There has been an epic battle raging in my house for a few years. The battle between the important people (us humans) and my cats. Or my pets as I may call them. But not for long if the idiots in this news story have anything to say about it:
I mean really. It’s an animal. Does it even know what being called a pet is? Does the group of sad individuals who sat around a table and thought “Gerbils have rights too! They should not be called pets…lets annoy the world!” also sit watching the film Animal Farm (not THAT one…pervs…although!) and then start a strongly worded leaflet campaign complaining that the sheep were labeled dumb?
Because they aren’t.
Sheep are highly intelligent.
Look at the way you never see them as the driver when you see a car accident. Nor do you hear about a sheep that lost the will and jumped in front of a high speed train. Or sheep who works for the big banks…you don’t hear about them losing money. Why? Coz they are sheep. A cat is a cat. A dog a dog. A dirty unwashed skunk having a bad hair day is just that…a politician.
But anyway. My pets. Or “companion animal” as Nutter McStupid would have us call them (which makes sense being that sometimes as the cat goes flying across the room aided by my foot, my foot and their arse are companions for a brief moment). There has been a battle raging and I don’t know who is winning.
It started with them bringing in a variety of dead animals. Squirrels, birds, the neighbour. That was annoying enough. Waking up in the morning, bleary eyed and not having shoes on yet, you stand (and squash) a dead animal between your toes. I mean really…picking the guts of a sparrow out from between your toes, well, it’s not quite the giggle you may at first think. There are entrails to think of and the funny taste I get when I am biting my toenails later that night is anything but pleasant.
And they used to just find the single smelliest dead individual animal it could find. And then hide it. You would walk in to a room and think “OK…that fart I let off just before I walked out this room last night which made me choke….it surely can’t still be here. Did it set up home?” and then realise it is time to play hunt the dead animal.
But then, when I started to give the cats hell because there became a dead animal a night ranging from “Look…I got this out of it’s nest for you and killed it!” to “This one was on it’s last legs….so I bit them off. Good luck finding them!”.
Every night. For weeks. I don’t actually know how there are even anymore birds left in my neighbourhood. Infact, one of my neighbours surname is Burd. I really hope I don’t wake up one morning and he is laying on my floor. His innards spread all over my floor. Again. It’s getting tiring. I know he reads this..so please…dude…enough already. Or at least clean up after yourself. And no, my cat ISN’T interested in you. Stop bugging her. No means NO.
So the cats went on the offensive. They stopped bringing dead animals in the house in the middle of the night. They started to bring live ones in. And not just that, one cat would bring them in and make this calling noise to the other two cats….one of which would usually be sat on my head. His ears would prick up, his claws would come out and he would use my face as a starting block to help him get away as fast as he could to go play with what Mummy cat just brought in. I am then spending my night trying to save a bird…mouse…pterodactyl from death by cat while trying not to wake up my daughters using language you normally only hear in the 30 seconds following accidently hammering one of your testicles to the floor. Yeah, it was an accident OK? I was sat there trying to hammer a nail in to the floor but got cramp so I sat with my legs apart and the nail lined up ready…you know…don’t bother. I see you judging me, I am used to it. My wife believes me. Of course, as you read in the last post, the woman holds little green lights up to the sky. So yeah. Ok.
But most of the time, birdie went die die before I could save it. So I would give it a good burial. A crack on the head to make sure followed by a plastic bag and the bin until the morning and then put the bag in to a holding area.
And then the little gits got inventive/lazy and started getting the dead animal out of the bin and carried on playing with it. So far my only plan is the next time they bring a live bird, dead bird, boat, orchestra in to the house I am going to kick their arse. Sure, it hasn’t exactly worked well so far, but at least it gives the birds in the neighbourhood some comfort knowing that their death is not in vain.
Oh. And if they dont bring me a turkey at Christmas, I am kicking them all out.
wheelturninghamsterdead.com 