Paws for thought...?

Happy new year!

2010-01-05T17:24:00.002Z

A very catty new year to everyone from my Chief of Staff, The Master and, of course, ME, Sir Georg!

Since I last wrote, all has not been well in the cul-de-sac. Poor Maurice, as per my last post, has met with a very sad fate under the wheels of a speeding car (which didn't even stop after hitting him). Arthur, King of the Close, has also left us, succumbing to kidney failure at a ripe old cat-age. We miss them terribly. My girlfriend, Scarlett, is still very much alive and purring, though, and has a lovely way of zooming out towards you from all sorts of unexpected points on the street. The other good news is that since June, I have won all my fights, emerging unscathed (if fluffed up) on every occasion. A sobering thought: with Maurice and Arthur gone, I am now Senior Cat of the Neighbourhood. This is a Very Big Responsibility.

Meanwhile it's almost too cold to go out for longer than is absolutely necessary, so here is a lovely video from The Guardian about stock-taking at London Zoo. Fabulous film of the penguins and some close relations of Aleksandr Orlov. Enjoy!
http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/video/2010/jan/05/london-zoo-stock-take

oops...

2009-06-10T07:31:00.002Z

...I've been taken severely to task for that last post, by Maurice at No.1.

Maurice is a very large, grey cat who is heavy on his paws, suffers from arthritis and can't move much. He asks how I could possibly have neglected to notice that the 'unrealistic' grey cat in Act II of Falstaff is him?! He looks up and about and purrs when necessary; it's a real star turn and not so different from mine, except that he doesn't bite anybody. He is deeply offended by my comment on his acting ability, and I am obliged to offer him a full and open apology right here, right now, because he is twice my size.

One thing makes all of this even spookier than I'd thought: in one scene, Falstaff is wearing Tom's slippers. Big leather flipflips, and quite unmistakable. I don't take them with me, that's for sure, so I can only assume Maurice pops round to get them before his helicopter arrives half an hour after mine (he's on stage later).

My COS is very uncomfortable and is asking how come director Richard Jones came snooping down our cul-de-sac to research his production when we don't even live in Windsor?!?

Pawstaff at Glyndebourne...

2009-06-07T13:13:00.006Z

Questions are being asked. So, after much consideration, I have decided to come clean and tell you about my new starring role in Falstaff at Glyndebourne.

If you attend, you will see a ginger and white cat curled up on the bar in The Garter (well, where else would you expect me to be?), responding happily to Falstaff's expert ear-tickling, biting Pistol and somehow restraining itself from helping itself to toad-in-the-hole pub grub. It is not electronic. It is not a glove puppet. It is not "animatronic" (whatever that means). No, no. It is ME. You can just glimpse me in this photo, behind Pistol's shoulder on the extreme left.

And in act III, I am in the window, watching the antics from a position of perspective that only a cat can take. We don't count the large grey windowseat cat in act II, of course - that one just isn't realistic...

The question I am being asked, mainly by my chief-of-staff, is: how do you do it? "How can it be that when we set off for Sussex, you, dear Solti, are on the bed in the land of nod, and when we return many hours later, you're waiting at the door, meowing as if you've never seen a bowl of Iams before? If that is truly you, how come you get home before us?"

Ah, CoS, what you haven't yet seen is my private helicopter. If you ever bother to look up from your computer screen, you might have a little surprise.

The minute you and Sir Tom are out the door, I spring into action. I clean my fur and whiskers, brush up my tail-suit and prepare to pounce into the 'copter awaiting overhead (and there was you thinking that the noise came merely from living under the flight path! teeheeheee). We whizz to the South Downs in a trice, landing safely on the Glyndebourne estate beside the alpacas and the dromedary where Gus greets me in person and the beautiful Danni presents me with a bowl of the finest organic double cream. Darling Richard gives me my notes from the previous show and makes sure I am happy with all my moves, and Vladimir never fails to offer his congratulations and words of zen-like wisdom.

I am then escorted to my dressing room, in which my contract stipulates that I require the following:

1. A platter of fish;
2. A sheepskin cushion on the couch;
3. A fresh rose for me to take home to my lady cat pal, Scarlett the long-haired tabby (a gorgeous girl, you hear me?)

Do I suffer from nerves, you ask? My dears, one must suffer for one's art. Sometimes I let off a little steam by offering to go on mouse patrol in the house and kitchens.

And sometimes one must do without thanks. There's no curtain call for me, although Christopher Purves, Dina Kuznetsova and Adriana Kucerova are pelted with cheers, whistles and stamping. Ah, er, no, said the powers that be: we have to pretend that you are a mechanical cat, otherwise we might be accused of politically incorrect cat-training! I pretend very well: only one critic bothered to mention - specifically and pointedly - that I am ginger. I think she guessed the truth. See line #5 of her review.

The upside is that I can leave early. While my dear colleagues are singing their socks off in that mad fugue, I am being flown home in luxury; there is plenty of time to give my beloved Scarlett her rose and have a goodnight nose-nudge before I slink in through the catflap and go back to being...well, Solti. Who else?

Felix Miaowndelssohn

2009-05-11T13:55:00.002Z

Anyone with a mild case of Mendelssohnfunk after R3's intensive weekend is encouraged to visit a certain kitty food site where a competition is taking place to find the cutest kitten. At a princely 9.5 years I am too old to enter, rather to my annoyance. Solti and Mendelssohn were a good mix, once upon a time.

Stand by for the Felix Kitten Factor contest...

Hmph

2009-04-25T10:23:00.003Z

The Guardian runs a gallery today of ten championship-winning cats, seven or eight of whom are the ugliest creatures I ever saw in my life. Left, one of the more presentable specimens, a Maine Coon job with serious fuzz. There's also one who looks like a leopard, with whom I could reasonably envisage sharing my garden.

As for the others - honestly. I spend hours keeping my moggie fur in good nick, eating sensibly (perforce...) to keep trim and being told I'm the most wonderful, beautiful, adorable and generally best cat on the planet, and then they give prizes for these? And call it 'lifestyle'?! No wonder the human world is going to the dogs.

Springtime for Solti

2009-03-29T10:22:00.002Z

The elephant in the back yard

2009-03-28T08:40:00.002Z

This amazing story appeared in The Independent yesterday. My CoS is still chortling over it and wondering if anybody has yet optioned it for a film. There might be issues about getting heffalumps that can act, surely? ...oh...CoS says they are very intelligent, "more trainable than cats". I am not sure how to take this. Anyway, here we go: Mystery Solved Of Elephant In Belfast Back Yard.

A mystery Belfast woman who cared for a baby elephant in her back garden during the war years has finally been identified.

The ‘elephant angel’ was Denise Weston Austin, who was one of the first female zoo keepers in Belfast Zoo.

Along with her mother Irene, Denise took baby elephant Sheila in to her north Belfast home after it escaped an order to euthanize some of the more dangerous animals at the zoo.

Nine lions, two tigers and a number of bears and wolves were killed on the orders of the Ministry of Public Security because of fears that they would escape and threaten the public if the zoo was damaged in a German bombing raid.

Earlier this week the zoo - which is celebrating its 75th anniversary - launched a campaign to find the mystery owner and, through a surviving relative, have found more information on her identity...
Read the rest here.

What the...

2009-02-02T12:52:00.002Z

I can't get through my catflap because there's a load of white stuff outside it. What DO they think they're doing?! What IS this? And why won't my CoS kindly make it all go away? I tell you, it won't do. It is icy on the paw-pads, it's wet and horrible when it melts and I can't see any plain earth to, um. Apart from anything else it's b****y cold.

Signed,
Unimpressed Feline with Strong Views, East Sheen

A pooch for a president?

2008-11-10T09:19:00.004Z

After all the fuss the other night, in which my sleep was seriously disturbed by human yelling and snuffling in front of the TV at some unearthly hour of morning, things have just got a whole lot worse. The New Household Hero, aka president elect of a place 3000 miles away, has announced that when he moves house he is giving his kids...a dog.

I ask you.

CoS's paper of choice, the Indy, has a selection for our NHH to choose from here. Personally my CoS favours the mutt pictured left, which bears the daffy moniker of a 'Labradoodle' - she cites the fact that a cross-breed is appropriate since the NHH is himself bi-racial. I think she just thinks he's cute. The Labradoodle, not the NHH, I mean.

...oh. Really? NHH is cute, I'm told. Labradoodle less so. My loyal CoS will stick to her favourite felines, otherwise she will find that I am a very cross breed indeed.

i-Pawed?

2008-10-19T16:58:00.002Z

There's this thing called an i-Pawed that plays music through headphones...and apparently it's dangerous for cats. Peering from atop a heap of papers on the desk into CoS's computer screen, though, I read this article from The Guardian which purrrrports to tell us about it, only to discover that it doesn't say *how* i-Paweds cause us injuries and is really more about dogs swallowing knickers (well, what do you expect of a dog?!).

Still, with the food They give me at the moment being severely deficient in the calories department, I may soon be reduced to that myself. grrr

Bad-tempered tiger!

2008-10-03T17:14:00.003Z

Gloomy news about attempted tiger-breeding at London Zoo...well, of course they need more space. Big Ginge and I could have told you months ago (as we licked our wounds) that two stripy cats roaming the same four gardens simply doesn't work. No wonder our big cousin is bad-tempered.

CoS says it's awful having to share a bathroom with strange males even if you're human, so there you go.

"Pussy Versus Printer"

2008-09-25T18:03:00.002Z

I've been forced out of a deep slumber by my chief-of-staff in order to share with you this priceless video. CoS says she is glad that such things happen to cats as well as to her...

Eine kleine update

2008-07-04T14:10:00.002Z

Mrrrw...I am in trouble for not blogging. Keep up the good work, says chief of staff, but it's summertime, so who wants to work anyway?

So here's the latest. The garden is a building site, Big Ginge went missing for several days and came back minus part of his tail (don't ask me, guv, but it does put the 'ow' back into 'miaow', hargharghargh...), and chief of staff keeps asking me stupid questions about people called Scarlatescu, Hartmann and Monti. Honestly. All I ask is a little bit of fish now and then.

Our favourite bear is back!

2008-05-24T07:49:00.003Z

Golly! Michael Bond, aged 82, has written his first new Paddington Bear novel in 30 years!! and the good news is that the Peruvian predator (not) still eats marmalade sandwiches despite Marmite's best efforts. Read all about it here.

On hearing the first...oh, really?

2008-03-09T22:27:00.004Z

My chief-of-staff has had rather a long week and today she came home announcing she'd heard the first cuckoo of spring...on the Upper Richmond Road West, drifting through the forsythia blossom and the South Circular traffic outside the primary school. Either this birdy, in choosing such an environment, was living up to its name, or all those Hungarian biscuits have made my c-o-s go a bit cuckoo herself.

As for me: I'm biding my ti-ime, cos that's the kind of cat I'-im. Perhaps it will flutter into our garden. And then [sharpening claws] we'll see.

Meet my valentine!

2008-02-14T23:22:00.003Z

So just when I thought I was getting too long in the incisors for this kind of thing, along rolls a mystery Valentine - all the way from DENMARK! Well, people not too far from here have told me that the Danes are HOT, but I didn't know the meaning of the word until I saw my secret admirer in the fur...

My new best friends...

2008-02-07T23:28:00.000Z

...are named Leontyne Price and Regine Crespin. Soulmates indeed! Listen and purr.

My page on Catbook

2008-01-20T15:50:00.000Z

I am pleased to announce that my Chief of Staff has set up a new page for me on the feline arm of Facebook, known as Catbook - naturally, the site's most significant feature. Find me here and stroke me!
prr

Solti's medal

2007-12-22T14:18:00.000Z

Reading Emlyn's comments about my generous distributing of the prizes without paying any compliments to myself (see comments on JDCMB Awards list), I have decided to award an extra medal to the one and only person who really appreciates me around here.

Natalie Dessay a des chats!

2007-12-22T12:46:00.000Z

Mad props to Opera Chic for informing us that Natalie Dessay has CATS, something that my chief-of-staff scandalously neglected to discover during her own recent interview with this stunner of a soprano. Watch her talk about them here, on the marvellous French website Tele-Animaux - going straight into my Bookmarks in its own right.

Worth a new Guinea or two

2007-12-18T17:47:00.000Z

In a 'lost world', lurking in the forests of New Guinea, scientists have discovered a species of giant rat, pictured left.

I am now trying to persuade Jess to investigate cheap flights out there, including cat transportation.

Bearing it all

2007-12-05T12:25:00.000Z

We knew that Knut, our favourite polar bear, who's celebrating his first birthday, would be a good singer. It's the German Lieder tradition, of course.

And in sunny London, the artist Mark Wallinger has just won the Turner Prize by dressing up as a bear. Watch his interview with The Guardian here.

A wake-up call from your cat...

2007-11-07T08:10:00.000Z

Thanks to Brendan for sending us this!

Cats and books don't always mix

2007-10-21T19:23:00.000Z

Apologies to my chief of staff (she's busy celebrating my namesake's birthday over at JDCMB, so while her attention has been snaffled...)

I've been ill

2007-10-10T17:54:00.000Z

So They dragged me off the nice cosy bed and into that beastly cat box, then up the road and into the dreaded White Coat Room where the Man in the White Coat got out a thing Jess calls a thermometer and...no, I can't bring myself to say what he did with it. It was HORRIBLE and I told them so in no uncertain terms. What humans don't realise is that cats carry knives. Even a third nurse called in to help could not keep me back...So, yes, it was bad news, but I got a fish treat back at home and I'm now on the mend and being entertained with my dear staff-member's favourite Youtube videos of dead performers.

I particularly like this one, taken from a documentary about Richard Tauber, which includes Schubert's Serenade and some home movie footage. I adore the scene where he and his family play with lion cubs. Jess cries over the Schubert, even though the guy seems to be in his dressing gown.

Cat power

2007-09-21T22:35:00.000Z

At the top of the stairs, I am the boss. I am higher up than everybody else. Anyone who attempts to pass me or remove me must bear the consequences.

Please look after my marmalade (and ginger)

2007-09-19T12:39:00.000Z

Here in this (ahem) literary household, we are distressed to read today that the image of Paddington Bear has been conscripted to fuel sales of Marmite. Of course, I like Marmite - it tastes especially good when licked illicitly from the rim of the jar when everyone's looking the other way. But Paddington is a Marmalade bear. You know my views: a) all things orange are sacred, and b) the written word is the property of its author and shouldn't be ridden roughshod over, especially not by those without the first notion of characterisation principles.

[Solti, what are those? - jd]

Marmite is not only the wrong taste for Paddington: it is the wrong colour.

read the whole thing here...

How cute is this?

2007-07-26T08:19:00.000Z

Nimra, a mother cat in Jordan, has adopted seven orphaned baby chicks and is looking after them alongside her own kittens. The Times has the full story. How cute? Too cute. I hope she isn't just fattening them up for future reference.

Match the animal to the musician

2007-06-07T08:29:00.000Z

London Zoo, as ref'd by Jess yesterday, has a wonderful scheme that allows members of the public to 'adopt an animal'. Jess once adopted a tiger for Tom for his birthday (but he told her they have one already, :-))) ). Still, some of the little guys in those photos simply look made for certain friends and contacts of ours, so while Jess is away she suggests that I could provide you with an entertaining game.

Above is a selection of animals you can adopt. Here's a list of musical adopters for them. Which creature(s) would best suit which human(s)? No prizes, but enjoy...

Riccardo Muti
The Bekova Sisters Trio
Bryn Terfel
Angela Gheorghiu
The London Philharmonic
Kurt Masur
Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment
Nikolaus Harnoncourt
Lang Lang

Born free

2007-03-23T09:11:00.000Z

So who wants to live in a zoo? Today's Independent explains that there's a risk that the tigers could get out of London Zoo and into the park. Can't say I blame them. And there's an interesting history of creatures escaping from zoos around the world - we particularly enjoyed the one about the spectacled bear that tried to 'commandeer a bicycle'.

Jess couldn't find a clouded leopard. Or wouldn't: apparently some of her fellow bloggers don't like cats. Tough litter.

My new cousins in Borneo

2007-03-15T07:46:00.000Z

Big mrows today to celebrate the discovery of a whole new species of big cat. Bring on the clouded leopard!

I shall dig my claws into Jess's feet until she knuckles down to finding a picture of one...watch this space...

Not a fake pianist

2007-02-18T23:32:00.000Z

Nora - what a creep. I mean, she just makes it up as she goes along. miaowww!

My cousins from Argentina

2007-02-10T14:29:00.000Z

Courtesy of The Daily Telegraph's Pictures of the Week, here are my three new cousins from Buenos Aires Zoo, where Jess & Tom spent a happy hour admiring their parents a year ago. White Bengal tigers. My kindred spirits. I may be orange with green eyes, but I can see in the faces of these little guys that we're soulmates. My staff may not recognise that I am simply another version of a Bengal tiger, but I know it's true, and that's good enough.

[NB: My staff request an addendum: they only read the Telegraph online and would never fork out for the thing unless there's a free giveaway of a 1940s movie with a soundtrack full of violins. Don't ask me.]

Monet's cat

2007-02-02T10:43:00.000Z

So where did our favourite artist Clawed Meownet start out? Why, by doing pastel drawings of cats, of course. How else?

See Monet's early drawings in a new exhibition at the Royal Academy of Arts (starts 17 March) and read all about it in today's Times.

“People discuss my art and pretend to understand it as if it were necessary to understand, he famously said, “but it is simply necessary to love.”

In my new capawcity as ballet reviewer...

2007-01-29T16:04:00.000Z

...the other day we switched on The Sleeping Beauty, performed by The Royal Ballet, in the middle of the last act, not having realised that the TV broadcast started at 4pm. And not a moment too soon: we were just in time for the real star turn: the pas de deux of Puss in Boots and the White Cat.

Jess told me that usually this exquisite number is a lot funnier than those on-screen cats allowed it to be. But what do you expect? Cats have a way of putting on their best behaviour when there are cameras around. Apparently the oboes, too, usually have a high old time, camping up the score with feline yowls, but again they must have had their eye on posterity.

What puzzles me most of all, however, is the placement of the Bluebirds' pas de deux immediately after the cats. Any bluebird worth its salt would fly for its life if there were two self-respecting kitties anywhere nearby. Mr and Mrs Flutterfeet wouldn't stand a chance. Just as well we never see on TV what goes on backstage at the ballet...

BEHIND THE SCENES AT AURORA'S WEDDING - ACCORDING TO SOLTI
The Wolf would gobble up Red Riding Hood, Puss in Boots and his female friend would be trying to kill and eat the Bluebirds, the Bluebirds would be flitting about avoiding certain death and scaring any ladies with Birdophobia, the two-girls-one-boy trio would be scandalising everyone by coming out as a menage-a-trois, the Queen would be having a near breakdown trying to update the court fashions by 100 years in time for the wedding, Prince Florimund would be in therapy because he didn't believe in fairies before all this happened, and Princess Aurora would find a quiet corner for a little snooze...

Des pattes sur la neige

2007-01-25T08:35:00.000Z

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.

What do you do when...

2007-01-19T10:23:00.000Z

...your owner, who you really love even you'd never let her know that, starts waxing lyrical about other cats?

Last week, Jess went to have lunch with a friend who's into Korngold. But instead of returning full of useful (or even useless) information about the anniversary celebrations planned for this year, apparently the 50th anniversary of EWK's death, she was full of stories about 'Pip' and 'Tania', the guy's two beloved Maine Coon pussycats. Vast, fluffy, and oh so clever. Tania, it seems, weighs 8 kilos. They look a bit like the picture above...

I beg to complain. I am a mere 4.5 kilos and the vet keeps saying I'm overweight, so They never give me as much food as I want. Then they wonder why I try to steal the remnants of their fruit yoghurt. grr.

Where do pets come from?

2006-12-15T10:17:00.000Z

A missive from Jess's beloved uncle in South Africa informs us of the following:

A newly discovered chapter in the Book of Genesis has provided the answer to "Where do pets come from?" Adam and Eve said, "Lord, when we were in the garden, you walked with us every day. Now we do not see you any more. We are lonesome here, and it is difficult for us to remember how much you love us." And God said, I will create a companion for you that will be with you and who will be a reflection of my love for you, so that you will love me even when you cannot see me. Regardless of how selfish or childish or unlovable you may be, this new companion will accept you as you are and will love you as I do, in spite of yourselves."

And God created a new animal to be a companion for Adam and Eve. And it was a good animal. And God was pleased. And the new animal was pleased to be with Adam and Eve and he wagged his tail. And Adam said, "Lord, I have already named all the animals in the Kingdom and I cannot think of a name for this new animal." And God said, " I have created this new animal to be a reflection of my love for you, his name will be a reflection of my own name, and you will call him DOG."

And Dog lived with Adam and Eve and was a companion to them and loved them. And they were comforted. And God was pleased. And Dog was content and wagged his tail. After a while, it came to pass that an angel came to the Lord and said,"Lord, Adam and Eve have become filled with pride. They strut and preen like peacocks and they believe they are worthy of adoration. Dog has indeed taught them that they are loved, but perhaps too well." And God said, I will create for them a companion who will be with them and who will see them as they are. The companion will remind them of their limitations, so they will know that they are not always worthy of adoration." And God created CAT to be a companion to Adam and Eve.

And Cat would not obey them. And when Adam and Eve gazed into Cat's eyes, they were reminded that they were not the supreme beings.And Adam and Eve learned humility. And they were greatly improved. And God was pleased. And Dog was happy.

And Cat didn't give a shit one way or the other.

Some American cousins

2006-11-24T12:01:00.000Z

Jess has been making sickening ooh-ahh noises over pictures of OTHER CATS today. What's worse is that they are another music blogger's cats. These gorgeous woozles belong to Alex Ross of The New Yorker and The Rest Is Noise. I hope they don't get into MY garden.

A friend to felines

2006-11-18T13:01:00.000Z

Peering over Jess's desk today in the hope of biscuit remnants, I sneaked a look at the computer screen. She was hunting for a recording of the Mendelssohn 'Scottish' Symphony, and Amazon.co.uk has an interesting way of selecting its sponsored links. It seems that Herr Mendelssohn was a true friend to cats. mrrow.

The saga of Soltiville

2006-11-08T21:33:00.000Z

Hi folks. Long absence, I know. All hasn't been well here. There have been, to put it bluntly, some CATastrophes.

While Jess and Tom were away enjoying the limelight at the music festival in St Nazaire, I had my own battles to fight. Namely, the arrival of not one, but two new cats in the immediate complex of gardens that back on to our house. First there was Maurice, who arrived at No.1 (opposite Artie from No.17 - our street has a weird numbering system) fresh from a large country pad in Cambridgeshire. He expected, naturally, to occupy the same space here in the London suburbs. And he is large, grey and nasty. Apparently he's really a British Shorthair, not a Russian Blue, as previously thought. In other words, a double agent. Meanwhile, another ginger cat has moved in, two gardens away in the opposite direction. I told him who's boss, but he didn't listen...and he, too, is bigger than me.

The upshot was that when They got back from France, I had a bloodied ear and was promptly ferried to the Man in the White Coat, up the road in the cat basket. A few days later, another squall, and off we go again. After these visits, small white pills appear in the cat food, which I'm supposed to pretend I don't notice as I crunch them up, and Jess tries to bathe my wounds with pink liquid that tastes appalling when I try to clean it up later. I stayed in for a whole week, and then the window cleaner pitched up and while he was chatting on the front doorstep, I made a break for freedom...

What followed doesn't bear thinking about. I went to see my ginger adversary and make sure he still knew who was boss. We were gearing up... when Jess comes out and starts yelling 'SOLTI?!?!?' at the top of her voice, over the trellis. Ginger and I were at the yowling and scrapping stage, but blow me if our neighbour doesn't come out of No.11 and lend Jess a step ladder and a bottle of water; so she climbs up the former, and squirts the latter over the fence at us. We do what any cats would do: run bloody fast in the opposite direction. I follow my enemy over a fence...and find myself in a street I've never seen before in all my life.

I sat down outside the house there to lick my fresh wounds, and consider my position. Jess finally rolled up, panting, and talked at me for several minutes, but no way was I going to follow her along some strange and weird road. I went back to the garden instead, and listened to her marching up and down shouting 'SOLTI!?!?!' from a safe distance. Then all went quiet for a bit, and I was just starting to wonder how the heck I'd get home for dinner after all when there's a familiar step and there she is again, with cat basket and, in tow, the neighbour from No.11 who's carrying a large blanket and a pair of gardening gloves and remarking "I used to have a cat...". I slunk out from behind the nearest gate to get a better look. Whoosh - back in that dratted basket before you could say Lion King.

And now I am inside, and have been for three weeks. I've been 'grounded'. I have, horrors, to do stuff in a litter tray. I have a new game called paw-ball - scrunched-up foil which Jess tosses around the lounge for me to chase (great fun, incidentally, until we lose it under the sofa). But oh, the thrill of the outdoors, the scent of the night air, the compelling instincts of full moon, the sun on the garden bench, the apple tree to climb, the mice to kill and the cats to battle...will I ever see them again?

I can't think like that. I just can't. But now I'm too knackered after the latest round of paw-ball to care too much. Goodnight all. Sweet dreams. At least, as Jess and Tom tell each other, Solti is safe.

The perfect purr-booster

2006-08-24T10:42:00.000Z

I do love THE INDEPENDENT, and not just because Jess writing for it helps to keep me in Science Plan Low Cal kitty food. They have the good sense to run THIS today. Know your readers, know your readers' cats. That's what I say.

HOT

2006-07-23T13:34:00.000Z

Oh, my ears and whiskers, as some rabbit once said. It's HOT. Bloody hot.

Grumbling? Well, just you try wearing a fur coat in this. I wish They would stop teasing me about it.

The other night a fabulous thunderstorm struck Sheen and it rained, hard. I went out in it and got a good, powerful, cooling shower. Tom came down at about 3am to have some muesli and found me thoroughly enjoying cooling off in the wetness. This is ideal, because he then felt it incumbent upon him to dry me vigorously with a tea-towel. Being dried does great things to the fur: it comes out fabulously soft and fluffy and I love it.

Tom says I must be the only cat in the world that likes getting wet. I don't quite believe this. But I do urge caution, dear cat-owners, before you try inflicting this experience upon your own beloved kitties: it's true that certain of my co-furrists are a bit squeamish about water.

A correction

2006-07-11T07:47:00.000Z

When Jess got back from the Men's Singles Final at Wimbledon the other day, she gently informed me, over extra cat food, that I'd somewhat misrepresented what happens during a match. Apparently it's more like this:

CRASH
Zoom
Pow
Heavygrunt
Wham
Gasp
Thwack
Bam
Gaaaaaaaasp...thwap
Yikes
yells!

Still hypnotised...

2006-07-02T08:42:00.000Z

The mood in the air around us changed abruptly yesterday, when one of those teams that kick the ball around lost their match. Apparently this was a very disappointing thing for the country.

But I've found something better on a different TV channel. It involves one person, or sometimes two, at either end of a big patch of grass, hitting a ball over a net with a big flat round thing, often grunting loudly as they do so. The idea, I think, is to place the ball in such a way that the other person can't get to it. Now and then a man sitting to one side says "Fifteen love". (I know what cupboard love is, but still draw a blank on this one.)

This game is more hypnotic than the other one. The ball makes a lovely light 'pock' sound when the players strike it and it goes back
and forth
and back
and forth
and back
and forth
and
oops. Fifteen love.

And they start again.
Forth
and back
and forth
and back
..............

Hypnotised!

2006-06-12T17:31:00.000Z

The thing about felines, as people never seem to understand, is that we can't help ourselves but focus on anything that moves. If it's smaller than we are, so much the better. Tom - and even Jess, who never watches TV - just sit there staring at a clump of men running across a pitch, kicking a ball while crowds roar behind them. And I sit and stare too, hypnotised by that little round Thing that apparently a billion people worldwide are watching with me.

For Tom, this process is accompanied by yummy stuff: a golden liquid which froths white. It comes out of a tin. But it doesn't taste the same when you pour it out before you drink it. It REALLY doesn't. I've been exploring the possibilities of licking round the can's opening once Tom's had his cut, and later knocking it over in the firm expectation that there'll be something left inside. This causes much amusement. Poor old Tom, he just doesn't get it. He tried pouring a sip into a saucer for me and it was vile. How could you?

Jess was overheard remarking that my behaviour in front of the England match the other day made her believe in reincarnation. "Honestly, he watches football, he drinks beer...next thing we know he'll be carrying a St George's flag on his tail." Now, that's a good idea, o mistress mine. EN-GE-LA-AND!!!!!

All I hear is: "Oh do stop miaowing, you silly pusskin..."

How do they sell books?

2006-05-17T15:26:00.000Z

A lot of conversations over my head these days concern books and sales thereof. One can't help wondering how publishers go about selling their product.

But of course, it's very simple.

How do they do it?
They have a catalogue.

prr

Heatwave

2006-05-04T15:54:00.000Z

Prrrrrr prrrrrrr prrrrrrr prrrrrrrr prrrrrrrr

He's back

2006-05-01T09:48:00.000Z

Those words I'd hoped never to hear again: "Vincent's back!" Above, see Vincent. Tom named him after the president of Mexico, and each year, as soon as the sun comes out for long enough to produce a nice patch of warmth under the apple tree, there he is, sunning himself like a dog. Our garden is the only toddler-free stretch of grass in our group of houses, so it's comparatively peaceful, no doubt adding to the attraction. Vincent and I don't talk, but maintain a wary respect for one another, from a safe distance.

Yesterday I got my revenge on Vincent, though, courtesy of Jess's smallest nephew, who was brought round to lunch with his mum, dad and Italian grandmother, Nonna. He is, naturally, a toddler. You couldn't see that sharp-eared canine for dust when they headed outside to play. OK, I can't deny that I, too, went into hiding, but not until I'd put in enough of an appearance for Nonna to give me a new name: "Il gattone". My Italian is a little rusty, but Jess told me later, over extra cat food, that an '-one' is the opposite of an '-ino': the latter indicates a cute little thing, the former a great big magisterial specimen...

The point of mice

2006-04-11T07:43:00.000Z

Having seen the look on Jess's face when she opened the kitchen door this morning, I'm reduced to philosophical speculation upon the POINT of mice.

What do they actually do? What are they there for?

Mice don't work for their living: unlike us cats who destress humans with our soft fur and our supposed antics, and keep the house clear of vermin; and unlike beastly dogs, who make a lot of noise if anyone tries to come in who shouldn't. Mice don't eat insects, unlike birds. They don't look particularly cute, at least not to me. All they do is knaw through things, leave a mess of droppings and occasionally make a home owner scream. So what is the point of them?

Mice are good for two things: a) food for owls, hawks and cats who are not fortunate enough to be fed Science Plan Reduced Calorie Formula; b) fun for cats, and a way of proving our usefulness to our owners.

Oh yes, Jess, you may have taken one look at the kitchen floor today, then turned round and yelled "TOM! HELP!" - as you often do. But I'd have liked to see your expression if that mouse had been alive. Oh yes.

Grr

2006-04-09T18:22:00.000Z

Bad news. Bill the fictional ginger mog cannot be based on me at all - because, I am reliably informed, he does laps. As I have explained, I will not stoop to such things. But in that book, Adam is discovered one night, unable to sleep, sitting in his armchair sipping a drink, with Bill the Ginger Cat on his knee, being cuddled. The pity of it, Iago. The pity of it.

Literary fame is mine

2006-04-02T09:18:00.000Z

The owners of Artie-at-No-17 went to Jess's author evening the other day, apparently. At the end of the readings came question time. Mrs-Artie's-Owner put up her hand and asked whether there were any cats in the book. I couldn't believe that Jess had actually selected passages to read that did NOT contain the feline stars of the story, but...

The good news, however, is that there are cats and they are crucial. Sasha, Adam and their children - the family on which the book centres - have two, named Bill and Ben (a certain generation of British adults collapse in fits of laughter when hearing those names together. I can't work it out.) Bill is ginger, Ben is black. Lisa, Sasha's lonely sister, has a black and white cat named Igor, after Stravinsky. Igor plays a particularly vital role, but my favourite, of course, is Bill. He comforts Sasha when she is upset, so he's a hero. But as he is a ginger cat living on a cul-de-sac in East Sheen, there can be no doubt that he is based on ME. Were he unduly fluffy, I'd worry that he might have been based on Artie, but no: Bill is a good, plain ginger mog of the very best kind.

My owner has preserved me on paper for all time. I shall be immortal, in the form of Bill. How many cats can say the same? Prrrrr prrrrrrrrrrr prrrrrrrrr prrrrrrrrrrrr...

O my paws and whiskers...

2006-03-31T13:20:00.000Z

...I just caught Jess reading this and made the mistake of having a quick peer up from the floor with my razor-sharp eyesight.

MIAAAOOOOOUUUWWWWWCHHH!!

How dare they?

2006-03-20T18:50:00.000Z

Tom is on tour with his noisy box and the house is delightfully peaceful. That is, until Jess gets on the phone to him... As far as I can gather, he is in America, travelling around, making a lot of noise with 99 other people who also make a lot of noise. But it's not the noise that's currently alarming me.

Jess has cousins over there and it seems they invited Tom to dinner. He had a great time...playing with their cats. A white one and a black one - Maine Coot, no less, those great fuzzy monsters that must have left genes somewhere in the dreaded Artie at No.17. Apparently they do laps.

Laps are not written into my contract. I do purrs. I do stretch-schmoozes. I even occasionally deign to let Jess or Tom stroke the white fur on my tummy (not many others dare to try, except for one pianist who knows what to do with his fingers and has an alarmingly soothing effect). But LAPS? How demeaning can you get?

Unfortunately people want cats who do laps. So Tom says to Jess, "Maybe we should get another cat."

Excuse me???

A little cattiness

2006-03-15T08:11:00.000Z

Have you noticed that women, when they get together, talk about men and children? Presumably when men get together, they talk about women (and sometimes children, though not as often). And when children get together, they talk about cats.

Jess had a friend round to tea yesterday. They sat in the kitchen and ate chocolate cake (did I get any? did I hell) and talked about...men and children. I tried to join in. Why should I be left out? I am a member of this family. But what happened? What always happens. The minute there are humans around, The Cat suddenly loses status and becomes merely The Household Pet. My plentiful contributions to the conversation produced nothing more significant than the occasional pat on the head and the comment from Jess's friend, "Aah, it's almost as if he's talking!" Jess kindly pointed out, "He IS talking..."

Something in the air...

2006-03-01T13:18:00.000Z

What is it? I can't tell. Something fresh. Something new. Something growing. It wafts in from the garden and I have to follow it. The air is cold, but it doesn't seem to matter. Plants are appearing in the flowerbeds that I haven't seen for some time. I heard Jess expounding to Tom about the wonders of things called witch hazel and winter-flowering daphne and daffodils. Humans do love to label things; we cats prefer to get down to business and spray them.

I went out for a walk this morning and tried my sense of balance on the garden fence - yes, even after vegetating all winter, I can still walk along it adequately enough to make the little girls next door watch me apparently in some fascination. It's not so difficult, because there's energy in the breeze and something in the sun which actually feels like sunshine. At such times, a cat feels he could do anything...

...oh...except, that is, to convince Jess to give me my supper at 1.15pm.

Winter

2006-02-26T09:43:00.000Z

Yikes, it's cold here. I'm told that the wind is blowing straight from Siberia. My priority at the moment is to keep warm and find suitable spots in the house in which to do so.

Tips for finding the best spot in the house:

1. Know your pipelines. Beneath the floor runs a convenient hot water system and in combination with the softer patches of carpet, the rising warm air can be most soothing to the stomach.

2. Balance this with avoiding draughts. These come from doorways, cat flaps, people going in and out through the front door...

3. Naturally the music room is a no-no. Why Jess and Tom feel it necessary to make so much NOISE is beyond me. That squeaky thing Tom plays is the worst, even though it is so much smaller than the piano. The high frequencies do horrible things to my sharp feline ears. Therefore a spot must be found on the first floor, well away from source of sound.

4. One wants quiet, but equally one does not wish to miss out on the chance of extra food. If the spot is too secluded, They may forget about you, and you don't want that.

5. And finally, having exhausted the possibility of the bed, the blanket box, the kitchen chair and mouse-watching in the bathroom (still no sign of it, by the way), I have hit upon the perfect compromise: half way up the stairs. They can't understand this. But They wouldn't, would they?

Why?

2006-02-18T11:54:00.000Z

Instead of hugging me, for the last 24 hours Jess has been hugging a book that was brought yesterday by a hairy man on a motorbike. What's the big deal with this book? I mean, you can't eat it.

Tuesdays

2006-02-14T12:27:00.000Z

My 'owner' tells me there's a song called 'I don't like Mondays'. Well, I can't bear Tuesdays. A girl comes every week, takes out the dragon and goes all over the house with it roaring its blue head off. The dragon doesn't like my cat scents and does its best to suck them all away. All I can do is pad from room to room in the hope that the blasted thing will let me get some rest.

I've now taken refuge in Jess's study, but she's got a pile of CDs to work through and it's bloody noisy in here. For the last hour we've been listening to some guy bawling his head off in a foreign language, with a piano going alongside and people clapping from time to time. Jess was sitting there with her hanky, snuffling and saying stupid things to me like, "Don't you love Schubert, poochface?" Wretched woman. I shall be demanding extra dinner later on as my retaliation.

OH, FOR SOME PEACE AND QUIET.

This is the disc, by the way ...

Copycat!

2006-02-11T09:15:00.000Z

There's a cat in California that has taken my idea. At least he/she/it can't type very well. The owner writes rather nice music so I'm told I have to forgive them. Hmph.

It's extraordinary what human beings will do for the sake of music.

Hazards in the house

2006-02-08T08:46:00.000Z

I often have the feeling that They don't know how much danger They are in, living in what seems to be a pretty, suburban houselet. I am smaller than Them, and my eyesight is considerably finer (every time Tom goes out he asks Jess where his keys/mobile phone/wallet/business cards/vioin are, and she has no more clue than he has).

Therefore I am closer to the action they miss. For example:

There's a fox that comes into our back garden in the summer. As soon as the sun rises above a certain height and pleasant sunny patches appear under the pergola, there he is, sunning himself like a bloody dog, lying on his back with his paws up as if he owns the place. They purr over the way he and I 'tolerate' one another, but you won't catch me within ten feet of that thing. You want a fox in your garden? Did anybody ask me? They were afraid he'd try to eat me (as if! those animals know all about claws) - but reflect, I pray, upon what else I have to put up with from foxes. They carry fleas. They spray horrible scents on MY terriroty. And they raid the leftovers in the recycling bin before I can. None of this is acceptable.

Then there's the hole in the wall. In the bathroom, behind the loo. There's a mouse in there. I know there is. You want mice in your house? OK, I bring them in as gifts, but generally they are dead by then. Should I detect an untreated mouse alive and kicking in my own house, there'd be serious trouble. I'm not going to allow VERMIN to attack my bag of Science Plan Cat Food. Mice. Ugh. Everything has its place. And so, although I've not caught him yet, I stand sentry by the hole in the wall, motionless, waiting. Sooner or later, that mouse will emerge. And I will be there to get him. You wait and see. For now, all I hear is: "What are you doing in the bathroom, you silly pussycat?" Grrr.

Birds are another case in point. You don't want them in the house either. Not that they normally come in, but some day they might. The more of them I can put them off before they try to, the better. Can you imagine the mess? Feathers everywhere. All that tweeting. Droppings (we cats are extremely particular about such matters, but birds just do it anywhere). Birds, too, have a place, and it is outside, in the air. I am considered brutal should I kill one, but I promise, there is a reason.

There is always a reason. It's just that you have to be a cat to understand it. Humans never understand anything: they're too busy thinking.

Honestly. People.

2006-01-31T08:44:00.000Z

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

2006-01-26T09:19:00.000Z

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.

2006-01-19T08:42:00.000Z

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

2006-01-17T09:14:00.000Z

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

2006-01-01T01:00:00.000Z

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.