Saturday, 20 June 2009

Killer Cats

Cats can be cute and cuddly, but one thing that most people forget (usually women) is that they are in fact vicious killing machines who butcher innocent creatures without remorse.

Take the other night, for example. Picture the scene:

There I was, sitting at my desktop, with a very dodgy post about toilets in front of me, searching for inspiration for another blog post. Mrs PM had gone to bed early. The house was silent. The world was falling asleep.

All of a sudden, a blood-curdling scream reverberated around the house. It shocked me so much that I pressed “Publish” by accident and unleashed the disgusting post about toilet habits onto the world without proof-reading it first. Mayhem ensued.

Poppy, the most timid of our cats, the one who is terrified of shadows, raced downstairs in a flurry of black and threw herself out of the cat flap like a feline possessed. This was all the more incredible because the cat flap was locked.

Spooked by the scream and Poppy’s remarkable exit, our fat cat, Jasper, followed her and somehow managed to crowbar his bulk through the same cat flap.

“What the …?” I said. Mrs PM ran downstairs still in a state of shock.

Fearing that we had a burglar or, worse, a ghost in the house I looked around for the nearest blunt object. I found a Wii controller and prepared myself for combat. Then I thought to myself “That’s going to be a pretty useless weapon when challenging a spook,” so I reluctantly put it down and tried to be the brave man.

“Wh..wh...wh...what’s wrong?” I stammered, picturing a psychotic vampiric spectre marching downstairs with blood lust in its eyes.

“Poppy’s bought a LIVE MOUSE into the bedroom and dropped it on the bed,” said Mrs PM with a look of total trauma. I then realised that she was holding the little blighter by its tail – and it was still wriggling. She opened the front door and carefully released it back into the wild.

When she came back, I was on the floor rolling around in hysterical laughter.

“IT’S NOT FUNNY!” she shouted before storming off back to bed.

I was still laughing when I reread the blog post I had inadvertently published. Thankfully, I deleted the post before anybody read it (at least I hope I did).

I have tried, in vain, to convince Mrs PM that “her babies” can be evil little monsters who terrorize wildlife. Even Poppy, a tiny cute little black creature, can mutate into a vicious, heartless predator. If Arnie Schwartzenegger had had to face a giant Poppy in that jungle rather than an alien killing machine, he wouldn’t have stood a chance.

I’ve seen it myself. Poppy has marched into the lounge on a number of occasions with a live creature in her mouth and then let it go before walking out of the room again, leaving me to catch the creature myself.


I cannot catch mice; I cannot catch birds; I cannot catch frogs.

Have you ever tried to catch a mouse? It’s impossible. Cheese doesn’t work. Those Tom and Jerry cartoons are lies.

Mice are bad enough but birds are the worst.

Why? Because they can fly and I hate them.

When I was a kid, we had a particularly vicious cat called Midge. This cat was a psychopath. It would treat me as prey. I would go to school covered in scratches, battle scars from my confrontations with this mad moggy.

My dad christened the cat Midge because when we first acquired him, he was tiny, absolutely minute and totally cute. But inside that tabby ball of fluff lurked a monster. It seemed like he mutated overnight. One day he was a cuddly little ball of fluff, the next he was a psychotic killing machine – and nothing was safe – including me.

One day, I returned from school and Midge was sitting on the gate post. As I approached, I heard him purring and so, led cunningly into a false sense of security, I put out my hand to stroke him.

I almost lost it. He leapt off the wall, grabbed my hand with his front paws, sank his teeth into my flesh and clawed my forearm with his back legs. I couldn’t shake him off. By the time he’d let go, my entire arm was a bloody mess.

Another time, he jumped on my knee, purring and moved his face close to mine. Before I could say a word, he had sunk his teeth into my nose. On other occasions he simply scratched me for the hell of it. I think he saw me as a challenge. He would stare at me and his eyes would say “You’re going down, sucker!”

My sisters were also victims. He once climbed into my eldest sister’s school bag and peed all over her school books.

As well as attacking me at every opportunity, Midge used to bring live birds into the house and let them go. Once, he brought in a thrush that was almost bigger than he was. He let the beast go and its instinct told it to fly for freedom towards the window. As well as glass, there was another obstacle to block its escape: a net curtain.

The bird flapped around the window screeching in terror and the cat ran up the net curtain tearing it to shreds in the process. I sat there in total shock as I watched the mayhem unfold. I was stunned into inaction as the cat leapt about the window, using the curtains as claw holds, ripping them to pieces.

Can you imagine the scene? Me trying desperately to catch a cat with bloodlust in its eyes, a terrified thrush flapping around making enough noise to wake a corpse, and my mum’s net curtains being systematically destroyed by claw and beak?

It took me a good ten minutes to catch the cat. As I struggled to take it outside, the cat vented its spleen and tore several shreds of skin from my face and arms. Midge became a hissing, scratching ball of pure fury; it was like wrestling a live chainsaw.

Having disposed of the cat, I finally managed to open the window and free the thrush. However, the poor creature had deposited the contents of its bowels evenly over the curtains, carpet, TV and most other items of furniture in the lounge. The bird was like a TARDIS - how could something so small contain so much poo?

I sat down dishevelled, bleeding and shell-shocked. All I could hear was the cat howling outside the door: “Let me in or there will be hell to pay.”

It took a hell of a lot of explaining to my mum when she returned and saw her lounge looking like the Battle of the Somme. And, of course, because to her Midge was a harmless ball of cuteness, I got the blame.

“Yes, Mum. I caught a thrush, let it go in the lounge and tried to cut it to pieces with a chainsaw. Midge had nothing to do with it.”

Thankfully, our three cats are nowhere near as violent as Midge was. Nevertheless, they do feel the need to bring us creatures, alive and dead, for reasons that only they understand. They show no remorse when they drop a bloody half-eaten sparrow in the middle of the carpet. In the summer, in particular, our house can become littered with half-eaten woodland creatures. Our house becomes a morgue for wildlife.

I see dead creatures.

And still Mrs PM treats the cats as if they are little angels.

The day after Poppy dropped a live mouse on Mrs PM in bed, she was walking around the house, cooing.

“Poppy! Poppy! Where are you little girl?”

“She’s probably annihilating the mouse population again,” I replied on Poppy’s behalf.

“She’s not,” replied Mrs PM. “She’s frightened because you’ve been stomping around like a demented elephant again. You’re horrible”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” I said. “But are we talking about the cute little black thing, known in the garden as The Killing Beast? The same little black ball of fluff that decapitates mice for fun? The very same timid creature that dropped a live mouse on your head last night?”

“Leave her alone,” she snapped.

“So let me get this right – you’re having a go at me because Poppy, aka the Manchester Mouse Murderer, is out there on a killing spree rather then being here with you?”

“She’s not a murderer. She’s lovely. She’s so cute.” said Mrs PM before storming off. I somehow managed to acquire the blame for the whole episode.

I can’t win. It is so difficult to convince Mrs PM, sometime, that Poppy is really a serial killer; so is Jasper; so is Spike.

Anyway, I need to get this off my chest, so I would like to dedicate this post to Poppy for giving me a little inspiration.

Now then, where’s that post about toilet habits?


Kath Lockett said...

Nice one. Remember the old saying: dogs have owners and cats have staff. They kill and are coddled. Life's good for moggies.

And this line: "The bird was like a TARDIS - how could something so small contain so much poo?" is something I often say re our dog, Milly. Our garden is scattered with fetchingly smelly brown pyramids that she manages to produce at least five of per day. So, I for one am looking forward to your toilet habits post!

Plastic Mancunian said...

Hi Kath,

Life is brilliant for moggies - particularly my three. They are spoilt rotten.

As for poo, I would say, at least cats bury their efforts - the problem is when gardening, we end up digging them up again - our garden's like a minefield.




earthtoholly said...

Hee-hee...very funny, PM!

Especially like your description of the Midge incident..."wrestling a live chainsaw." Hilarious. And poor Jasper "crowbar his bulk"...hee-hee.

Through all the shenanigans, though, I've got to give kudos to Mrs. PM for carrying out that live mouse by the tail...that I couldn't do, bare-handed, that is!

Plastic Mancunian said...

Hi Holly,

A lot of people are terrified of mice (for whatever reason) but Mrs PM isn't bothered at all. However, when it comes to spiders ...