Honestly. People.

Meow? Meow! Meow. Mriaeow. Mraoaoaow. MEAAAAOOOUWWW. MEw. Prr prrrrrrr prr. Mrow? Prrreow. Maow? MAAAAAAAOOOOOWWWWW. Mowow? MAOWAWAWAOW? Prrt? Meow? MEOW???? MIIIIAAAAAAAAOOOUUUWWWWW!!!

[kerplunk]. "Here you are, then, you grumbly cat. It's nowhere near your suppertime yet, but..."

Jess, why the heck didn't you just give me my food in the first place? Then I wouldn't need to grumble. Simple, n'est-ce pas?

The trouble with Artie

Artie lives in the house on the corner. He's ginger too, but long-haired. What's worse is that he is bigger than me. This means that should he and I find ourselves facing an unfortunate altercation, guess who comes off best? I try time and again to get Them to feed me larger helpings so that I can catch up with Artie. But They will not be told. They say I will get fat if I eat more. Wretched humans. They don't understand anything. The fact is that for a cat, size matters. It's the law of the jungle. People around here distinguish us from one another by calling me the 'little' ginger cat. Hunh.

To compound matters, Artie was here first. I hear on the catvine that before I arrived, They were best mates with Mr Ginger Bruiser, King Arthur, and he used to go into the house and keep them company. Then I turned up. Artie was duly banished and sent home to no.17. He's neither forgotten nor forgiven this insult. I've done nothing, but he blames me.

And so I live opposite a creature who thinks I'm on his patch and can beat me up whenever he can be bothered to come out of his house. Most of the time I cut my losses and try to keep clear of him, but one can't be a shrinking violet (well, ginger) forever. The other day I decided I'd had enough. I tried to teach him a lesson. When it all went wrong, I used my biggest asset - my loud voice, which I've worked on so that it can be heard through the violin and piano being played together - and They kindly came charging out to break it up. Now I'm nursing a torn ear. But I will show him who's boss, one day.

Dignity. Always dignity.

I wouldn't want to give the impression that I was overly delighted to see Jess and Tom when They came home the other day. In case anybody thought the way I described Them picking me up (ugh!) displayed some measure of actual affection on my part, or that my ironic reference to Them as my 'owners' was not as ironic as it is, I should add one well-worn remark that remains as true today as it was the moment it was coined:

Dogs have owners. Cats have staff.

It's a cat's life

Just my luck. I get my blog up and running and They promptly vanish for two weeks, leaving me powerless at the pooter. Our paws are designed not for typing on pooter keyboards, but for killing.

So now They're back. While They've been away, the nice people next door have popped in twice a day to deliver the meals. I've yet to find a way into their house, however - no flap, and as it's winter the windows are closed - so I couldn't get in to demand extra food. Therefore I decided to take the law into my own paws - well, what would you do if you were a hungry animal and your "owners" had buggered off to Brazil?

It's not so difficult. Here is the Solti method of self-feeding:

1. Leap on to kitchen island surface.
2. Push bag of cat biscuits off surface with several hefty nose shoves.
3. Attack. Those paws were made for killing. That's what they were going to do to the plastic bag. It was quite tough, but the food was inside and it had to come out. If the kitchen scissors could do it, so could my teeth and claws.
4. The hole successfully made, push bag over on to side so that food pours on to floor.
5. Gorge to heart's content.

They came back early yesterday morning, looking like They hadn't had much sleep on the plane. And can you believe it, They complain, upon picking me up, that I am fatter than I was when they left. Huh. They should just see themselves. They've been feasting on coconut cocktails on Copacabana Beach and it would appear that dancing the tango in Buenos bloody Aires doesn't burn up commensurate calories.

Their fault, not mine

It's all their fault, of course. How can you name a cat after a fierce Hungarian conductor and expect him not to resemble his namesake? How, indeed, can you expect any cat not to assume the role of head of the household? It's how we're programmed. We were sacred in Ancient Egypt and everyone had to do what we wanted. We kind of liked that.

I do wonder, as I settle on the bed for the morning, whether I'd have turned out differently if they'd called me Tigger or Gingie or something else equally daft. As things are, it is my role to conduct the house in an appropriate manner. And just now, it takes some doing. With the noises that emanate from that black thing with three legs in the front room, the way the blue-tube dragon takes over the house every Tuesday morning, occasional invasions from Artie who lives in the corner house and is bigger than me, not to mention the manic excitement over the apparent thrill of Jess having a book published (why does she bother? The house is full of the bloody things already), there's far too much going on here to permit the quiet, regular, cat's life that it's my mission to create.