Treacle's diary. Extracts from the blog of a feline secret agent.
| Thursday 4 November, 10.00-10.30 hours | |
| Puddy tat | |
| I'm curled up in a patch of sun on the carpet, wondering whether to roll into the shade or let my blood temperature climb a few degrees nearer boiling. In my sun-induced stupor, I pay little attention to a commotion at the door. Presumably the junior management is dealing with a postman, salesman, or other riff-raff which needs to be moved from the doorstep. Next thing I know, this apparition in an orange dress is bearing down on me, and a large wrinkly face with far too much lipstick is reaching out red-tipped claws to savage my tummy. The creature preceeds her attack with a battle cry along the lines of 'Oooooooooh wad a nickle-wickle liddle pwecious, you soooo cute I could just eat you!' I'm not even aware of bounding onto the sofa - pure horror plus adrenaline took control of my muscles. I start reflexively washing my ears while I look at this monstrous creature with disgust and fascination. Behind her, junior female staff is watching with a mixture of embarassment and consternation. I know what she is thinking, because I'm thinking the same thing. I came close to ripping my own ear off because the claws on my paws have inadvertently become extended. After all, do things like this deserve to live? 'Who da cuddest liddle ikkle-pie?' The creature lumbers toward me again, so I flow off the sofa and plop myself out of reach on the rug. I glare at junior female staff who is obviously responsible for introducing this abberation into my peaceful morning. It's not dangerous, I have now established - merely a sad, demented creature with some form of cuddly toy fixation. 'Idnt dat fur soooooo soft and shiny, ohhh come here so I can give you a lubberly hug!' I try to shut up this gibbering idiot with a basilisk stare which suggests that any lovely hugging will be followed by lovely disembowelling as fast as I can get my back legs into play. It does not work, so I abandon the room in disgust. Junior staff can get this madwoman off the premises. Ikle-wickle puddykins is going into the back garden to kill something. | |
| Saturday 17 October. 16.00-16.30 hours | |
| Flea for your life | |
| She's moved across to cover the exit, he's sauntering over with such nonchalance that my whiskers start to tingle. We're going to play 'catch' aren't we? Okay, I'm game ... I lie dozing on the carpet, pretending not to notice until Junior male staff makes his move, and then I am out of the blocks like an olympic sprinter. Female staff slams the door shut in my face, and I spin away, and under the sofa. Sofa backs against the wall - so I can see their legs on two sides. I shoot out of the third, knocking some cups off the coffee table as I bound over it. Drat, cornered again! Dodge groping hands and shoot up one of the curtains. Get near the top, and the curtain starts popping off the rings, (yes, I know, that diet ...). I make it to the mantlepiece with a spectacular mid-air twist, and sprint along it, sending china ornaments and photos flying in all directions. Better than a James Bond car chase this is ... Nearly run straight into the arms of junior male staff, but instead use the top of his head to vault high into the air, and find a grip on the light fitting. There is a pause as I swing back and forth, solemnly studying the upturned faces a few feet below. A muttered conference, and female staff comes back with a broom. Is this covered by the rules? Ow! I'm prodded hard in the ribs, and make a wild leap for the sofa. Male staff intercepts with a flying save that is certainly better than anything I've seen the hapless England goalkeeper make on the telly. Together we crash into the coffee table, and all four legs break off, each splaying in a different direction. Okay, guys, you've got me. I wriggle like a landed eel, but they are going to rub that goo on me, its kind of traditional. I let them do it in good spirit, its a sort of after-game horseplay. Then I wander outside. They probably want to be left in peace to tidy up. | |
| Wendesday 7 October. 6.30-14.00 hours | |
| The sitter | |
| Look, we went through this yesterday. In the mornings I have fish. Noooo, idiot, not in sauce, in Jelly. Haven't they taught you anything? And while we are at it, wake-up time in this house is 6.30 sharp. You will get to understand the 'sharp' eventually, because I am prepared to keep clawing your toes until you do. I don't care how pathetically you hobble to the bathroom afterwards. Honestly, I feel sooo put upon. Not only have junior staff pushed off for a few days, but they have left me to baby-sit this great useless sack who has not the faintest idea, really. Just this morning, he tried to sit in the rocking chair in the lounge. At ten o'clock! I ask you. If I had not abandoned chair at high speed thanks to the highly-honed instincts of a professional assassin, I would now be dead under those bulging buttocks, and he would be shifting about wondering why the cushions were so lumpy. He's not got the faintest idea, as I told you. Door! Door. DOOR! Where's he got to? Open this Door! Are you deaf? About time. Now, listen carefully. I'll be doing my rounds, checking all the garages in the alley, so expect me back at 12.30 forlunch. Which WILL be kitty kibbles and rabbit. People who serve dry biscuits at lunchtime find cat-crap in their shoes. Have we worked that one out yet? Good, you may go. Really, having to baby-sit with my age and seniority is bad enough, but don't staff members come with an instruction book these days? After almost a week I've got the basics sorted out, but it's been uphill all the way. I'm so stressed that I decide to pass on my patrol, and recharge my psychic batteries with a calming doze on the roof. I'm sure it was not so hard training the junior staff when I was a kitten. | |
| Monday 27 September 03.00 -22.00 hrs | |
| The feline Pimpernel | |
| I spent the night outdoors. Well, it was a warm moonlit night and I didn't feel like sitting around indoors waiting for the others to wake up. Had an early breakfast on some chipolatis in the bin outside Luigis Greasy Spoon restaurant. A bit of a mistake, as I then spent most of the day in the rhodendrons whilst the chipolatis made their (fortunately rapid) way through my catabolism. 10.15 Was disturbed by junior female staff rampaging through the garden looking for something, so sneaked into the house and parked myself under the dresser in the hallway - convenient for a dash into the bushes should the chipolatis rise once more. 17.30 Sleep through the afternoon, though female staff is making a number of increasingly worried phone calls from the hall phone. Eventually male staff member comes home - slightly earlier than usual, it seems. The pair grab their coats, and exit, leaving me in peace. 20.30 I slumber under the sofa in the lounge until they come back three hours later. There's the stomach-churning smell of curry a la Luigi on their clothes, but also the distinctive whiff of Jimsons beer from the Old Lion. As the two are over a mile apart this means the junior staff have been wandering all over the neighbourhood. 21.20 Female staff is on the phone. Her frantic voice carries clearly to the lounge. I decide that, well, I'd better find out what's bothering her. I slide out from under the sofa and rub her legs as female staff returns. The hysterical relief ofthe pair astonishes me. What kind of problem was it that I could resolve simply by turning up? | |
| Tuesday September 21. 16.00 hours | |
| Hunter-Killer | |
| I'm in the garden supervising female staff member as she weeds the rockery. She's just popped indoors for gardening gloves or something, and I'm sunbathing on top of the wheelbarrow. It's a lovely late summer's day and I'm feeling lazy and relaxed, when suddenly ... There's a flutter of wings, and not fifteen feet from me a large black bird has dropped down to enjoy a worm turned up by female staff's efforts. Now, I've been off birds ever since I got a feather stuck in my gullet that drove me near crazy for a week; but this gross impertinence cannot go unpunished. Slick as molten molasses, I slide off the wheelbarrow onto the grass. While the feathered bandit is blithely scratching about the rockery, I'm oozing into position - just five feet to go, and I'll be ready to spring. Just then, the bird stops, and cocks a beady yellow eye in my direction. I'm frozen as a statue, but we both know - my cover is blown. After a long, slow inspection, the bird ignores me and turns back to the rockery. I pause to examine the situation. Did I mention that this is a large black bird? With a huge and very solid beak? Did I neglect to point out those nasty curved talons? I'm just thinking of chucking in the hunt and grooming my whiskers instead when I see that female staff member has returned and is watching from the kitchen door. How do I back out now? Do I lose my pride, or my right eye? Put like that, it's not even an issue. I abandon subtle stalking, give my best blood-curdling yowl, and charge as a bristling mass of fur and claws. Startled, the big black bird gives a hop, and takes to the air with a clap of wings. Rather surprised to be still alive, I trot down the path, glancing nonchalantly at female staff member as I pass. 'Just missed catching one of those big black birds, y'know. Real pity. There's good eating on those things.' | |
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