Monday, 17 November 2008

Hex My Pets

This post was reputedly going to be written by Mr Parsnip, considering he was the one who flew into high dudgeon over the event, but as per usual, he is all mouth and no trousers and his photography priorities come high above such quality literature as you read on HexMyEx.

As our regular reader may know, we have taken possession of a black and white, male kitten. I have had cats (as befits a witch of my calibre) since I was knee-high to a grasshopper but unfortunately, over the last 20-odd years, haven't had much luck with them.

'Tom #1' snuffed it of a heart attack just shy of his first birthday, so along came 'Lucky', a rescue cat whose fate wasn't that lucky if you care to read the link. Lucky was the last cat I owned at my parents' house and upon moving in with the ex, I obtained 'Scroff', short for Scrofulous, meaning TB-ridden. She was lovely. She got knocked down by a car within eight months of us owning her. 'Poirot' came along to replace her and we later had to donate him to the mother-in-law upon our expatriation to Oman. 'Sid' (short for Sidr, which was the Garden Court upon which we lived - and I thought 'she' was a 'he') adopted us from a bin when we lived in Muscat. She was a scraggy stray who wobbled from the bin into our house, ate my sausages and didn't leave. She was then taken on by another family upon my departure. Repatriation brought 'Tom #2' who now resides with the ex and is the size of a small pouffe upon which you can rest your weary feet; 'Holly', in my own house, was donated to a friend whose daughter longed for a pet and since I was living alone and out at work 12 hours each day it was deemed kinder; then 'Ollie' and 'Norman' have been here and since done a runner, having found that living on the other side of the main road, where there are many foxy Tabbies is infinitely preferable to living on this side of the road where there is little but Carling Black Label cans, smelly old dogs and too many curious children for their liking.

After a short gap and a resolution NEVER to get another cat, I got all starry-eyed for a kitten one afternoon in the local hostelry having read the Mid-Cheshire Buy-Sell free paper in which there were plenty of scrawny runts for sale at exorbitant prices.

-Mr P? Can I have a kitten, please?

-Err...Yes. I guess so. If you want.


Ten minutes later, I have a postcode, a time to collect the remaining male of the litter and suddenly, Mr P is more excitable than a bag full of monkeys. I learned that he had never had a pet from scratch, never named anything (apart from his City of Heroes' villains) and thus, I decided to 'give' the kitten to him, to love, cherish, feed, clean out its litter tray and leave the kicking and abuse to me.

'Oscar' came to our abode at the end of August, when #1 and #2 daughters holidayed in Spain. He was pampered, fussed over, molly-coddled and generally treated like a piece of precious porcelain by Mr Parsnip who even, at one point, suggested that he slept in our bedroom with us!

No bloody chance!

I have had one infestation of cat fleas in the house, many, many years ago and it was nightmarish waking up itching all over and as spotty as if I was suffering with wasn't even my fault for being a tardy pet-owner - the ex refused to give me any money to get some Bob Martin's; Tom #2 went a-wandering; obviously got in with a dirty woman cat and brought back his own version of VD to infect the manky carpets in the ex's house. Despite my constant complaining of flea bites, he refused to allow me to do anything other than scrub everything with bleach. It was only when #1 threw the Mount Etna of temper tantrums at the bites bedecking her legs, arms, hands and torso that he submitted and I was allowed to bring the disinfestation guys in. But only downstairs...

I had to use all my feminine guiles to get that disinfestation bloke into my bedroom...and I shall leave the rest to your imagination...!

So, while Oscar is a very cute kitten, with a gregarious nature, he seems to prefer to crap inside the house than outside. He has a vast expanse of garden, including a soft, squishy compost heap but, no, he will go outside, pretend he is 'hard' in front of rabbits Lambert and Butler, and then yowl to come back in for a dump. It is tedious. There were a number of accidents at one point, after we had gradually edged the litter tray outside and Mr P would frequently be seen with his head resting on the kitchen floor, spreading his hands out, doing a reccy for cat pee. With the dim lights in the kitchen, his hands would often slide right through Oscar's latest offering, smear it even further and then an outburst of filthy, filthy language would colour the air blue, offend my sensitive nature and the cat would suddenly learn how to fly. Invariably, I end up cleaning the mess.

It is Mr P's duty to empty the litter tray. If he complains, the girls and I chorus to him: He's YOUR cat! I suspect he has now sussed that the small matter of the naming ceremony, and presenting the kitten to him, as his very own, had a few hidden agendas on my part...

Anyway, on Saturday night, there we were, dressed in all our finery, ready for a night out from which we blobbed and decided to cook at home instead and Mr Parsnip hears the plaintive meowing of his darling kitten from the outhouse passageway, raises his voice an octave and gently coos, Oscar! Ozzie, Come on, Come on inside out of the cold. Aaah. Look at you, you're all soggy like a drowned rat...

Oscar stalks in, looking most disgruntled from his bath to which I subjected him after he came down from the loft with blue legs, belly and face; skinny and matted, scowls as only a cat can, and sniffs in the corner of the kitchen, six inches from his litter tray. 

There was then a moment of intense concentration. It was as if time stood still as Mr Parsnip stared at the cat; the cat stared back and suddenly, Mr P squawked, Is he having a sh*t? Another moment of stillness and then Mr P launched himself at the moggy, picked him up by the scruff of his neck, revealing a steaming, curled turd on the floor and suddenly had to arch himself backwards. The cat, all four limbs stuck out at odd angles had decided that his bowels weren't quite empty and continued to evacuate them mid-air. Cat poo splattered across the skirting board, the kitchen floor and the door mat.

The air became quite blue, the door was flung open and the kitten was flung out.

Dirty little F*cker! Dirty, Dirty Little F*cker!! That's just disgusting! Dirty, dirty Sod! Six inches from his litter tray. Six Inches!! 

While this tirade continued to rage, I did the practical thing: got some toilet paper from the bathroom, started picking up the mess in between gipping sessions, and then disinfected the areas. It was all sorted out within a few minutes and Oscar suddenly had a much cleaner litter tray to use after Mr P galvanised himself to pitch the used kitty-lit.

Later in bed, the tirade resumed.

MY kitten. Oh yes. MY BLOODY KITTEN, isn't he? 'Here you are, YOU can name him. He's yours now'. Oh I fell for that one, didn't I? I'm never listening to you get all starry-eyed in the pub again. Never. It was a bloody trap.

But I clean up his accidents, I responded, mildly. And I feed him.

We ALL bloody feed him. That's why he sh*ts so bloody much. He never stops eating. I have to clean his bloody litter tray out. He goes outside, and then comes back in TO SH*T!!

And then I got hysterical. Mr P, when in high dudgeon, is one of the funniest sights known to man. It took me about 20 minutes to contain myself. I laughed so hard, I didn't need to remove my make-up as the tears had done it for me. Upon my return from the toilet, Mr P levelled a scowl so hard at me, that if looks could kill, I'd now be six feet under the clay.

What's that look for?

I'm writing my blog, he said, ominously...

Obviously not...


Ian T - Parsnip no longer... said...

Ahh... Good old Poo stories. You just can't beat them for raising a smile when all seems to be lost.

When you grab a cat by the scruff of its neck, it seems paralysed. The look on Ozzies face as he stared at me in mid-air, bowels opening and sh*t flying everywhere, was moderately comical. "Put me in the bath will you? Get me all wet? I'll show you! I'll show all of you!"

It's a good job you wrote this Agnes, as my writing would have been littered (pun intentional) with f*cker, little f*cker, dirty little f*cker, sh*t bag (pun intended again), and all other manner of foulness.

He is not a lovely little moggy. He is a demonic dirt monster with an evil streak in him a mile long.

As an addendum to this story, even Agnes mentioned afterwards that we should have rubbed his nose in it. I agreed, and it was only with hindsight that we both imagined #2 picking him up, rubbing her face in his fur cooing "isn't he loverly", "oz-cuddy-buddy" (etc etc) whilst showering the end of his nose in sloppy kisses.

Oh well. Winter is here, and Agnes needs a pair of nice black and white fur lined gloves. There's a chinese restaurant round the back. Might get a fiver back for him...


Karen ^..^ said...

AWWWW, poor little boy!!! He is so cute. I'd sort him out in a heartbeat. My other cats would SHAME him into crapping in the litter pan.

They really do have to be kept clean as a whistle, in order for the cats to use them.

This made me laugh so hard, I snorted. Too bad no one was here to hear it.

Well, I'm off to take the sick guinea pig to the vet for his injection. Then it is on to clean the litter pans, and clean up the cat's latest offering of vomit from the one and only area rug in the house. Ugh.

Anonymous said...

haaaaaaaa....poor got took boy!!!heehee

Karen is right, you want I have my kitty rough Oscar up for yax~hope

I keep trying to link ya on my new bloglist, but it wont' let me it just shows as what I have up on my bloglist??? any ideas?

MedStudentWife said...

Take him to task Ma'am

Keli said...

Ah yes, Oscar and his wayward ways are well known to me. Have you thought of tracking down a cat whisperer or perhaps a pet psychic? Perhaps Oscar has issues that require expert management.
Please tell Ian T that we adopted a psychotic canine and were advised by a local dog whisperer to put him down. Ten years later, the dog plays checkers with my #2 and understands English better than a second grader.
There is always hope!

Cunning_Linguist said...

THIS is exactly why I am a dog person.

Anonymous said...

Wow. I guess I've been really lucky. My kitties have never done anything like that. I've heard boys are harder to train, but I don't know. I hope he catches on soon.

FishHawk said...

"Hex My Ex" has been included in this weeks FIVE FOR FRIDAY on FishHawk Droppings. I hope you like the image I featured, and I hope this helps to attract many new visitors to your wonderful site.

Annie T AKA Agnes Mildew said...

Ian: Yes, I am tending to agree with you more and more. He has tripped me up three times this morning, complaining for more food despite his bowl being full and also aborted a piece of writing I was working on when he jumped on the keyboard.

My hands are cold. When do I get those furry gloves?

Karen: He's yours. I keep telling you.

Hope: I'm afraid Ian WAS had. And he knows it and will never trust me again where pets are concerned. If you want to send your moggy over to rough up Oscar, be my guest. He seems to be able to hold his own, though, judging by the scraps he is now getting into.

Sorry, no idea how to help you out technically - I was having a few problems, too, as I had signed the blog up to a site feed. That's been deleted, so perhaps it will work now?

Med: I have kicked him through tripping over him. Does that count?

Keli: I still think I prefer the furry gloves option Ian suggests. Cheaper than a cat whisperer. They don't listen to you, anyway...

Cunning: Dogs, cats, rabbits. They all crap everywhere. They all stink. I think taxidermists have the right idea.

Karen: He seems to be a very retarded cat where 'catching on' is concerned. I hope, also, for his sake, that he does soon. Cleaning him out is becoming no laughing matter - for me or Ian!

FishHawk: Many thanks for your inclusion. I must say, the image you used was not one of the most flattering ones. Oh dear. I really wish that Ian hadn't taken that picture!

Wynn said...

I love cats, I just wish they'd stay off the rugs when they throw up. My last love didn't throw up very often, and before she did, she'd warn us by making this strange "meowmeowmeowmeow"-sound which enables us to run over there and move her.

Mars said...

he's sooooo cute. but yea, i suppose i wouldn't find him so cute if he pooed allover the place.

Annie T AKA Agnes Mildew said...

Wynn: You obviously had either a very clever, or very scared cat. An early-warning feline vomit system. Amazing!

Mars: He started off cute. Now he is just noisy and dirty. He's toast...