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.

What do you do when...

...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?

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

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

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

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

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.