Can't Hug Every Cat

As you may or may not know, the Sloth and I have two cats. Roland is large, grey and emits fluff as if it is his second goal in life - his first being to have his mouth full of food at every available opportunity (and the word 'food' can encompass almost anything, edible or not). The second cat is called Mr Giles. He is small, black with a white tuxedo, and has permanently huge cracked-out eyes with giant pupils. He is easily startled but extremely cuddly and his favourite hobbies include headbutting unwarned guests with clumsy affection. He does not understand word/phrases like 'no' and 'ouch' and 'help, your claw has gone right through my skin and feels like it is severing a tendon'.

They are adorable and endlessly entertaining creatures. When Sloth arrived home from work the other day, I greeted her as follows:

Me: Hello darling. Would you like to hear a list of things your cat has been afraid of today?

Sloth: Shouldn't it be your cat, or our cat? How come he's my cat when he's being a prat?

Me: No. As I was saying, things Giles was afraid of today: the bin opening. The bin closing. Briefly, the sound of my slippers on the floor, which he was not afraid of yesterday and has, in the last hour or so, forgotten to be afraid of. The sound of Roland moving on the couch.

Sloth: (mouth twitching)

Me: There's more. He was also afraid of the shininess of the packet of wet food I opened for him, which he actually ran away from with a terror-stricken expression. I actually had to coax him back into the kitchen.

Sloth: (trying desperately not to laugh)

Me: Meanwhile, Roland has played fetch with a piece of wire all day and been relatively good except when he couldn't find it, and decided the best way to remedy that was to howl with misery at me until I located it for him. Which took a while. I ended up on my hands and knees, crawling around the living room. By the time I had found it, he was asleep again.

Sloth: So, a good day then?

Me: Could have been worse.

The Angle Of The Hippotamuse

Me: Okay, so the cat threw up a horrible hairball but at least he managed to get to this towel and mostly do it on that. Which I think shows an intelligence and a sense of urgency, as well as a respect for surfaces, that this particular cat does not usually express.

Sloth: (looking at the towel with gagging distate) Why don't we just throw that one out? We have plenty of towels.

I could not fault this argument, since by moving in together the accumulation of two flats worth of towels was quite frankly the least of our storage concerns.

Sloth: So how was work today?

Me: Fine, yeah. I processed stuff. I sent emails. And I saw a shaved guinea pig.

The Sloth looked slightly thrown by this change in topic but is used to this by now, and to her credit tried gamely to go along with it as if it was perfectly normal (which to me, it is).

Sloth: A shaved guinea pig.

Me: Yes.

Sloth: A shaved... And where did you... you know what, I don't want to know what you were actually looking for when you found that.

Me: It was just... around.

There was a brief pause.

Me: Did you know shaved guinea pigs look just like baby hippos?

Sloth: (giving me a I-can't-believe-that-we're-really-having-this-conversation look) ....

Me: No, really. They totally do. But more wrinkly.

Sloth: (frowning) Hippos have fur, don't they?

Me: (thoughtfully) Do they? I suppose since I've always seen them wet, I've never really thought about their hair.

Sloth: (giving me an I-can't-believe-that-I-allowed-you-to-suck-me-into-this-conversation look, which is something I see quite regularly)  .... darling...

Me: (innocently) What?

Sloth: (sighing) Nothing. You're adorable.

I'm taking this as confirmation that I may purchase either a wet or dry guinea pig/baby hippo if I should desire to do so, with or without hair.

Does It Or Does It Not Say Moo?

A belated Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you, otterlings! I do apologise for my absence. I'd love to claim that it was due to some sort of extravagant holiday, or perhaps a financial windfall, but in fact it was due to the twin facts that I recently started playing Mass Effect 2 and the Sloth began playing her Christmas present of L.A. Noire. Both of these things have, amongst much else, been taking up our time recently.

You may recall from the last couple of posts that I have now moved in with my adorable little Sloth. I occasionally wish we had cameras stationed around the house, because our conversations appear to end up (quite unintentionally) rather hilarious. I suggested that we start a podcast but suspect it will never materialise. Ain't nobody got time for that when there's games to be played. One particular incident however has been repeating itself for a few months now. We have been infiltrated.

Depending on how long you've been reading this blog, you may recall that several times I listed my greatest fears (camels and balloons are among the top contenders). The creatures my friends are now forced to refer to as 'kittens' (please see here for more information - http://witandpendulum.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/uninvited-houseguests.html) are not, fortunately, my current problem. Since the flat is pretty much a 'kitten'-free zone (excepting the downstairs exit, which is home to one large 'kitten', and which means I have to hurtle out of the tiny doorway in case it manages to leap on me and, y'know, stroke my face and mutter "Hello... Clarice" which I suspect it knows full well is the stuff of my nightmares) I have let my guard down a little. I occasionally walk around with no socks on. If one of the cats is chewing something in a corner, I don't immediately check for little legs strewn around the floor. Small clumps of dust no longer make me double-take or yelp in terror. It is quite nice, all things considered.

A few months ago, Sloth pointed out a ladybird buzzing around the kitchen. I admired it while she puzzled about where it had come from. I waved my hands around casually and said things like "who cares" and "aww, it's cute" and "what's wrong with you?" Sloth said nothing further but remained suspicious. Another one popped up a few days later. I suggested perhaps it was the same one, but the look on her face told me that the first ladybird had not been allowed the mercy of the Geneva Convention. I repeated my previous statements, adding that there were plenty of things to be afraid of in this world but ladybirds are not terribly high on anybody's list. Sloth looked unconvinced, but was unable to do anything other than dispose of the second ladybird and get increasing pissy about it. I figured that was the end of it.

How wrong I was. How wrong I inevitably am, especially when it comes to stuff like this. I will be the first to admit my failing in this respect, and if somebody engraves "She Said It Was 'Probably Fine'" on my tombstone, I imagine they will not be far off from either my general life philosophy or my last ever sentence.

The ladybirds have at least not come in packs, but so far we've had seven. We have no idea where any of them have come from. We live next to the sea. We live on the second floor. There is relatively little garden near by. One of them was black, but I do not know whether he was nominated as a token appearance by the other ladybirds or whether he was their leader.

Sloth: (raging) WHERE ARE THEY COMING FROM?

Me: Sweetheart, they're just ladybirds. The cats will eat them.

We watched one of our cats follow a ladybird over the floor with interest for ten whole minutes. He then sat down and fell asleep next to it, which was hardly the Attenborough style hunter-prey action we'd been hoping for.

Sloth: I don't want them here.

Me: Well, there doesn't appear to be a lot we can do about it. It's only an infestation of ladybirds. It's hardly the start of a James Herbert book.

Sloth: But how are they getting in? It's the middle of winter! WHY AREN'T THEY ALL DEAD? I WANT THEM TO BE DEAD.

Me: Um. You do realise that this is the gayest possible infestation, right? Other people get flooded, or have 'kittens' or locusts or squid. Or whatever. And we have ladybirds.

Sloth: (sulkily) Fabulous.

Me: (z-snapping) Exactly.

As a PS to this blog post, I'd like to add that the ladybird is connected with religious symbolism in many countries, owing to being associated with the Virgin Mary, and is therefore usually appropriately named in various European languages. With this in mind, the Polish name is "boza krówka" which Wikipedia informs me is translated as "God's (little) cow". Oh Poland. Don't go changing.

In Hindsight, The Hippo Molar Was A Mistake

I was an intelligent child. I know you might find that hard to believe now, but bear with me. I'm actually pretty smart (something I will prove once I stop crashing into things, topping up my wine with Ribena and dancing around the kitchen holding Roland in a waltz position and informing him through spoken word rap that he fills up my senses like a night in the forest. I just wish he'd let me lead for once) and that became obvious fairly early on.

My parents therefore treated me, on the whole, as a very short adult most of the time, but it meant that occasionally they would forget that I was actually a child. One particular memory stands out from this as what I like to think of as The End Of Innocence. We all have this - some instant from childhood where you suddenly realise that the world is actually not the glorious, happy place you thought it was. For most kids, this involves Santa, and I was no different. At the tender age of 7, I came home from school one day to find my parents standing about in our living room looking rather worried.

Me: Hi. Has someone died?

Mum: What? No! Just... sit down, will you?

I sat obediently.

Mum: Er... (looking with desperation at my dad, who was eyeballing the ceiling) Listen. You might have heard your friends talking about something in the playground, and we just wanted to talk to you about it.

Me: Like what? Like sex? People talk about that.

Mum: (horrified) No! Not that!

Me: Oh. What then?

Mum: Like...Santa.

She winced, as if waiting for an explosion. I stared at her in growing confusion.

Me: What about him?

Mum: Well. He's...um...he's....some of your friends might have said that, um...

Me: (gently) Mum. I know Santa isn't real.

Mum: (with immense relief) Oh thank god!

Me: Of course he isn't real! No one could deliver presents to everyone all over the world in one night. That doesn't make sense. It's ridiculous.

Mum: Right. Right. I'm so glad, we were worried you'd be upset.

Me: No. I've known for ages that you were lying to me.

Mum: (uncomfortably) Well see, the thing is, it's not a lie, exactly. It's something parents tell their children to make the world a better, more fun place. All these things, like Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy-

Me: Wait, what?

My dad, sensing impending doom with the trained instincts of a man born to survive, began to edge towards the door.

Mum: What?

Me: (lip beginning to tremble) Did you say the Tooth Fairy isn't real?

Mum: (wild-eyed in fear) Um...

Me: How can the Tooth Fairy not be real? She brings me money! You can't just...I don't believe this!

Mum: We thought you knew! (looking at my dad, who by now has managed to edge almost completely out of the room) You come back here!

Me: (wailing) How can she not be real? Where do the teeth go?!

Mum: I kept them.

Me: (horrified) You KEPT my TEETH? That's sick!

Mum: Okay, this is not going how I thought it would.

Dad: I told you we should have got someone else to do it.

Your Hips Don't Lie, But Your Cats Aren't Telling The Whole Truth

I am aware that I talk about the cats sometimes. Maybe a little too much. I think it stems from being around people at work who also have cats, or worse, children, and enjoy talking about them and showing me photos of every major achievement since drawing his/her first breath. It hasn't yet got to the point where I am pulling out my phone/wallet on the bus so I can show old ladies pictures of Roland and Giles in various poses (but usually with the same exasperated expressions that say mother, we do love you but take one more photo and we am going to do something unimaginable to your favourite sweater with the deer on it. We mean it) but I am aware that it is a slippery slope to total CatLady Mode, like that Simpsons character who throws kittens at people.

The cats sometimes fight. Very little stops them during a scrap, as they do get quite focused on kicking each other in the head and reenacting Street Fighter moves, but we have found a couple of things that work. My favourite, and something Other Half cannot stand, is shouting "Shakira! Shakira!" at them. Let me explain, Shakira had a song called Hips Don't Lie. I shouldn't really overanalyse, I mean, I am after all aware that Shakira's appeal does not lie in her meaningful song lyrics, but really - of course hips don't lie! They don't have lips, for one thing. Also, hips are not sentient and cannot conduct their own thoughts independent from you. I realise this is incredibly pedantic, but you know how I feel about modern lyrics.

In any case, one line of the song goes "no fighting, Shakira, Shakira," which is actually quite a useful thing to shout over the yowls of hissing, exploding cats, especially if you can do it with the kind of reggae rhythm that occurs originally in the song. Unfortunately I may have overused this a little as now they flinch every time they hear 'Shakira', even in casual conversation. This has led guests to believe that we have to spell the name out because the cats are scared of her music, which is a myth I perpetuate. It amuses me greatly. 

This brings me, rather gently for a change, to all the beautiful cat-related things in my life. For example, sentences you say to your cats but shouldn't have to. Such as "is that ice cream on your face?" or "where did you wee? Show me!" or "GNAARRRGH YOUR CLAW JUST WENT THROUGH MY EYELID, OH GOD OH GOD IT'S BLEEDING!"  True stories. Luckily I still have the use of both eyes, and what's another small facial scar, really? It adds character.

I'd like to point you all in the direction of the website that started my love of pudgy cats (lets not call them fat, lest they become image-conscious, although admittedly some of them could certainly do with going on The Biggest Loser and would never make the cut for America's Next Top Kitten) which is called, imaginatively, TubCat (http://www.tubcat.com/) I don't know whether it is simply that the large majority of these cats are, shall we say, festively plump, or that some of them have priceless expressions, or that some of them have been dressed in unusual outfits, but these pictures make me cackle loudly and helplessly every single time.

Speaking of unusual outfits, have a look at these (http://www.fourleggedlinks.com/pet-shopping/new-cat-costumes-from-catprin-of-japan/) My personal favourite is the wizard costume - after all, who hasn't read Harry Potter and immediately thought "I simply MUST dress my pet up like Dumbledore! Think of the hilarity! No time to spare to make my own outfit, so I'll buy one off the internet!"

I do love modern technology, don't you?

Lady Of The Dance

I tried to buy a bus ridacard yesterday. This is normally an easy process, made even easier by the helpful and lovely staff. However, they did seem to be convinced I was a teenager despite my wallet full of credit cards and work ID still hanging around my neck, and made every effort to assist me as such.
 
Staff: Right so, is that an....adult...card? (looks at me dubiously despite holding my form which clearly states ADULT in huge block letters in several different places, including checkboxes)
 
Me: Yes.
 
Staff: And that's an... adult... monthly card, which you'll pay by direct debit, is that right?
 
Me: Yes.
 
Staff: So you're not a student or anything?
 
Me: I am a grown up. Really, I am.
 
Staff: Right... (still looking at me as if I'm lying to avoid getting a discount, which of course people do all the time)
 
My problem is that I look a lot younger than I actually am. I'm sure I'll be grateful for the lack of ageing when I hit 30 and still don't have wrinkles, but right now, I've lived over a quarter of a century and it does not show. This means that I constantly get ID'd (even though I am almost 7 years over the legal age) and not just for alcohol. I have also been ID'd for nail scissors, plastic cutlery and hair dye, amongst other things. It can be quite embarrassing, especially if I am wearing my smart casual office clothes and realise with vague horror that the staff see a person in school uniform, rather than a legal secretary who works (reasonably) hard from 9-5pm, pays her taxes and has cat-shaped dependents. It probably does not help that my hair has begun to get to that awkward shaggy length, which, if I don't get it cut in the next week or so, will start to make me look like even more Bieberlicious.
 
In other news, the the house move is finally complete, which makes me want to do the Dance of Joy (it involves waving your arms like an octopus and jiggling with excitement, and in some ways is admittedly quite similar to the Dance of Intrigue. An expert would be easily able to tell them apart) and scamper about, shrieking happily, because this means that Other Half and I no longer have to live in fear of the ever-growing carpet mould, or the bulging, damp bathroom ceiling. It was unnerving trying to wee and watch the ceiling suspiciously at the same time. I had performance anxiety on more than one occasion.


The cats have been a bit nervous, due to the trauma to being forced into a box and taken for a bumpy taxi ride before finally ariving at a brand new location which does not smell like home. They have taken it fairly well as they are pretty relaxed lads, but every now and then they go for a comfort cuddle together under the duvet in the guest room. I was watching them spoon the other day, and wondering if they knew how gay they were and also, if this was natural cat behaviour (my previous two female cats didn't get on, probably because one of them was blind and the other was a sadistic psychopath who liked to lie in wait on the dining room table until Blind Kitty came stumbling along, and would then slide off the table and flatten Blind Kitty in a wrestling move I used to call 'The Crushinator') when Other Half came into the room. We both looked at the spooning cats for a long moment and then at each other.
 
Other Half: That is incredibly faggy.
 
Me: (smirking) I know, right? Cute.
 
Other Half: (taking out her phone) I'm going to take a photo.
 
Me: (doing an impression of Roland) GILES, I WISH I KNEW HOW TO QUIT YOU.
 Other Half: Just when I thought it couldn't get any gayer. 
 
Me: It can ALWAYS get gayer.


Trust me on this. It really can.

The Cat of The Baskervilles

The house move is coming to a close, for which I am extremely grateful. Other Half and I had decided to leave the cats at the old house until we'd moved all the furniture, this saving them the additional stress and emotional trauma of listening to us grunt and clatter around and swear profusely. The cats are not known for being particularly forgiving when it comes to situations where they feel they have been wronged, and they usually let us know in some small way, like weeing on our favourite sweaters or pooping in our shoes, or generally ruining soft furnishings in what we like to refer to as "kitty fever". So it was with caution that I opened the door to our old house on Wednesday last week to find...nothing. Roland and Giles were both sitting in the hallway expectanly, staring at me with big, innocent eyes. Hello mother, their eyes seemed to say. We've missed you and haven't ruined anything in revenge for leaving us alone for a few hours. We wouldn't do that. We love you. Honest. And I was fool enough to believe it.

I'd fed them their dinner and was about to exit the room when something caught my eye. It was a brown circular splodge of about 4cm across, on the front of one of my speakers on the countertop. I used these for playing music from my ipod, and they were not exactly cheap. Closer examination revealed the substance to be poop. I was furious. I was outraged. I was...impressed. Firstly, it was half way up the speaker, so the perpetrator would have had to actually back up onto the speaker before rubbing its kittybum all over my expensive technological equipment. This was new. This was tactical revenge. We'd obviously raised them well.

Roland raised his head and gave me a smug look. Giles' face was firmly buried in his foodbowl. And I knew instantly that Roland had masterminded this whole scheme. Giles, bless his little paws, is barely smart enough to know if he's on fire or not, so he may not have been involved in the planning. He had obviously carried out the mission because the poop was at about the right height. I reached these conclusions quickly and, feeling very much like Sherlock Holmes, went to consult Other Half.

Me: Roly told Giles to poop on my speakers and he did.

Other Half:... I'm sorry, what?

Me: There's poop on my speakers. I'm pretty sure the cats did it. Unless it was you.

Other Half: (looking at me hard) Clearly it wasn't me.

Roland swanned into the room and took up position on Other Half's lap, purring and looking as wide-eyed and as cute as possible.

Me: Dillhole.

Other Half: Don't call the cat a dillhole.

Me: Fine. Bastard cat, then.

Both Roland and Other Half glare at me.

Me: Why my speakers? WHY, ROLAND, WHY?

Luckily, I think I can take the front off and clean the poop away. Its just another item in a long list of My Possessions That Have Been Ruined By Cats, which so far includes the cables for my Wii, mobile phone chargers (yes, plural!) and various shoelaces. The worst part is they have a mountain of different cat toys to play with, and yet, given the opportunity, they will immediately and unerringly head for the only choking hazard/electrical cable/cleaning substance in the room. I feel like this is all probably good training for having children some day. At least they won't poop on my speakers. I hope.

Mr Giles and Roland of Gilead

Since I mentioned one of my cats in the previous post, I feel I should elaborate. I've been putting this off, because nothing screams stereotype like two ladies living together who have cats and lots of scented candles, but it's going to have to happen sooner or later.

Other Half and I have two cats. They are like our children. The slightly tubby black mongrel cat with the huge yellow, vacant eyes is Mr Giles, named of course after my favourite Buffy character. The handsome, gigantic, grey, 21 pound Maine Coon raping machine is Roland of Gilead, named after the gunslinger character in Stephen King's Dark tower series. I admit, I am a massive geek.

If you've ever read any of Terry Pratchett's witches books, you might see Roland's resemblance to Nanny Ogg's cat Greebo. The advantage Roland has over Greebo, apart from not being fictional, is that he is extremely docile. He will happily let himself be dragged around, tugged into a better hugging position or slung over your shoulder in a fireman's lift, provided you have the physical strength this action requires. However, he does not trust strangers and as soon as a human guest enters the house he will scurry away like a coward and watch from a safe distance. Anything else, however is fair game,, up to and including next door's sheepdog. We tried to get him neutered and the conversation with the vet was as follows:

Me: How is he?

Vet: Everything went fine, he's just coming round now. He'll be quite sleepy for a few hours. Er..

Me: What?

Vet: The thing is, he's quite...well-endowed...

Me: Excuse me?

Vet: He's got a lot of... he's...his testicles are really huge.

Me: (mouth hanging open) This is not a conversation I ever thought I'd be having with anyone.

Vet: So, we tried to get rid of all of them, but you probably shouldn't let him near girls... just in case.

Me: I didn't pay you £50 to 'sort of' neuter my cat!

Vet: He's a force of nature, what can I say? (grins and does a kind of proud male camaraderie nod at Roland)

Mr Giles, on the other hand, is a special kind of cat in a totally different way. He has no social boundaries whatsoever. Any guest is immediately treated as his new favourite person and he will cling to them like a baby monkey, crooning to them in soft, slightly creepy purrs until the guest has to politely ask that we detach him and/or possibly remove him from the room. We suspect Giles is mentally deficient for many reasons, not least of which is that one time (sadly, not at band camp) he set himself on fire and didn't notice. After Other Half and I had shrieked in terror and patted him down, checking that he wasn't singed, he just looked at us for a long moment, sniffed the air and then wandered off to his food bowl without a care in the world. He is definitely male, however he does like to carry small soft toys around in his mouth and try to make nests for them, so for a while he had us really confused. He often disgraces the dignified "Mr" part of his name by eating disgusting things off the carpet in full view of company, like Roland's hair.

If you've ever had a pet, you may have had the urge to speak in baby-talk to him or her. I advise against doing this while your partner/family/friends are in the house. You might not be able to look them in the eyes  for weeks or even years after they've heard you saying things like "who's my little fuzzy-wuzzy man? wuzza-wuzza-wuzza?" or "if you bite me again, goddamit, I'll bite you harder" or "if he doesn't want to spoon THEN HE DOESN'T WANT TO SPOON AND YOU JUST HAVE TO ACCEPT THAT."  The lines of love and motherhood are difficult but we must walk them.