Sunday, 3 February 2013
I am sitting on the sofa watching England thrash Scotland in the Rugby Union 6 Nations. I am happy because England are dominating the game. A smile forms on my face. Next to me is a small table with a cup of tea steaming gently. Next to the table is Liquorice the hellcat, watching me intently.
My eyes drift to the cat and my smile broadens.
“Hello Liquorice,” I say and gently pat the arm of the sofa to encourage her to come closer. Cats aren’t known for their obedience but on this occasion, the hellcat stands up, jumps nimbly over the cup of tea onto my lap and then leaps onto the arm of the sofa, assuming the position for a little bit of fuss.
The position is an amusing one. The arm of the sofa is quite wide allowing Liquorice to grip the sides with her front paws and crouch, raising her bum into the air so that I can stroke the length of her body.
She looks so cute that I momentarily forget that she is a dark hearted monster. She looks at me expectantly and I reach over and stroke her head, moving my hand gently down her body to the bottom of her tail. She raises her hind quarters more and actually starts purring.
My smile broadens even more. England are pressing the Scots and my eyes drift away from the cat as I continue to stroke her. I can hear her purring. England get a penalty.
I am relaxed – totally and utterly. Stroking a cat is, I hear, therapeutic, particularly when the cat in question is purring.
I’m happy and the cat is happy.
And then it happens.
Suddenly, without warning and without any provocation, Liquorice shows her true colours and attacks me with maximum prejudice, sinking her front claws into my hand and biting me at the same time.
As I jerk my hand away with a yelp of pain, my skin is opened up and several small spots of blood combine to form a tiny red stream.
My happiness is gone. I glare at the cat as she glares back at me.
“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO THAT FOR?” I scream at her.
She stands her ground and grips the sofa arm more tightly with a look of venom.
I should know better. Liquorice can be very, very cute but you have to keep your eye on her. My raised voice has no effect whatsoever.
She stares defiantly. I try to read her body language and imagine what she would say if she could speak.
“You don’t scare me; you are nothing to me. This is MY territory. Just be thankful I allow you the privilege to pamper and massage me.”
Knowing that I have lost, I nurse my wounded hand – and my wounded pride.
I stop stroking her and concentrate on the Rugby. England score the penalty. I cheer. Liquorice is unmoved and remains on the sofa arm. I reach for the cup of tea.
A paw lashes out and claws reach my hand before my hand reaches the cup. Another spot of blood and another sharp pain.
“YOU LITTLE BUGGER!” I scream.
Liquorice stares back at me and, unbelievably, lashes out again, despite my pain and anger.
I am her prey. She is the hunter. She has no fear.
I recently read that cats are serial killers and are responsible for murdering several billion small animals per year. Somebody in the US has estimated that cats are responsible for between 8 billion and 24 billion small creatures a year. In essence, these lovable little creatures who sleep, purr and cuddle you are in reality monstrous serial killers who strike terror in the world of mice and birds and insects.
In the case of Liquorice, humans are a target too.
Take a look at this picture of Liquorice. How can such a tiny cute little moggy be such a psychopath?
By day, cats control their human pets using every technique they can to coerce us into keeping them warm and feeding them. Yet despite the amount of food that our cats eat, they still go outside and ruthlessly murder small animals with no pity and no remorse.
Imagine if domestic cats were much bigger? There is a reason why people don’t mess with leopards, tigers and lions.
In our house, the cats are banned from my bedroom, although occasionally Mrs PM sneaks Jasper and Poppy in before we get to sleep.
Why are they banned?
Because in the past, both Jasper and Poppy have seen my feet as woodland creatures and attacked them.
I dread to think what would happen if Liquorice were to spend the night in our bedroom. She has no qualms about stalking me around the house during day time. At night, when cats are at their most vigilant, what parts of my body would be easy prey for her?
I shudder at the thought.
When I think about serial killers, I am drawn to one of my favourite TV series to come out of the US. Dexter tells the tale of Dexter Morgan, a blood spatter expert who works for the Miami police, but in reality is a cold hearted monstrous killer who uses his position in the police to identify bad guys who then become victims that satisfy his dark urge to kill people.
Basically, his catchphrase is “you had better hope that the police get to you before I do”.
I love the idea of a homicidal maniac with a sense of morality and limits his killing spree to other murderous monsters who really deserve to die. Sadly, there is no getting away from the fact that he is a killer himself, however lovable he appears to be on the screen.
And that is why, I have decided that in the future, if we ever get a new cat I will call him or her Dexter (I am not fussy about what sex it will be).
Had Liquorice not already had a name, I would have called her something that reflected her murderous tendencies.
Sadly I couldn’t because Mrs PM put her foot down.
I think she might go for Dexter though because we both love the show and it is a cute name for what outwardly appears to be a cute animal.
That won’t be for a while because our three cats all have quite a few more years left in them.
I hope to show you more of our cats in a future post, with a small video or three to try to capture their personalities, and perhaps show their murderous tendencies.
With Liquorice, this shouldn’t be too difficult – and I apologise in advance for the swearing that will ensue when she inevitably tries to rip my hand off.