Friday, 18 July 2008


I was mid mooch around my favourite blogs yesterday afternoon when the doorbell rang. I was forced to answer it because Mac was shouting "Shall I answer it mummy and tell them that you're not in?". It was Marjorie, resplendent in a clashing floral shirtwaister "You're not going anywhere next week are you?" she said, clutching my forearm and squeezing it tightly. I said that I hadn't planned to stay housebound for the entire week but would be in the general locality, yes. She did a little bouncing dance "Great, could you look after Nora for us? We've been invited down to our daughters for the week on Sunday and we could do with a break and, oh, you are an angel!". She was gone before I could say no. It's not that I don't like cats because I do. I think it's quite sweet the way they purr at you and gaze unblinkingly and I have to remember not to indulge in a little bit of rough and tumble like I do with the dogs - one false move and the cat would be toast but for either Senior, Middle or Junior it's a right royal bundle of a play fight. There's just one problem though: Nora is a little bitch.

Nora (formerly Nero until they took him/her to the vets and found out he was a she) was Marjories's Valentines present from Frank. The cat has no discipline at all and no boundaries either. She thinks nothing of driving Junior Dog mad by sitting on top of the shed and twitching her tail at him. She attacks you (all four paws complete with needle sharp claws) as you walk past her and hisses if you dare to go out into the garden and she's there. Middle Dog is not usually fazed by cats at all, Senior Dog couldn't normally give a toss either way but all three panic if Nora is out at the same time as they are.

"I wouldn't be at all surprised if that cat has got 666 printed on its arse" Jane Opposite said at the last TANA meeting when she caught a claws-out right hook on her bare ankle. So, I'm dressed accordingly for the visit to the Stewarts and a "getting to know you session" for me and Nora. I'm wearing jeans, boots, polo neck, long sleeves and have drunk enough Pimms to numb any savagings that I'm likely to get.


rosiero said...

Reminds me of when my mother used to look after a neighbour's cat while they were away. It would spit at her and lash out with sharp claws on her ankles when all she was trying to do was put a bowl of food down for it. She used to go in after that with an empty milk bottle to give it a whack if it came near her. I am currently looking after our neighbour's cat for the weekend and he is .....a pussycat. So gentle-natured and he rubs up against my legs and rolls over onto his back. Such a sweetie. Though he left me a present, when I went in this morning .... a dead mouse.

Merry said...

No worries.
Here's the plan, NHMoO:

1. Put on an old shirt that you were planning to never wear again.
2. Accidentally spill tuna all over yourself.
3. Stuff the pockets with catnip
4. Put on a wig and dark glasses and pray that any neighbor who sees you a)doesn't recognize you and b)is too far away to smell your new fragrance.

See? Solved the problem. Maybe.

Always glad to help :)

aims said...

Ooh - I knew a cat like that once - hated the damn thing....just vicious...What the hell is wrong with them do you think?

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Nunhead, London, United Kingdom
I'm a mum of one, wife of one and owner to several dogs, a variety of breeds and sizes. I live in the up and coming area (or so they say) of Nunhead and have mad neighbours, strange friends and certifiable relatives. I shop locally, although I do defect to Sainsburys once a week - shoot me now local shopkeepers.