Pussy Whipped

It’s been a long day, all in all. One of those days when Stan and Ollie, our cats, decided that they were taking control.

It was as if they’d got together on the coconut matting in the grand porch of Randall Towers and decided that we needed to be taught a lesson.

“That’s it, Stanners,” said Ollie in his squeaky high voice and in my imagination, “today’s the day we show the big monkeys who’s boss.”

Having woken at 3.30am after dreaming that I was at Sarah and Gerald’s house trying climb around scaffolding built over their electrified swimming pool, I had trouble getting back to sleep. Eventually I dropped off, being rudely awakened at 4.20 am by the sound of dripping water coming through the ceiling of our stately home. I placed the waste bin under it and drifted off to sleep again. Until 5.10 am, when I regained consciousness once more, leaving behind the latest dream about trying to run a marathon around my old secondary school before taking my A levels again, which to be honest was an enormous relief. After a further 10 minutes worrying about Master Johnny getting up to go to work, I glimpsed a light through a crack in the bedroom door and heard his footsteps clatter down the stairs and out the front door. Peace. No reason to rise early, I could relax with Lady Barton St Mary for the morning, reading a book and sipping some mint tea.

But at 6am, Ollie was trying to tunnel a path into our bedroom, under the shut door, via our woollen fitted carpet. I leapt from bed and pulled open the door, watching his black body scamper away in the early morning murk. I walked straight legged down the stairs, being joined by Stanley, thump, thump, thumping heavily down the wooden steps with me, threatening to slip between my legs and send me tumbling.

Ollie. An earlier mug shot from previous offences.

Ollie. An earlier mug shot from previous offences.

They both stood staring at their empty food bowls. Now, recently, they’ve been spoilt with ‘wet food’ as opposed to biscuits. Wet food to Stan and Ollie is  a feline version of alcohol; they get very excited when they know it’s coming and consume it joyously and rapidly.

I left them to it, returning to my bed for that self promised lie-in.

At 7.30am, distracting me from my latest REM sleep ( dream: Master Johnny and I called up to play rugby, we were 6 points up and on the attack), Ollie started meowing at the bottom of the bed. Then he climbed on the bed. Then he stood on my shoulders and kneaded my face. I tried my best to ignore him, but he persisted until, once more, I found myself downstairs, where I expected Ollie to leave the building, but no, he wanted me to watch him eat more food. Stanley thumped down the stairs in order to watch me watch Ollie eat more food.

I decided that enough was enough and persuaded Ollie to leave the premises with a gentle prod out of the open door with my slippered toe.

I returned once more to the boudoir and climbed under the duvet. Which was damp. Where Ollie, in a fit of pique I was unaware of, had taken a protest piss on the duvet, which, in my semi conscious state, I hadn’t noticed. I leapt out of bed once more, informing Lady Barton St Mary that she was slumbering in what was effectively a cat toilet.

Lady BSM is not a morning person.

“***%%££ cat,” she observed, helping me strip sheets, duvets, duvet covers, undercover, before treating the mattress with upholstery cleaner. It was 7.45am. Sleep time was over.

An hour later, Ollie was back in and sleeping on the kitchen worktop. Then climbing on the drawing room furniture, before tripping Lady BSM up. Ollie was pushing all the buttons. The look on Lady BSM’s face suggested that he could be a hairy handbag by the end of the day.

Lady BSM tried to do some work, but Stanley took the offensive and sat on her, refusing

Put that thing down and adore me.

Put that thing down and adore me.

the proffered cushion.

We were broken people. Living in Britain, washing an emperor sized duvet means waiting 3 months for it to dry, even with a tumble dryer, which seems to suffer a special form of white goods indigestion when force fed a huge piece of goose down stuffed bedlinen. We were tired, aching and grumpy. Somehow, Ollie had escaped any form of punishment. If he’d belonged to my dad, he would have been walking around with a bent back by now where he’d been punched repeatedly by  an angry cockney.

They continued their demands for the rest of the day. Making false requests to go out. Or come in. Or out. Scragging carpets and seat covers and cushions. Dry heaving.

I admitted defeat at tea time, when Stanley grandly sat in my place, staring defiantly at me.

Move me, big monkey. I dare you. I double dare you.

Move me, big monkey. I dare you. I double dare you.

The Big Monkeys have been defeated today. But tonight, when the rebel moggies least expect it, I’m chucking them out.

Then, tomorrow morning, when they’re standing looking through the glass in our front door in the grand porch, pleading to be let in, I’m leaving them there, mocking them with my opposable thumbs.

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About ruralspaceman

A man trapped inside a middle aged body still tries to be hip and trendy. Actually, no he doesn't. He says it as he sees it. as long as it's not too controversial. Living with his wife, Lady Barton St Mary, two children, Miss Katherine and Master Johnny in Randall Towers, he is constantly frustrated by the mechanisms of modern life and the issues raised by being the husband of a high flying executive and member of the aristocracy. All he wants is a quiet life and a full set of Deal or No Deal DVDs. Please help him.
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2 Responses to Pussy Whipped

  1. Lady Dickson says:

    I suddenly find myself wanting a cat.

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