Day One of being a temporary cat owner:
Dear readers,
Last night Lou dropped off his two cats. Both are pitch black. The girl one is called Stella (Steeeelllllaaaaaa!!!!!! [DAAS reference there for anyone who cares for it]) and the boy one is called Max. Stella disappeared as soon as she arrived prompting Lou and I to turn my house inside out looking for her. After a search that involved moving the bookshelves into my room and stripping my bed of it's blankets we eventually found her in a minute gap in between my bed and my bedside drawers, ending my half hour of feeling like the worst friend ever because I lost a cat before he even left. I have since fitted Stella with a collar and bell. I feel a bit mean about this but this is the only way I’m not going to be constantly worried about where the hell she is.
Max, I didn’t have to worry about in regards to hiding. What I did have to worry about was his inherent evilness rising to the surface. As soon as he was released from his cage he was out casing the joint, a low growl permanently escaping his little cat throat. A low growl, which increased and turned into a hackles raised, back arched, teeth bared full on hiss, as I got closer to him. Max also claimed my Lady Cave (my library) for himself and it seems I have been banned from it. I will have to spend the next month reading and watching only the books and dvd’s I had left off the shelves. And twice I have moments of only semi-consciously obeying some kind of incommunicable sense of self preservation and slowly turning around on the spot to be hit by a rush of pure fear upon seeing a pure black cat sitting perfectly straight staring at me with eyes full of casual malevolence. A look which was replicated with an added touch of disgust and contempt as he watched me sans clothes as I got ready for my shower.
My first night, last night, was hell. Firstly I live alone and when you live alone and you’re asleep, ancient survival instinct will kick in and wake you up every 20 minutes or so to tell you there shouldn’t be the sound of little feet walking about in your dark empty house. On top of that, a different kind of less important instinct will force you to get up at 2 in the morning, blindly shove your glasses on your face and walk out to the lounge to see if it’s the couch or the chair Max is scratching. These same senses will obviously neglect to remind you that Lou bought the cats scratching post; and that both cats are black so that’s not an odd shaped shadow on the floor, that is a cat and you should try not to step in it. It’s just a small scratch I’m ok.
Since I started my day apologising to Max and deciding I didn’t need to go to into my bathroom after all when he hissed at me from my bathmat, you can imagine I was more than a little nervous as to the reception I would get when I got home after work. I braced myself as I got ready to enter my house this afternoon (right foot shoved in first to block potential escapees) and decided to take the advice everyone had been giving me. I decided tonight I was going to Assert my Dominance. No more Mr Nice Girl. Err... if that’s ok with you Max. Is it ok? I waited until Max got all growly and in the manner of someone ripping a band-aid off yelled at him ‘Maaax… NO!!’ and then pretended in a manner that wasn't at all suggesting I was running away that I had to be in another room urgently. I’m very proud to say it appears to have worked. Or Max has switched to another form of torture. He appears to be alternating between wanting to sit on my keyboard (never has my delete button been used to much in so small amount of time) and wanting to sit on my head.
Well dear readers, on that positive note I must leave you. I have to go wash the cat hair off my tongue.
Farewell.
