Dogged by cats.

The S&H* has been working his socks off recently installing new servers for a company.  He’s done this over a weekend, with the general idea that everything should be up and running for Monday morning and by and large it has been.  The time involved has meant little sleep for him over the last few days, he’s been leaving the house at the crack of dawn and returning in the wee small hours.

Everyone is fine with this, his parents, for example, are thrilled by the sight of the next generation getting its finger out, imbued as we are with a stiff protestant work ethic and all that.  The cats, however, are not so pleased.

There is little doubt that they have settled in, fallen on their feet and got their tails under the table in every way possible.  Birds are giving them a wide berth; there is little avian activity within a radius of two gardens in any direction.  Pasha, next door’s budgie, is staying firmly indoors after the day when his cage, in the garden for the fresh air, was found on its side with both cats sitting on top purring.  Pasha, little innocent soul was chirping away, thinking they had come to play.  Fortunately my neighbour discovered the situation in time.

We had a phase of imported, confiscated mice, who were subsequently released on the other side of the green and have not been back, despite the number of strawberries ripening in the rain.

I have, possibly, solved the problem of Cleo capturing bread and cake from bird tables and food recycling bins by making her some cheese scones, which I froze and  now warm up for her at the rate of half a (very small) scone a week.

Russell has twice got stuck on the garage roof.  I couldn’t work out where the piteous cries were coming from until I looked up.  I went upstairs and got him in through a window.  Cleo was very nice to him giving him kisses and patting him, which was quite different to her usual hissing and scragging.

So it’s not as if they’re short of things to do.

The moment the S&H leaves the house, however, they’re on to him.  They either follow him openly, at heel, like a couple of dogs going for a leadless walk, or they shadow him overtly, darting from under a parked car to behind a lamp post or along, under a hedge.  They don’t stop at the garage (the green, three drives and a side road away) any more.  With determination they’re off into town, the speed of the passing lorries making their little ears fly like flags in the down draught.

He, of course, picks them up and brings them back.  It would have been much more sensible if he’d chosen a cat-hair coloured business suit as there isn’t time to defluff him before he sets off again at a fast trot.  Servers, apparently, still work with a light filling of cat hair.

Is it too late to propose a new Olympic sport: Running away from cats?  Or, maybe, Cat and spoon race?  Even, possibly: Cat Relay.

“And he’s coming up on the inside lane and he’s fast, it’s a record and now the handover, oh dear, she got scragged, never mind she’s running, look at her go!  And the cat has clawed up inside her vest.  Look at her face!  Oh! Look! At! That!  And the cat is out, it’s on top of her head.  She’s running, good gracious, the cat has leaped off onto another runner, why is that?  Oh the other runner has sardines!  There will have to be a steward’s enquiry.”

Meanwhile the S&H works on, while I try to introduce the concept of ‘back soon’ into the tiny fur-filled brain.

Round here, not boring.

*Son & heir to all our debts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ – prrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

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