There has been no time to blog of late. I could put this down to the deadlines I've been working to. But the truth of the matter is that every single member of my family has been unbelievably needy of late. All right, so I admit that there may be a correlation between the two. It's true that I have had my head in the clouds and have ignored the laundry, the shopping and the housework and that this behaviour is not conducive to looking after my family. Or the animals. Especially the animals.
The cats have demonstrated their desire for attention in a number of ways, ranging from the disturbing to the downright weird. They have tried the more subtle approach of bringing me a selection of rodents in varying stages of dismemberment (message: This is what we will do to you if you don't notice our existence). But I am deaf and blind to this, as they have done it many times before.
They have launched a concerted attack on the stair carpet just below my study (message: We'll keep unravelling this until you fall at our feet). I am less deaf and blind to this and am certainly more vocal, but they are the losers as all that happens is that I scoop them up and tip them out into the garden.
But the latest show of protest, discovered this morning, is enough to make me realise they mean business. Overnight they have taken the fat balls from the bird table, crunched on them, spat them out and left the slimey remains just outside the front door where I can conveniently slip on them and do myself an injury. (message: Things have gone too far. We have decided: you must die.)
I go outside to inspect the crime scene and attempt to read the evidence. The fat balls were contained in a plastic dispenser, supposedly to prevent anything but a bird to be able to get at them. This dispenser was hanging from a hook on the side of the bird table. This morning the contraption is lying on the ground, the lid has been removed, one fat ball has been expertly extracted and the remains are smeared over the patio in a cleverly laid death trap. But most startling of all is the realisation of what ninja-like moves the cats must have made to release the dispenser from the table in the first place, for rather than simply jump on to the table and bash at the tube until it fell, they have clearly employed considerable dexerity in dismantling the whole shebang. The beam of wood on which the tube was hanging has been prised away from the main body of the bird table and is now on the ground, nails lethally sticking up skywards; a second death trap in case the first fails, perhaps?
Something winds itself softly around my legs. I look down to see Psycho Cat, blinking up at me slowly and deliberately.
"Raaaoooow?" she says.
"Grrrrr," comes the answer from the wall above my head. It is Jet, Psycho Cat's sister.
It is clear what they are thinking. The Fat Ball Plan failed. Time for the Pincer Attack.
The cats have demonstrated their desire for attention in a number of ways, ranging from the disturbing to the downright weird. They have tried the more subtle approach of bringing me a selection of rodents in varying stages of dismemberment (message: This is what we will do to you if you don't notice our existence). But I am deaf and blind to this, as they have done it many times before.
They have launched a concerted attack on the stair carpet just below my study (message: We'll keep unravelling this until you fall at our feet). I am less deaf and blind to this and am certainly more vocal, but they are the losers as all that happens is that I scoop them up and tip them out into the garden.
But the latest show of protest, discovered this morning, is enough to make me realise they mean business. Overnight they have taken the fat balls from the bird table, crunched on them, spat them out and left the slimey remains just outside the front door where I can conveniently slip on them and do myself an injury. (message: Things have gone too far. We have decided: you must die.)
I go outside to inspect the crime scene and attempt to read the evidence. The fat balls were contained in a plastic dispenser, supposedly to prevent anything but a bird to be able to get at them. This dispenser was hanging from a hook on the side of the bird table. This morning the contraption is lying on the ground, the lid has been removed, one fat ball has been expertly extracted and the remains are smeared over the patio in a cleverly laid death trap. But most startling of all is the realisation of what ninja-like moves the cats must have made to release the dispenser from the table in the first place, for rather than simply jump on to the table and bash at the tube until it fell, they have clearly employed considerable dexerity in dismantling the whole shebang. The beam of wood on which the tube was hanging has been prised away from the main body of the bird table and is now on the ground, nails lethally sticking up skywards; a second death trap in case the first fails, perhaps?
Something winds itself softly around my legs. I look down to see Psycho Cat, blinking up at me slowly and deliberately.
"Raaaoooow?" she says.
"Grrrrr," comes the answer from the wall above my head. It is Jet, Psycho Cat's sister.
It is clear what they are thinking. The Fat Ball Plan failed. Time for the Pincer Attack.
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