Cats & Whisky
It was all supposed to be a quiet night – Memsahib, Free Markettes & the dog were away for the evening, affording your humble correspondent the rare opportunity of getting his tootsies up in front of the fire – well at least I would have done if David ‘Green Gestapo’ Milibland wasn’t personally threatening me with swinging carbon emission related extortion & incarceration for even so much as considering going to the wood shed.
Actually dear readers, that wasn’t the reason the fire hasn’t been lit thus far this year – no no not at all. Despite quiet a few frosty nights, its still far too warm to stoke up ye olde ‘Flames of Islam’ wood burner – clearly climate change has come to these yerrrr parrrrts.
Fear not though … just because the fire hasn’t been lit yet, doesn’t mean that we haven’t been cutting down trees. Why have a chain saw if you are not going to use it? – that is unless it is being saved to plunge into the chest cavity of any Liberal Party canvassers that might happen to wander up the farm track. Actually, now I come to think of it, we haven’t seen canvassers from any political parties ever since Mrs FM locked the local Stop The War Coalition candidate into the village stocks & whiled away the remainder of the weekend playing ‘horseshoes’ with his cranium.
Anyway, at about quarter past my forth or was it fifth gentleman’s measure of something dark & peaty, feet up, typing some boring tome on a capex spend that has absolutely no basis in financial reality, the cat walked into the sitting room - & then walked out again. Nothing unusual about it save for the fact that Family FM doesn’t own a cat: Mrs Free Market being more allergic to them than her listless indolent husband is to socialists, the welfare state & the creeping Europeanization of dear old Blighty.
Normal Immediate Actions upon contact with anything feline are to either deploy the Labrador of Libertarianism – that is if the damn thing can be crowbarred off its snoozie, or dispatch Boy suitable armed with IDF issue “Wrath of David” catapult suitably loaded with vinegar hardened conkers that have been subsequently baked in the bottom oven of an Aga for a few hours (theese will defeat Chobham armour with consummate ease).
Anyway, to return to this little tale … there then followed the unedifying sight of yours truly, in his customary state of refreshment pursuing this damn animal around the Towers with all the athleticism of a paraplegic hippo … for about half an hour … until the damn thing was cornered under one of the beds in the guest bedroom.
That moment was followed 5 minutes later by the damn animal sinking its teeth into my arm which in turn was followed by the bedroom door being closed, the window is opened. Cat was very reasonably offered one option: jump ... because if I had to open the bedroom door again, its was going to be to & get a little something from the gun cabinet.
Cat at this point clearly was overtaken by a wave of pragmatism at how the evening might end up (there is so such thing as 9 lives with 00-Buck), chose life & headed out of the first floor window. It was last seen running across the back garden towards the horse poo pile which is where it can stay as far as I am concerned. Clearly time to get a Rocky the Rotti … or one of those old terriers that the badger baiters from the next village use
Comments
Hmmm, first floor window....
You have obviously run afoul of one of the famous SAS stealth cats, and can now expect frequent raiding of the Lab's food dish and the appearence of dead mice in your slippers.
'Who Meows, Wins'
Posted by: Robert | November 17, 2006 12:44 PM