I am worrying about the Cat. It's raining Dogs outside and he hasn't scuttled in. His name is Stormageddon, Dark Lord of All aka Tibby. At least that's what I call him. I am not a mad Cat lover. I tolerate him and he puts up with me. After all, Cats are spies aren't they? Cats sit on your windowsill, look in, take notes and report back to their base.
A few years ago I was bullied into to keeping my (then) young daughters cat. My parents were moving abroad and I had to take the damn Cat. They had purchased it for my daughter because OBVIOUSLY I was a bad, bad mother and would not have a Cat in the house. It was the nastiest Cat I have ever come across. A stinky Alpha Male that fought on a daily basis and came home at night dragging a dogs tail or a human hand. It was aptly named Tiger. I am a very fortunate person because I can speak 'Cat'. My parents delivered him to me in a Cat box. My fathers arm was hanging off and my mother was trying desperately to cover her facial scratches with Clinique. I was not impressed.
I started as I meant to go on. He looked at me and sized me up. 'Get over yourself' said I, 'Do not even think about going near my bed. There is a blanket on my oldest stinkiest chair for you. Use it or lose it. I will feed you but if you ever step out of line, I will feed you to the foxes'. He took the hint and we co-existed warily for 18 months. I had to move from my long rambling country house to a large town for work. I took him to the local vet. 'Excellent' said he. 'We need a good mouser...always looking for a good mouser. I'll chop off his bits and give him to the local farmer'. Tiger sat there hissing at an Alsatian, who whimpered quietly in the corner. 'What's his name by the way'?
Between sobs I told him it was Tiger. Now you know...... despite my reluctance to pander to pets. I have a Cat. He is my Cat. We have long conversations and I worry about him. That is all.
Mrs Wook
A few years ago I was bullied into to keeping my (then) young daughters cat. My parents were moving abroad and I had to take the damn Cat. They had purchased it for my daughter because OBVIOUSLY I was a bad, bad mother and would not have a Cat in the house. It was the nastiest Cat I have ever come across. A stinky Alpha Male that fought on a daily basis and came home at night dragging a dogs tail or a human hand. It was aptly named Tiger. I am a very fortunate person because I can speak 'Cat'. My parents delivered him to me in a Cat box. My fathers arm was hanging off and my mother was trying desperately to cover her facial scratches with Clinique. I was not impressed.
I started as I meant to go on. He looked at me and sized me up. 'Get over yourself' said I, 'Do not even think about going near my bed. There is a blanket on my oldest stinkiest chair for you. Use it or lose it. I will feed you but if you ever step out of line, I will feed you to the foxes'. He took the hint and we co-existed warily for 18 months. I had to move from my long rambling country house to a large town for work. I took him to the local vet. 'Excellent' said he. 'We need a good mouser...always looking for a good mouser. I'll chop off his bits and give him to the local farmer'. Tiger sat there hissing at an Alsatian, who whimpered quietly in the corner. 'What's his name by the way'?
Between sobs I told him it was Tiger. Now you know...... despite my reluctance to pander to pets. I have a Cat. He is my Cat. We have long conversations and I worry about him. That is all.
Mrs Wook
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