Des pattes sur la neige

Jess has complained to me that there's some confusion between her blog and mine: this estimable site chronicles my recent unfortunate constriction to the interior of the present mansion, while hers describes paw-prints in the snow, as composed no doubt by one's favourite maestro Clawed Depussy.

So here's what happened. After the autumn debacles with Maurice and Big Ginge on various sides of various fences, we had one trip to the vet too many. After assurances from said vet that most cats are quite happy to stay indoors after around 3 weeks' acclimatisation, and will willingly use litter trays due to natural and admirable fastidiousness re bodily functions, They decided to lock the cat flap. A vile grey plastic Thing, its tray filled with bits of whatever they make this stuff out of, materialised in front of it.

Heck, this is meant to be clean? What planet are these people on? They expect a self-respecting feline to return to the same site over and over again for one's daily performance? Dearie me. I'd like to see them try if someone removed their flush facility.

Now, cats are possessed of one very important secret weapon. The claws and the teeth have their uses, as does the natural gift for running extremely fast and climbing things. But the real big gun is concealed safely in our bladder and can be applied at will, to devastating effect. It's wet, smelly and disgusting, and makes women in particular suffer neurotic spells and nightmares when it's found in places it shouldn't be. Such as her favourite cushion, his leather armchair, or the stove. Oh yes, the stove. Well, the stove gets cleaned every day, so what's the problem? Hehehehehe.

So finally They unlocked the cat flap. Now everybody is happy again.