Treacle's diary. Extracts from the blog of a feline secret agent.
| Wendesday July 1. 19:00-19:20 hours | |
| Persuasion | |
| The ability to get inside an opponents head is one of the most under-rated arts of espionage. For your edification, I present this masterclass demonstration. Look at me ... no, not at the television, at me. That's it. Look at the pricked ears, the alert whiskers, the incredibly sweet expression on my kittenish face. Above all look at my big, round eyes. Look at the love and longing in my eyes as I follow the movement of your fork, down into the baked salmon, up into your mouth. See the despair in my deep, soulful expression as you swallow, and another mouthful is wasted. You can't stand it, can you? The shame, the guilt of wallowing in your baked fish while all I have to eat is some smelly offal you dumped in a bowl, oh, ages ago. Look at me, see how much I'd love to have a mouthful, or at least a sniff of that wonderful fish, which you, oh masterful fisherman, have obtained through your boundless strength and wisdom. Come on, just a little bit, how can it hurt? Then you will at least be able to eat the rest with a clear conscience. You know you aren't enjoying it while I watch you like a starving orphan at a feast. Just one teeny bit? Are you so callous? Here we go, yep, he's putting it on a napkin, and its a dirty great chunk too! Score another for the meistercat. Eat it? Well, actually, I'm not that hungry, and I don't really fancy the dill dressing. But that's not the point. | |
| Thursday June 25. 22.00 hours | |
| Crossed signals | |
| Let me in. Come on. Noooooow. Let meeeee in. Thank you. What kept you? I was out for over an hour. You know I like to check up on you regularly. Now you can let me out again. Let me in. I've just remembered, I also wanted to have a nibble of my biscuits. Come on, get a move on in there. Open this door immediately. Oh, rabbit flavoured biscuits. I don't care for those. Let's go to the other room, and I will practise stalking and survellience techniques with you. No you fool! Not outside. I didn't want to go outside. Let me in right now. That's better. No, hang on, I just want to spray that bit by the garage - gotta do in now, before Sugarkin comes round and tries to mark it for herself. Now! Now! Let me out. Okay, done it. You can let me in again. Hurry up. That's better - response time is improving. Well done staff. Now let's do that survellience. Come on, let's go. Why have you put me outside? Did I want to go outside? That meow was not a 'let me out' meow, was it now? Oy! Don't go turning out the lights in there! Let me in now. NOOOOOOOOW Thank you. Really, the imbeciles I have to work with. You just can't get the staff. | |
| Tuesday June 16 1700 hours | |
| Super Cat | |
| Dinner time approaches and I am ... geographically challenged. I'm in one of the mean back streets near the city centre. How I got here is irrelevant; a sequence of events which involved an impudent Tabby, a fascinating piece of thistledown and a mouse with the irritating habit of bolting in the wrong direction. I'm currently on the roof of an old Ford, trying to triangulate my position by the smell from the river, and the whiff of silage wafted in from the north. If I can get high up enough, I should be able to see the tall stand of trees opposite headquarters. Suddenly I see that dratted little mouse making a break for it across the road. One smooth leap of exquisite feline grace brings me right down on his neck. Gotcha! Er ... except there is this van coming down on me, and its too late to jump clear. I raise my head and glare right into the driver's eyes. He swerves violently, and hits the Ford. Evidently, I jumped off that thing's roof just in time. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that I was able to move that whole massive van by my mental strength alone. This is a truly awesome power which I shall try to use only for good. | |
| Wednesday June 10 20.00- 22.13 hours | |
| Rash behaviour | |
| Sometimes, the presence of a secret agent cannot be acknowledged. Tonight is such a time, as the staff have a delegate from elsewhere in headquarters, and I am shut away in the spare bedroom. Or I would be, if this window had not been left open. Window ... kitchen roof ... garden wall ... back door. Piece of cake. Let's have a look then. 21.45: Am under sofa, looking at back of stranger's legs. Well, I might as well scent mark them, since they are so close. As stranger moves her legs back, I rub a cheek over them. 22.00: Wish stranger would sit still. She keeps getting up for tissues, and is sneezing constantly. The back of her legs has gone all red and spotty. Ugh. To think I put my face anywhere near that! 22.13: Oops! In disgrace for unprofessional behaviour. Curiosity overwhelmed me, and I slipped out from under the sofa. Stranger seemed very agitated. When staff dragged me from the room, she had gone red and blotchy and was sucking on some kind of hissy tube. I hope this fascinating person visits again - I'd love to know her better. | |
| Thursday May 29 23.50-3.00 hours | |
| Psychological warfare | |
| 23.58 A white mist swirls through the trees, an owl hoots softly, outlined on the bare branches against a gibbous moon. It's coming up to midnight, the witching hour. Suddenly the ghostly stillness of the night is shattered by an eerie, demonic scream. That was me actually. I and the junior male staff are guarding HQ alone, since the female member has gone off on an undisclosed mission. And the big lunk has been glued to some horror film, and forgetting his doorkeeper duties. He lets me in, very carefully examining the shadows in the garden. Nervous eh? Just you wait. 1.00 a.m. All is still. The lunk evidently wants my company as he settles his nerves with the shopping channel and a large whisky. Suddenly I start staring at the top corner of the room. With intense concentration I watch something come down to floor level and start moving toward him. The lunk looks spooked. I start to growl, and then leap vertically into the air, hiss, and sprint from the room. The lunk follows, moving so fast he spills his drink. 2.00 a.m. The dark bedroom is full of silent tension. He's there, finger on the lamp switch, ready to snap it on if he hears just one more suspicious sound. I'm poised by the bookcase, ready to brush hard against a pile of books. My bet is that when they hit the floor he will spend the first second recovering from heart arrest. By the time he gets the light on, I'll be gone. Crash. Scream. Run. Perfect. 3.00 a.m. It's been fun, but now I'm sleepy. He's sitting up in bed listening to the radio, and sipping cocoa - with the light on, the big sissy. I'm curled up on the bed purring softly. Isn't he lucky I am here to protect him? | |
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