Temperatures here in North Somerset, in the UK, are at a very unseasonal 29° today - far too hot for us humans, and the cats are miserable. They’re seeking out pockets of shade, and slumping all over the place.
Here’s Lilith, showing how to keep cool.
- Dead slow worm at the bottom of the stairs this morning. #
- tip of the hat to @codepope for http://imgur.com/gQouk.jpg - how true it is. #
- (another) frog rescued from Henry and repatriated to the pnod #
- yet another frog rescued; or possibly the same one. #
- a day steeped in tragedy: Iggy jumped on my chest of drawers and vomited down them into my pluth-lined slippers; they may never be the same #
- Mustrum just came in, with a little rain on his coat; as is traditional, he has been given a good seeing to with a towel. #
- Folding a cat http://bit.ly/18iE4o #
- under the monitor lurks … http://yfrog.com/0uvrxsj #
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Drumknott, our melanistic black Bengal, went missing in November 2003, and I still think I hear him shouting with his distinctive voice from time to time … He was a dreadful cat, with a black coat, and a black heart, and we loved him to bits. He was generally known as PoD (an acronym for Prince of Darkness*).
Roll forward five years or so, and we have the arrival of Ron, who is turning out to be PoD’s heir, although he hasn’t yet developed the distinctive sound effects, nor yet the wonky tooth of his predecessor; both Pete and I refer to hims as PoD from time to time.
Last night, Pete was cooking dinner while I was watching an old Grand Designs, and I heard an “eek!” from the kitchen. It took me a moment to parse it, but then I realised that Kevin McLeod had just referred to a 60ft Pod. He then brought Ron through to demonstrate.
Nightmares will ensure, I know they will.
* I suppose we could consider calling him Mandelson now. But I think we won’t, thanks all the same.
We heard a growling, and Lilith came hurtling up the stairs with a small (dead) bird in her mouth, and Ron in close pursuit; no idea who was making the noise, but we’ve never heard either of them sounding like that before!
We think Lilith dropped it, and Ron picked it up, and he wasn’t about to give it up .. we chased him round the house, even resorting to the squirty water thing, but the unfortunate bird remained clamped firmly in his jaws. In the end, we shut him in the garden, and then had to watch through the patio doors as he consumed it with remarkable efficiency, leaving just a neat pile of feathers. Not even a beak to be seen. Impressive.
Sitting on the worktop in the kitchen, wondering - as always - why there is nothing nice to eat.
Screams of utmost desperation are really not what I want to hear as I’m dozing off to sleep of a night. Nonetheless, that’s what I did hear from the stairs late last night: Henry, of course, or rather the frog entrapped in Henry’s snappity jaws, while various other Tribe members observed from around the landing.
Henry scruffed, I persuaded him to drop, and (just!) managed to gather up the traumatised amphibian before it either leapt away or - more likely - was recaptured.
Any neighbours who might have been observing were then treated to the unlikely sight of a naked man scuttling through the cold drizzle in the dark (thankfully the security light was switched off), frog cupped between his palms, from the patio door to the pnod, to release the poor creature to a marginally safer environment.
Until the next time.
Here’s a photograph bang up to date in keeping with today’s political shenanigans.
Found on the lawn this morning. Hopefully that’s the last now of them now!
Ron went walkabout yesterday for the first time ever, and we’d forgotten what a worry it is.
Being the Greediest Cat in the World, he is generally first in line when the tin is opened, with sharpened elbows at the ready to make sure nobody gets there in front of him. So when Henry had been complaining in some detail about the lack of supper, and Ron didn’t show up, we asked ourselves when and where we’d last seen him. And we weren’t sure, but we knew it was some hours previously.
We told ourselves, of course, that he’s quite able to look after himself, that he can find his way home from the front of the house, that he’d be absolutely fine. But it didn’t stop us worrying a *lot* until he strolled in at about 9 p.m, showing no signs of remorse whatsoever.
Wretched beast.