Ireland

They're going to Ireland tomorrow and leaving me here with Lucy again.

We've had this discussion before, many times.

Frankly I'm getting sick of repeating myself.

Who do they think they are?

Who do they think I am?

They had better bring me something nice back with them or else.

Still, it's better than cruising with that roaring great monstrosity
(the engine I mean, not the lummox).

P x

Weird

A strange and somewhat disturbing thing has happened and I can't explain it gentle reader. For the best of a week now I have become quite attached to the lummox. Whereas normally I just about tolerate his shambling, malodorous presence around the place I now actually enjoy spending time with him. I sit on his lap, sleep on his side of the bed and find myself generally making a fuss of him at all hours of the day and night. What possible explanation could there be for this? I've come up with a few...

• It's my hormones playing up
• I'm getting soft as I approach middle age
• I've got a blocked nose (but I can still smell other things)
• I've subliminally taken pity on the man

Or maybe, just maybe, he's actually grown on me. For one thing, he is prone to buying me expensive cat food and he is certainly comfortable to lie on having such expansive and ample rolls of fat and flesh. I mean, I still favour Ange out of the two but it's just that lately I feel drawn to the poor oaf. I don't know but one thing is for certain, I hope to be back to my old self soon. I hope!

P x

Woof!

It saddens me to say that I must write in reference to dogs again. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to regale you with my latest mouse catching adventures but alas no. I have to report about the two dogs (collies I believe they are) that have come to stay at the cottage for a few days.

In a nutshell - they never stop bloody barking

Dogs will be dogs, I realise that, and dogs will bark (of course they will). In fact a barking dog can be quite useful at times if say there are intruders about (yes gentle reader, even dogs have their uses). But this pair are relentless. From morning till night it's just a constant drone of barking. I mean, the dog here barks and very often without good reason but not all the bloody time like those two. It's doing my head in and I'm planning on ways that I can render them silenced. There must be something.

I've taken to sleeping during the day on top of the water pump box which has Ange's clothes hanging above it. That way I can at least muffle some of the noise out.

Bark, bark, bark, bark, bark, bark, bark, bark, bark, bark! That's a rough impression of them. Honestly, it never stops.

P x

Swimming

Laugh! I thought I'd never stop. Tears were streaming down my gorgeous furry cheeks and I physically shook with wave after wave of merriment. I refer of course to the time last year when the lummox fell into the canal. Made a complete wassock of himself in front of all and sundry on the towpath he did, splashing about like a lame hippo. Berk! I loved it of course.

However, he didn't go in on his own accord. It was an accident. His lumbering great feet slipped on the gunwales and down he went. If he wasn't such an ox of a man and if he had the choice then it just wouldn't have happened (and I wouldn't have had such a laugh). The same can't be said for dogs though. You know, it never ceases to amaze me when I sit on the roof and time and time again I see a dog go hurtling head long into the canal and start swimming around in there. And they do it for fun. FUN!!! What on earth is the matter with them?

Let's consider the main drawbacks of such behaviour shall we?

1. It's wet
2. It's dirty water
3. It's wet

Then they'll go home with their masters (or servants as we cats call them) and make a bloody great mess everywhere. The dog here does it all the time. You couldn't keep her out of that filthy water if you tried and then she'll come lolling about on the furniture and leave damp patches all over it like the big galoot that she is.

Dogs? I'll never understand them!

P x

Scotland

So they've gone off again. Scotland this time. All the bloody way to the Highlands in that van of theirs. I can just imagine the sort of sordid things they get up to in there as well - drinking wine and eating chocolate until it comes out of their ears and then lying in that made up bed, farting and snoring till the sun comes up. Actually, now I think about it, that's sounds pretty much like what normally happens here at the weekends. So why go off to Scotland and leave me behind???

The one they call Lucy who owns that red boat next door has been invited to stay and look after me and to be fair to her she's doing a fairly decent job of it. She's good at making a fuss and food is always presented when I demand it. But if I've said it once I've said it a thousand times - what gives them the right to go off and have a good time without me. Especially all the way up there!!! And can you just imagine the lummox wearing a kilt? Ugh! It's enough to put me off my Dreamies. As for a sporran - don't even go there!

Scotland! Pfffff!

P x

Mozzy

It really is choice and quite funny to see. Funny, and somewhat grotesque. The Lummox has been bitten in the leg by some winged creature and it has turned septic. You ought to see him limping around like some doddering old man, wincing and moaning in infected pain. But I ask you, what a nancing great jessy of a man he is. One little bite from a mosquito and you'd think he was on his way to the emergency ward. I've sat and watched him rubbing cream on it and filling his system with anti-biotics. Pathetic. Do I pfaff about like that when I get a flea bite? Do I buggery! No, a quick scratch and I'm on my way (although they will insist on squirting that stuff on the back of my beautiful neck every month).

Normally, I enjoy chasing winged insects around the roof of my boat and mauling them but I think, on the balance of things, I may just leave them alone for a while because of the good laugh they've given me on this occasion.

P x

Gastronomy

I wish I liked cake. I really do. Because that would be a perfect way to describe how I get those two to feed me whatever I damn well please - a piece of cake. And make no mistake, if I did like cake then I would soon get me some and one of that pair would do it at my bidding.

The thing is you see, I'm so very gorgeous, (beguiling I think I heard Ange say) and when you are so purrfectly (see what I did there) adorable it becomes quite, quite easy to get your own way in life. And it's as simple as this:

Ange or the lummox will open a tin or sachet of cat food. I am then presented with two choices - I either eat it or I turn my nose up at it, depending on what kind of mood I'm in. If I choose not to eat it this sends them into a state of all sorts of panic, worrying what on earth to do but always leads to them rushing out to buy me something else. It's not that I don't like what they served up (although sometimes it has been shite and I've voiced my opinion on that before) it's just that I get bored easily plus I want to see what they're going to turn up with next. And the more I do it the more panicked they get and the more money will be spent on trying to find me the right cat food and very often the most expensive. And quite rightly so!

But what it also leads to is gastronomic comestibles that humans would normally eat themselves. Seriously, I've had salmon, tuna, chicken, ham, beef, sausages, eggs, you name it! I've had all sorts just by turning my nose up and I even turn it up at that stuff sometimes which totally freaks them out. It's great fun and the best of it is, sometimes I do it because I'm just not feeling that hungry at the time.

Like I said at the start, I don't like cake. But if I did, I'd have my cake and eat it and that pair would rush out and get me it that's for sure.

P x

Roof

I think you'll agree gentle reader that the simple things in life are so often the best. Even for a cat of my refined tastes. And when I say simple I don't mean simple as in the lummox who is merely a simpleton. No, I refer to the simple pleasures. And one of my very great simple pleasures at this time of year is to roll about the metal roof of my boat in the sunshine. That's when lummoxy isn't attacking it with that whining, grinding sander that he's bought, convincing himself and no-one else that he's some kind of metalwork expert when in reality we all know what a ham-fisted great tool he is.

But the roof, ah the roof. On a sunny day when the metal is hot I love to leap up there (displaying my natural dexterity and athleticism) and loll about for an hour or so, letting the warmth surround my fur and making me feel fab. Unlike humans you see, who have an aversion to things being too hot, we cats are extremely fond of hot places and that is why we will happily spend many hours in front of a fire or on top of a radiator or indeed a metal roof if the chance arises. And that's just what I have been doing a lot of recently. The weather has been good and I've been up there sunning myself for all I'm worth - and that's quite a lot.

There are other fun activities to do on the roof as well as rolling around. There are flies and moths to butcher, there are pigeon boxes and a mast to claw at, there is bunting to bat with my paws and so on. Why, it's a proverbial pussy playground up there. Anyway, I'm off now to work on my tan.

P x

Rabbit

There's a rabbit on my mooring. A RABBIT!!! Not a wild one that I can chase and claw at but a grey and white tame thing that the humans have put there on purpose. ON MY BLOODY MOORING!!! The sheer gall of it. No-one asked my permission if they could put it there and from what I can gather it's sole purpose in life is to eat, poo and make the humans turn into gushing jellies and want to cuddle it. It's got it's own little two storey house and a special wire enclosure for it to exercise in which I think is no more than a reuse to stop me from getting at the thing and letting it know who is numero uno around here.

It's a strange set up when you think about it. Humans keep animals as pets. That may be true with most animals but with us cats it's the other way round. We're not as docile as dogs, rabbits, hamsters, goldfish, parakeets, chinchillas and dogs (I mention dogs twice because of their intense docility). With us though it's different. The humans are there to serve, cosset and molly-coddle us in whatever way we desire and woe betide if they should fail in that as many have found out to their peril.

So now we have this situation where there is a rabbit on my mooring, taking up mouse stalking space and being a general nuisance. Oh sure, it might look cute and fluffy to them but it's probably costing a small fortune in carrots, lettuce and hay, money that could, would and should be better spent on tins of salmon for yours truly. And of course the biggest slap in the mush is that now they won't even buy me packets of food with rabbit in, that's the effect it's had on them. Piss poor beyond belief!!! The next thing you know they'll have it on my boat and that will be the final straw let me tell you that!

P x

Van

They've gone and bought a campervan, Ange and the lummox. And you ought to see the pair of them, like big bloody kids getting all excited. Honestly, it's enough to make you bring up a furball the way they prance about the thing and ooh and aah over it. Personally I don't know what all the fuss is about, it's just a vehicle at the end of the day. I've even been in it - they took me to the vet - and to say that I was underwhelmed by it is an understatement of epic proportions. It's just a van, people, just a van. Calm down.

But here's what gets me the most - the bloody thing has got a bed in the back of it. And a cooker and a sink and a fridge and even a human litter box. So you can no doubt guess where this is leading to. Yes, that's right, they go poncing off out and sleep in it. Truthfully! They go out for the night and actually sleep in the back of a van - FOR FUN!!! These humans have some strange ideas of what fun is I must say. Personally, I prefer to sleep on a big double bed but hey, if that's what turns them on then good luck to them. But of course that means that when they're off on their travels I'm sat here servantless on my own with nought but several platefuls of food that Ange puts out for me before they go. It's not good enough. It's never good enough and I let them know this on their return.

There's talk of them going to Scotland for a week in July. A whole week nancing around the Highlands in that thing whilst I'm here on me todd! Mind you, there is one good thing about it. I shall be able to hunt to my heart's content and catch as many mice as I want without that pair squealing about it so on that note they can bugger off and do as they please and leave me to my own devices.

Van my arse

P x

Festival

That Steve had better watch his step. Nay! He should watch his back. I've said it before and I'll say it again - I refuse to be manhandled. What part of it don't they understand? We'll all go for a jolly cruise on my boat when I'm good and f***ing ready! There I was sunning myself on the compost heap and working on my tan when the lummox started the old biscuit rattling bit. Like a fool (or a dog) I fell for it again but realising my mistake at the last moment I nipped up onto the roof. I knew what his lummoxy little game was and I nearly let the oaf get away with it. But then, whilst my back was turned Mirfield crept up behind me, seized me in his mitts and had me down the stairs before I could get my claws into him. And it shall not be forgotten in a hurry!!! The indignity of it!

So off we went to Skipton again. I can take it or leave the place personally and this whole boat festival thing that goes on each year just seems like an excuse for them all to get loaded with food and drink and spend a gay old time in the gateway to the Dales farting and belching. I thought at one point on the Sunday night that the lummox must have followed through, such was the terrible noise he made in bed. Yes, yes he must have done.

The thing is, there's never anything at the poxy festival to interest a cat. What am I supposed to do for three days for crying out loud? Mooch about the boat reading old copies of Vanity Fur and Cosmeowpolitan (see what I did there?)? I'm buggered if I'm going to set foot on that dog strewn towpath during the hours of daylight. So I have to endure 6 hours of that bloody roaring great engine each way there and back just so they can all have a piss up in a different location and then spend all my time there in bed or glaring at them from the kitchen table. The dog seemed excited to be there but then the dog gets excited when it picks a sweaty sock up in it's mouth so that's no recommendation is it?

Still, I'm busy plotting my revenge now that we're home again and I'll let you know how that goes

P x

Pink

Recently I wrote in praise of the lummox on this blog. A rare thing I know but he bought me some tinned salmon and it seemed like the right thing to do. Well, it seems I was a bit hasty in heaping praise upon him. He's blotted it all by buying me cheap pink salmon now instead of my preferred Pacific Red. You can tell it's cheap shite just by looking at it and I'm not about to sully my innards by even attempting to eat it.

They both looked and sounded extremely disappointed, even hurt, when I turned my nose up at it but hey people, if it's that good why don't you eat it?

So in future it's got to be the finest Pacific Red or don't bother. I can see right through your penny pinching ways and if you think I can be fobbed off like that then think again. Who do they think I am? I'm Pixie Poo Poo that's who I am! And I deserve the best.

P x

Canard

I caught myself a duckling yesterday. And before you go getting soppy and stroppy all over my gorgeous furry ass I should point out that:

A) I'm a cat, ergo a predator
B) I have a reputation to uphold
C) Have you any idea of the skill involved in catching one?

I saw it down the side of the boat it having gotten away from it's mother who frankly should have done a better job of looking after the thing before people have a go at me. Then with amazing, almost superfeline dexterity I swooped and hooked it out with one swift pass of my claws.

Unfortunately I made the mistake of taking it onto my boat to polish off. You would have thought I would have learned by now really. The duckling became quite alarmed and began to squeak repeatedly. This alerted Fatso McLummox to the fact that I had it and of course being such a git he tried to get it off me. I evaded capture though and ran off the boat with it squeaking betwixt my jaws. I thought I'd given him the slip but he came bounding up the steps like an orang-utan with it's arse on fire, roaring my name and pursued me across the mooring.

I'm ashamed to say that I lost my grip on the bird and before I could stop myself and gather it again the lummox had scooped it up in his clammy great mitts and it was all over. I watched him return it to the canal, my eyes burning into the back of his fat head as thoughts of vengeance danced through my mind. This is the umpteenth time he's done that to me and I don't know how much longer I'm going to stand for it. And personally I find all this mawkish sentimentality over wildlife quite nauseating. Let a cat be a cat I say.

P x

Amphibians

They're every-bloody-where. Frogs, toads, tadpoles the whole shebang. Croaking and chirping and  belching and keeping me awake at night. And you ought to see what they get up to, in plain view as well, it's positively disgusting. It's the sort of thing dogs would do, making a public display of themselves like that. You couldn't even throw a bucket of water over them because frogs would probably like that. Honestly, all night you can hear them at it and then come the morning when I'm all bleary eyed from a restless night there's neither sight nor sound of the buggers.

And the worst of it is, I don't even like frog. Can't imagine what the French see in them.

P x

Amazed

Hold the phones! Stop the clocks! Gasp and stand back in wonder! The lummox has actually done something right for once.

For quite some time now I've been playing the two of them like you wouldn't believe in order to get what I want. I have steadfastly refused to eat most of the cat food they've gingerly placed in my bowl including the shredded chicken in ham sauce, that I do have something of a fondness for, and have chosen instead to get by on the odd can of tuna fish, Dreamies, biscuits and the occasional packet of Felix. This has had them in a positive frenzy of concern that I wasn't eating enough. Fools! Anyone can see by my svelte figure that I don't eat to excess as it is never mind bolting down cheap shite just to make them happy.

What they failed to realise was that I was gently yet determinedly nudging them in a certain direction and it worked. But what was truly amazing about the whole experiment was that it was the knuckle dragging lummox who was the first to twig what was meant to happen. He worked out all by himself that what I was after was a tin of salmon and to his lummoxy credit went off promptly into Bingley and bought me one. I was astonished gentle reader, truly astonished that this man of whom I have (rightly) criticised time and time again on this blog should reach the right conclusion without the aid of diagrams and Post-it notes and go and buy me salmon. And not only salmon but mackerel too! So well done lummox.

I put the salmon away like a ravenous thing - wolfing it down with much contented purring before demanding more of it's deliciousness which was then duly dished out. I well and truly gorged myself which left them billing and cooing at me as if I'd just done something marvellous. So much so in fact that a few days later after a bout of impromptu meowing another tin was procured at great expense (and I'm worth every penny) and I gorged myself again. It's easy when you know how eh!

In time I shall of course tire of salmon, become bored with it and will of course then force them into buying me whatever else I damn well please. Until then, bring on the tin opener!

P x

Calendar

It would seem that the humans are attempting to cash in on my gorgeousness. On Thursday I caught the lummox red handed sending my photograph (via email of all things) to a calendar competition. Apparently those people at Haworth, where my brother and I were incarcerated before allowing this pair to give us the boat, are running this thing where they want all the poor saps who us ex-Haworth cats control to send in pictures that they can use for next years calendar. Of course it only stands to reason that Ange and lummoxy would want to send mine in what with me being the most beautiful of of them all but damn it they should have sought my permission first.

And I know their little game!

They're on the make, that's what! Today the Cat Rescue, tomorrow The World. They want to exploit me to there own sordid ends. I can see it now. I'll be paraded from one photographer to another having to pose and look utterly splendid time and time again until I'm sick with exhaustion and fatigue. I shall be on billboards the length and breadth of the land and on the cover of magazines and cat food packets before you know it with that pair counting the cash and calling themselves my management. Huh! If they think I'm going to allow myself to be exposed to the limelight so that they can rake it in well they're very much mistaken. If people want to bask in my furry gorgeousness they need only to turn their attention to this very blog where they can paws for thought (see what I did there) about what a purrfectly (and again) marvellous creature I am. They're not going to parade me on the CATwalk (I am on fire today!).

However, in the obviously likely event, of my picture being chosen as one of the twelve for the calendar (although personally I feel I should be on every month but can't see that happening) I shall expect to be treated in accordance with my new found fame and will demand only the finest of food befitting a glamour model of my standing. And I shall of course continue to allow those two to prepare it for me. After all, their keep must be earned.

P x

Ange

She makes my breakfast in the morning.

She gives fantastic all over body rubs.

She tickles my ears.

She kisses my nose.

She lets me sleep on her lap.

She doesn't mind when I leave paw prints on her paperwork.

She gives me salmon, tuna and ham when I turn my nose up at Whiskas.

She shares her food with me.

She's gone away for the week and all I'm left with is the bearded lummox.

I miss her.

P x

(Don't worry, I'll be back to my old self when she gets home gentle reader)

Engine

I'd forgotten how blasted bloody awful it is. Ange and the lummox started the engine today for the first time in ages and I am pretty pissed off about it let me tell you. A whole hour I had to endure that awful racket for. A whole hour of having my Sunday afternoon siesta violently interrupted by that rattling, roaring bloody thing whilst they pfaffed about with it. Something or other to do with the cooling system or something. I don't know and frankly don't care either so long as it doesn't happen again in a hurry.

I stayed cool throughout though and retained my elegant composure. They were worried that I might soil myself with fright and flee from the comfort of the armchair to a place of sanctuary with my haunches all a quiver. Well they were wrong there let me tell you. Balls to it, I thought, why should I give up my chair just cause they want to play at being boat mechanics and I stayed put, trying desperately to block it out by putting my gorgeous front paws over my ears. They both got highly excited about it all like it was some big deal. Apparently it shouldn't have started first time but did. Huh! I'm annoyed it started at all. I've half a mind to hide the keys next time, unlike the lummox whose only got half a mind full stop. Hah! See what I did there!

I've no doubt that now Spring is in the air it'll happen more and more often and I'll have to put up with yet more squeals of delight from the pair of them and bone shaking vibrations throughout whilst not even being able to hear myself purr. I don't suppose I'd mind quite so much if they asked me first. It is my boat when all's said and done.

P x

Blackpool

Eleven O'clock! Eleven-bloody-o'clock!!! That's what time they rolled home at. Sunday night I mean. Eleven o'clock on Sunday-bloody-night. They didn't come home at all on Saturday, choosing instead to go sauntering off and stay over at some place called St Anns. St Anns? Huh! Blackpool by any other name to me and you gentle reader. Off they went on another jolly to the seaside leaving poor little me to fend all for myself. Of course when I say fend for myself I mean that I had to spend the night alone on my boat in the cold. Do they honestly expect me to light a fire? Get soot on my gorgeous paws? Not likely my friends, not likely. They did at least employ some kitchen staff before they went in the form of Becky who did her best I suppose but damn it, we've had this conversation before haven't we? I won't stand being left home alone for days on end and it simply won't do. I let them know in no uncertain terms how strongly I felt about it. You should have heard me giving them a powerful meowing as soon as they got out of the car. Their shame and embarrassment was palpable and it was clear that they knew they were in the wrong and attempted to appease me with a bowlful of Dreamies. I ate them but my indignation was painfully clear.

They went to Southport as well whilst they were there. Well whoop-de-doo and bully for them. Mincing around the coast whilst I'm sat here guarding my boat all alone. I can just picture them now. Eating rock, wolfing down fish & chips, swilling lager, poncing around in kiss-me-quick hats, building sand castles, strolling along the prom-prom-bloody-prom and listening to the brass band playing tiddly-om-sodding-pom-pom. Balls !

The lummox has posted some photos on that waste of internet space he laughingly describes as a blog but I have given them no more than a cursory glance. I could give him a few lessons on blogging. If he had any sense he'd take more photos of the magnificent feline that has chosen to live with them and post them on his effort. It would give people something to look at rather than some piffling old tower and a bit of slightly choppy sea.

Blackpool! Huh!

P x

Berk

Oaf! That's what he is. The lummox I mean. What a ridiculous great lumbering buffoon of a man he is. He ruined everything on Friday night. I went out a-hunting and caught me a fine juicy mouse but rather than dispatch it there and then on the mooring I decided to take it home and share it with the humans. No doubt, I thought, they would be most impressed at my skill and dexterity in catching the beastly thing and would watch in glowing admiration whilst I administered the fatal bite. But no. Ange started screaming at me like you wouldn't believe which obviously distracted me from the mouse and then the lummox prodded the creature thinking it to be dead and then reacted like a big girls blouse when it got up and scurried away under the wardrobe. He was too slow and inept to catch it. I gave pursuit of course but by then it was too late and we had a live one running loose on my boat.

I gave them both the meowing of a lifetime to let them know in no uncertain terms exactly what I thought of them. Ange continued to berate me whilst the lummox began to hopelessly move furniture in a vain attempt to recapture the rodent. I ignored it all and continued to remain vigilant in case the mouse should reappear - it didn't. The uproar caused by the humans had obviously startled it into finding a good hiding place. I had to wait until gone ten o'clock before it resurfaced and I pounced like a good 'un when it did. Unfortunately it's alarmed squeaking alerted Ange and the berk once more and after quite a tussle he managed to get the mouse off me. 'Sod it' I thought to myself, 'have the wretched thing if it means that much to you' and I let him keep it. But do you know what he did then (and this really gets my goat) he marched it outside and released it in the undergrowth!!!

I was incandescent with rage let me tell you. Two and a half hours I waited for that mouse and he lets it go. I'll have him, don't you worry about that. The pair of them had better watch their step form now on. They turned a simple little mouse hunt into an absolute farce with all their squealing and carrying on. It was as bad as that time the scouse hippie took that vole off me. Who do they all think they are?

In future I shall dispatch my mice before getting onto the boat and I might even consider leaving one in the lummox's slipper again. Let's see how he likes that.

P x

Mud

It's everywhere and I'm reaching the end of my tether with it. You can't move on my mooring without your paws being caked in mud. Then when I go onto my boat it gets trampled everywhere. My towel is covered in muddy pawprints, as is the table, kitchen cupboard, couch, armchair, pouffe, bed etc etc. In fact anywhere I decide to put my gorgeous paws. And it does nothing for my luxuriant fur. Yes, you could blame it on all the heavy rain we've been having but I much prefer to blame it on those two. Particularly the lummox. What's the improvident lackwit playing at? Why doesn't he get his fat arse out there and do something about it? Instead he just comes home after a days work and sits on it - his fat arse I mean, not the mud. I've tried meowing at him on countless occasions but the berk just thinks I'm being cute and keeps asking me what the matter is. I'll tell you what the matter is oh large one - I'm sick of all the bleeding mud. Now get out there and do something about it.

To be honest I'm getting sick of his hopelessness and have started to snub him, choosing instead to make a big fuss of Ange all the time, sitting on her lap for hours on end until her legs go numb, diving onto her fromm the window sill when she's asleep, butting her with my head when she's trying to read and all other manner of catty cuteness that she loves. No doubt this is making the lummox immensely jealous but he's no-one to blame but himself. But I'm not a cat to harbour grudges. As soon as he gets out there and gets rid of all that mud I shall allow him to make a fuss of me once more. And, in due time, I shall sleep on his chest again (with clean paws).

P x