the couch and grunting with subliminal pleasure at each tremendous, great blast. How there's any glass left in the windows I'll never know. I mean, it's bad enough when the lummox farts himself awake and makes me jump but this was taking it to dizzy new heights.

Fair's fair though, the Scouse hippie (I believe his name begins with R, to be honest I wasn't paying much attention) has worked very hard and where the lummox has failed he succeeded and there is now a healthy and ample store of firewood to keep me cosy throughout the coming months. So thanks hippie I shan't forget it but then I shan't forget the brass band impressions either. Next time lay off the sprouts or better still tell the lummox to not even buy any, you have been warned

P x

Paw

It really is just too easy at times. We cats know every trick in the book about how to turn humans into soppy, gurgling saps. I won't deny that we like a bit of fuss now and then on our terms and we let the humans know this by doing adorable things that make them stop whatever they're doing, however important to them that may be, and start stroking and cossetting us to our hearts content. It works on at least 98% of humans, allowing for the factor that there will always be a stoney faced git somewhere who is worried about getting cat hairs on their lap. Sod them I say. But my two in particular are such an easy target that I've devised a method so simple in it's execution that I hardly need to raise a paw. In fact that's exactly what I do, raise my paw.

I jump onto the kitchen table or the arm of the couch, meow once or twice to get their attention and when they're looking I lift my left front paw in the air about an inch and then wait for the flood of praise and molly-coddling that inevitably follows. They go berserk with it and if I should raise it again they end up in a positive ecstasy of frenzied feline frottage that after a while gets a bit too much. Ange in particular though seems to know what a cat likes and gives some marvellous all over body scratches that even I have to admit send me into throws of delight. The lummox isn't as good although I have to hand it to him that he knows what to do with my cheeks (facial) and seems to have an unending vigour when it comes to rubbing them.

The amazing thing though is the ease with which I get all this to happen. I've known lesser cats that have had to meow, purr, rub against legs endlessly, play with toys and make buffoons of themselves in order to get what they want and whilst it's true that all these techniques work in the end, I think you'll agree that I've got it down to a T. Raising my paw, that's how easy it is folks.

P x

PS. I'm off out now for a pawdicure (hah! see what I did there!)

Wood

There's a large pile of wood on the mooring. It's been there for some time now. The lummox began collecting it about a year ago and over the course of the last twelve months it has steadily grown in size. Over the summer I have enjoyed clambering over it and sharpening my claws on it as it's a great place to exercise and I don't get Ange telling me how naughty I am which she has the bare-faced temerity to do when I sharpen my claws on the log basket/full length mirror/couch/dresser etc etc. Huh! However, the time has now come for my log pile to go. The nights are drawing in and a chill is in the air. Pixie therefore must be kept warm and snug.

So fat boy now has the task of sawing and chopping the wood up, stacking it in the shed and keeping the log basket replenished at all times so that from now until April I shall be cosy. He made a start on it the other day but to be honest it was pathetic. You should have seen and heard him. Sweating and wheezing and cursing and shambling about the place like a geriatric sasquatch, grumbling about something called sciatica (???) and clutching his lower back every ten minutes. Never mind clutching at it my fat friend, I thought, put your back into it. By the time he'd finished just a few measly lengths of oak had been transformed into fire logs, maybe enough to keep me warm for about a fortnight. Well I'm sorry but that's piss poor. I've half a mind to show him how to use an axe if I had rough, calloused hands like him instead of the fine, shapely paws that I have. Honestly he's about as much use as... as... as...

the dog!

Anyway, winter is upon us and I shall be spending a lot of it in front of the fire so he needs to get his finger out. I believe the scouse hippie is going to be joining us again soon so perhaps between the pair of them they might get the job done. Perhaps!

P x

Territory

Let's get one thing straight shall we... I was here first. Snowy and Sooty need to remember that. Ergo, all this is mine. The boat is mine, the mooring is mine, the yard is mine, the shed roof is mine and so on and so forth. They've got a back garden (mine also, technically) that they can run around in and make young fools of themselves so why do they still feel the need to make their way onto the mooring and down to the stone pile where I sometimes enjoy to sit of a morning.

On Thursday I had to face that Sooty character down as he came parading around the stone pile whilst I was taking the morning air. He managed to keep himself in check though and seems to know what's best for himself unlike that brother of his who has had to receive a thick ear on numerous occasions and who had to be chased hissing from the wheelhouse last Sunday. I won't stand for it you know. But Sooty seems to recognise who is top cat around these parts and as yet I haven't had to knock him about. Yet!

Then of course there's the dog but one has to feel sorry for her I suppose. Charging about barking all over the place, barging onto my boat and sending things flying, picking up the lummox's underpants in her mouth (I'm gagging at just the thought of that one), and eating any old muck that's placed in front of her. She's like a brown, furry wrecking ball. Personally, I don't think she's got the savvy to understand anything about the concept of territory which is fine by me. Those other two though...

And as for the humans, don't get me started.

P x