Treacle's diary. Extracts from the blog of a feline secret agent.
| 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? | |
| Sunday May 25 10.00-16.00 hours | |
| Mean lean feline machine | |
| 10.00 Been doing a bit of bonding with the staff. Amazing how the odd purr and bit of attention keeps the salmon pouches rolling in. Female member of staff has been trying to feel my ribs, and seems a bit alarmed by my, erm, well-upholstered sides. 13.00 Staff are back from shopping trip. Male staff has got himself some kind of toy. Looks like it may be a climbing frame once it is assembled. Female staff has got herself a toy too. I investigate, and one sniff tells me it is a mouse-shaped lump of cloth on a string. For the next 45 minutes I watch female running up and down the garden crying 'Wheee!' with the mouse bouncing behind her. Eventually get bored and wander inside, wondering if the poor woman is cracking up. Male staff is definitely cracking up. Assembling the frame is evidently too much for the poor dear. He's waving a bit of paper and screaming 'What freaking part b goes in slot A? There is no slot A!' And much, much more to that effect. 1600. Female staff is collapsed and red-faced from all that running. Male is sweating and wrestling to add the final screws to a death-trap that I make a mental note to go nowhere near. Now, whose turn is it to feed me my afternoon snack? | |
| Wednesday May 21 13.00 hours | |
| Mission Impurrsible | |
| Waiting, watching, killing time. Killing small insects. Life is not all glamour, even when you are as sleek and suave as I am. Every spectacular operation is based on work like this, tedious survelliance, patient research. Aha! Enemy sighting. Butch McAngus, the burmese nutter sneaks out through the hole in the garden fence, out on patrol and out of sight. Like a shadow, I slip out from behind the rhodedendrons, and sprint across the exposed lawn. Shelter behind some pot plants for a quick last check. All clear. I'm going in! I slide through the cat flap, and cautiously study the surroundings. There. Target acquired. I sidle up to the food bowl. It has meaty chunks within and 'kittykins' on the outside. Butch McAngus = kittykins!? Eat,eat,eat ... quick, someone's coming. As footsteps approach I bolt into the pantry, taking the corner so fast my back legs almost overtake the front. False alarm. All clear. I finish the last of the meaty chunks, and saunter through the cat-flap, pausing only to spray on the pot plants. You can run, McAngus, but you can't hide your meaty chunks from me. I think I'll pass on lunch today. It always keeps the staff guessing when I do that. | |
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