Tag Archives: cats

Nap time…..

If I was a cat right now, this would be me……  ha ha

Normal blog nonsense will resume next week once I’ve caught up with myself 😉

 

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Can We Hit The Pause Button For A Moment Please

Confession – no “proper” blog post this week.

The “real” world has been running at 100mph for days.The “creative” world has been dominated by Book Baby 2.

I’ve also been trying to get my new music review blog and associated FB page off the ground . (https://the525toglasgow.wordpress.com  and https://www.facebook.com/The525ToGlasgow if you fancy checking them out).

So apologies for the lack of a proper update. Normal chaos will resume next week….hopefully.

In the meantime, here’s some cute cats ( well isn’t that what everyone looks at online at some point!)

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And as a random after thought….a grape mouse 😉

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A Mathematical Feline Conundrum

At six am on Friday morning the alarm went off. Still more asleep than awake I lay back, listening to that bloody cuckoo outside (it starts cuckooing about 4.30am) then heard a “MIAOW”. Not an unusual sound for a house that boasts four cats. I guessed that it belong to our ginger feline, Pythagoras.

He is somewhat of a climber and prefers to enter the house via the first floor windows. Nimbly he goes from the fence to the shed roof to the conservatory roof, tip toes across then jumps up onto the lower section of the house roof, wanders over the ridge of the garage and saunters round to the first floor windows, varying his point of entry between the bathroom and Boy Child’s room.

Another “MIAOW” dragged me out of bed and I wandered through to the bathroom, expecting to find Pythagoras patiently waiting to be let in.

No cat.

“Boy Child’s window,” I thought and crept into his room to check.

No cat.

“Hmmm. Perhaps he has gone back to the rear of the house.” I checked Girl Child’s window.

No cat.

Now slightly more awake, I listened carefully and, in between cuckoo calls (that bird is driving me insane, by the way!) I could hear claws moving about and the occasional soft “miaow”.

“He must have gone onto the higher part of the roof and got stuck,” I deduced, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from my eyes.

Barefoot and still in my pyjamas I rushed downstairs and outside to check. So, by ten past six, I’m standing in the middle of the street in my Alter Bridge t-shirt and animal print pyjama bottoms staring up at the roof.

Not a cat in sight. (Humble apologies to any of my neighbours who may have been mentally scarred by my early morning appearance)

Once back indoors, I listened again. I could still hear miaowing and puddy paws moving about.

Was he in the loft? Nah! He couldn’t possibly have got into the loft. No one had been up there for nearly a week and I distinctly remembered putting Pythagoras outside the night before.

Ridiculous as it sounded though, it was the only place he could be.

Trying and failing to be quiet, I got the ladders out of the cupboard, clambered up and very warily slid up the loft hatch, dreading to think what may come flying down on the top of me. Fortunately nothing leapt out at me. I reached up and pulled the light cord then turned to scan round the overly cluttered loft space.

Sitting trembling on a piece of wood was Pythagoras.

 

Out of all the humans in the house I am that cat’s least favourite. This rescue mission now required Boy Child, his human of choice. I went back down the ladder to waken the sleeping teenager – no mean feat in itself!

A rather sleepy Boy Child, wearing only his boxers, staggered out of the bedroom and up the ladder. The cat did respond to his calls but stubbornly refused to come within reach.

What followed was a five hour battle of wills. Having resorted to any form of cat bribery available, Boy Child (now better dressed) finally coaxed the terrified moggy over to the hatch and grabbed him.

Pythagoras’ claws flew out as he held on firmly to a length of pine shelving.

Boy Child prised him off.

Next he clung to the edge of the hatch.

Boy Child prised him off.

Finally he clung to Boy Child, claws still out, and was liberated from the loft.

Rescue complete.

A closer inspection of our roof has revealed a row of slipped tiles that have left a cat sized hole up in one corner beside one of the windows.

The next rescue mission here may well be “The Big Green Gummi Bear” as he goes out onto the roof via the bathroom window to attempt a repair.

Somehow if he gets stuck I don’t think catnip will work to coax him back in!

 

 

Irreconcilable Socks and the Solidarity of Shirts

There’s one thing that never ceases to amaze me on a weekly basis and that’s the amount of clothes we go through in this house. I’m sure someone sneaks in here and deposits their laundry in my basket. It used to be a weekly ironing pile I faced on a Sunday – now it’s a veritable mountain with an accompanying mountain range of bedcovers, towels, socks and knickers!

How can four people generate so much laundry in one week?

I’m convinced that once it’s placed in the laundry basket in the cupboard in the utility room that it breeds in the dark.

Shirts! They are like magnets and attract other shirts – usually tangling themselves in each other’s sleeves as an act of solidarity in the washing machine. Between Monday and Friday the three shirt-wearing inhabitants manage to dirty fifteen of them! Grrrr

Socks are another nuisance. Pesky wee things! I’m sure they are playing games with me. At the end of last week I had three “odd” dark socks. What the Hell I thought and threw them back into the laundry basket in the hope that they would be magically reconciled with their partners. It worked! However three other pairs got “divorced” and I still have three “odd” socks!

You’d think, logically, that Girl Child would be the worst offender for generating excessive amounts of washing. True, she does that teenage girl thing – wears it once or sometimes even just tries it on and decides not to wear it – and throws it in the general direction of the washing basket.

Wrong!

The Big Green Gummi Bear is the culprit. His love of water sports and daily trips to the gym are to blame. At the weekend he can work his way through three or four sets of t-shirts, socks and underwear per day. If left unattended for more than twenty four hours this sweaty wet pile exacts its revenge and begins to emit the most foul odour of Eau d’River Clyde. (The washing that is not the Big Green Gummi Bear…well maybe occasionally)

Ironing also has its own magic powers. My rule of thumb is that “if it doesn’t get ironed on Sunday then it has to wait until next week”. I’m a bit OCD about getting it all done on a Sunday (watching MotoGP or Formula 1 does help to get through it quicker). I’ll sort it into two piles- shirts and stuff that requires a cooler iron. By the time I’ve set up the ironing board and the iron, there’s invariably a cat, Frankenstein, sound asleep in the middle of it – on top of something black of course.

I surrender! I’m away to investigate the pros and cons of joining a nudist colony.

Only joking- I’m actually away to hang out the washing!

The Domestication of the Human is Complete

I like to think I’m quite a free-thinking independent human being so I am struggling a bit to work out how it has come about that I have been domesticated by the cat- or in my case four of them.

If any of you are cat owners- and I use the term loosely as I now firmly believe they own us- you will understand where this is headed.

It has been going on for some considerable time. Ten years ago we were a cat free household then the munchkins and I spent two weeks visiting relatives in a cat filled house in the USA. When we returned home Boy Child was so miserable about leaving the cats behind that we decided to adopt a rescue cat.  (Conspiracy theory here- the cats are all in cahoots!)

Enter Dixie into our lives. The flood gates may as well have opened! Long story cut short- Dixie was an old lady, hated boys, suffered ill health and was only ruling the roost for eight short months. In that brief space of time however we became the adoptive humans of a black fluffy, half Siamese, half Persian male kitten called Sioux. When Dixie passed away Sioux was lonely- enter Gandalf, another rescue cat (I could and probably will fill a whole blog at a later date on him alone) All too soon Sioux and Gandalf had us well trained as to when and what they wanted to eat, when they wanted in and when they wanted out and as to how much of the bed they intended to occupy each night.

A few years down the line the munchkins (obviously brain washed by their feline masters) convinced the Big Green Gummi Bear and I that we needed to adopt a third feline member of the household. Enter Pythagoras who had repeatedly featured in the local paper as the pet of the week in need of a good home. Cue a whole new set of household rules as the three male cats learned to live together and to live with us. It took a while – and the arrival of a fourth feline- before Gandalf and Pythagoras could tolerate being in the same room as each other.

Two years ago the fourth- and final (for now) – feline joined this motley crew. Frankenstein, yet another rescue kitty, came to stay. My domestication was almost complete. Poor Frankenstein, through no obvious fault of his own, had had four homes in two years. As soon as I saw his big blue eyes and heard that charismatic purr …well the rest is history.

Now we live by a strict set of felines dictates-

*Gandalf only enters and leaves via the front door.

Pythagoras prefer to come and go via the first floor windows, having climbed over the garage roof to get there.

Sioux and Frankenstein require cold meat prior to any human resident being served breakfast

In the middle of the night if the scratching is at the carpet at the door of the bedroom- Pythagoras wants out.

In the middle of the night if the scratching is at the chest of drawers- Sioux wants out.

In the middle of the night if the scratching is at the side of the bed- Gandalf wants out

If in the middle of the night a cat is clambering over your head purring incessantly- Frankenstein wants out.

If a cat- any cat- is sitting in front of the narrow cupboard in my kitchen- it wants fed.

If after dishing up a tasty meal it returns to the cupboard- it wants a different flavoured dinner.

If the cat was on the seat first don’t waste your time moving it- it will only return to sit on you.

If the cat’s in the bed first- sleep elsewhere!

 

The ancient Egyptians worshipped cats as Gods. Mine have never forgotten this fact.