Things My Cats Might Say

They say that an Englishman’s home is his castle. In my case, my own home is not my castle. It belongs to my three black cats.

Regular readers will know that three of these creatures rule my house.

The lord and master is Jasper, a fat furry blimp who spends most of his time asleep, only waking up to eat. He has a sixth sense that wakes him up whenever we go into the kitchen. He is a greedy moggy who eats for Britain. I also call him Fatty, Lardarse and, my current favourite, Monster.

Jasper in his usual position!

Next is Poppy, sister to Jasper, who is scared of everything, including me, and spends most of her time hiding or sleeping with one eye open in case there’s a shadow in the room. I also call her Crappy (because she is genuinely a crap cat). Mrs PM calls her Princess (which is probably more accurate).

Poppy about to flee from the great beast with mad hair - i.e. ME!!

Finally, we have Liquorice, a late addition to our feline family, who is the exact opposite of Poppy. She is a hellcat who has two traits – friendly condescension and extreme violence. Since her arrival our house has become a moggy warzone when she crosses paths with either of the other two. I call her Lickity and one of our friends calls her by my favourite name which just about sums her up: Slasher. Everybody who has come to our house and tried to stroke her has been attacked. Out of all the people in the house, I am her favourite – and she regularly scratches and/or bites me.

Move - or I will kill you!

In the middle of all this, I am a peacekeeping general dogsbody, slave to their every whim and less important to them than the deposits they leave in their litter trays.

Of course, Mrs PM dotes on them like they are children, when the reality is that they are black killing machines from which no tiny creature is safe.

Recently, Jasper has become very vocal, howling after every meal and every time we walk past him. It’s not just a silent miaow; it’s a deep almost growling noise that is reminiscent of one of his larger African cousins.

“I wonder why he does that?” I’ve asked Mrs PM.

“He’s probably just letting everyone know that he is king of the house, “ she says.

She’s probably right – and it’s has got my weird brain thinking about what he really is saying.

Here are my speculative guesses:

“All hail me, King of all I survey. Bow before my magnificence!”

“You! Slave! Prepare my dinner immediately, lest I bite your feet.”

“I have just produced a most disgusting crap and the smell offends me. By the way, I missed the litter tray because it was so big. Dispose of it immediately!”

“Do not touch me! I am preparing for my pre-sleep nap.”

“If you touch me again, I shall remove your face with my claws!”

“Oh yes – down a bit – up a bit – now scratch! Aaaahhh – that’s better. Now I can sleep.”

Poppy, the coward, might just be saying:

“Oh God! Here comes that ugly monster with the weird hair. Please help me!”

“You call that food? A mouse tastes much better – get me one!”

“What’s that? A shadow? AARRRRGGHHHHH!!!”

“Yes I know it’s 3 o’clock in the morning – but  I’m hungry!”

“I feel sick. Where shall I vomit? Ah – just here outside  the big blonde oaf’s bedroom door.”

Liquorice might just say:

“I’m comfortable on your knee. Move one muscle and I shall tear your limbs from your torso and feed them to next door’s dog.”

“I need something to attack. Ah! Here comes the blond punchbag – claws at the ready …”

“Decisions! Decisions! Shall I rub up against him or attack his bare leg? Decision made – claws at the ready …”

“There’s a killer on the loose again – and it’s ME!!”

“I want cat treats now – THIS INSTANT! You have five seconds before I rip your throat out. Oh thanks! You live to feed me another day.”

Trust me – that’s what I believe they would say and I am sure that Mrs PM agrees with me.

Oh oh! Liquorice has just jumped onto the computer desk and Jasper is watching with interest. I think I need to feed her otherwise this could be my last blog post.

Come on, your highness - let's get you some food.

Dexter the Cat

Picture the scene.


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.

Cat Wars and a Dead Router

My online presence has been rather subdued for the past ten days because my router decided to expire. Trying to convince my ISP that the router was at fault has proved to be difficult, despite the fact that both Mrs PM and I both work in IT and suspected the problem from day one.

Finally, last Monday, having performed many tests and "escalated” the problem, my ISP finally admitted that the router was the problem and sent me a new one. Of course, the Royal Mail then played its part and I only received my new router this morning.

But now I’m back, dear reader.

I can read blogs that I have missed. To be fair, I could have read them on my Smartphone but my mobile internet is so painfully slow that I have to seriously resist the temptation to hurl it against the wall. Also, my fading eyesight means that I struggle to read it on the small screen.

Of course I could have accessed the internet at work – and to be fair I did. The problem is that my company has decided that we can’t view personal emails at work and has banned access to Yahoo and Googlemail as well as other stuff like Facebook.

To add to the frustration I was recently offered a cut price online beginner’s course in Spanish and, having recently been to Spain, I decided to take advantage of it. Sadly, because of the lack of internet I have been unable to use it. I have, however, managed to use a couple of mobile applications to keep me going.

Thankfully all that frustration is over and I am back, dear reader.

To be honest, losing broadband has been like losing a limb and I have been asking myself dumb questions like “How on earth did I survive without the internet?”

The one good thing about not having internet is that I have been unable to be on call with work. Support relies on my being able to access systems in other countries from the comfort of my own home and I have not missed being able to relax without the fear of a phone call in the middle of the night.

Sadly, now that I have internet access again, I am back on call.

Oh well, you can’t win them all.

I have had other things to occupy my mind without the internet to keep me busy. The main thing is acting as a diplomatic mediator in a major – and I mean MAJOR – conflict in our very own house.

As you may know, we now have a new cat called Liquorice and she has upset the balance of power in the feline territory within our home.

The good news is that she has taken rather a shine to me, rather than Mrs PM, and she comes to me whenever I call her, as long as the other two cats aren’t in the vicinity. She purrs and rubs up against my leg and only scratches and bites when I deserve it (i.e. when I touch her unexpectedly or breathe the wrong way). I think I have sussed out when she will attack. She has a look in her eyes that basically says “Touch me and it will be the last thing you ever do with your hand!”

Also, if she is spooked she will attack anything within six inches of her.

Jasper is the alpha cat and treats Liquorice as if she is plankton. He watches her when she hisses at him but totally ignores her. She runs away rather than standing up to him.

Our other cat, Poppy – you know, the timid female who is scared of her own shadow – has revealed a facet of her personality that I didn’t know existed. Poppy and Liquorice are in the midst of a major power struggle and there have been a few clashes, dear reader. Poppy has launched attacks at Liquorice who has retaliated. Mostly, thankfully, they have just been hissy fits.

Most of these skirmishes have occurred in the middle of the night in or around our bedroom, waking me up in the process.

During the day, the cats retire to their favourite places and sleep; it is at night that they prowl the house and howl and spit at each other.

Thankfully, the feline fights are reducing in number and now that Liquorice has been outside, she now has another refuge. So the cat wars might be abating, finally.

I have to tell you about one skirmish though.

I came home from work on Thursday and walked into the kitchen. The floor just in front of the cat flap was covered in clumps of cat fur. To make matters worse, there were traces of blood on the cat flap itself.

“Oh shit,” I said before searching the house for the casualties of what must have been a vicious fight.

The first cat to appear was Poppy. I knew that the major battles had involved our scared little cat so I put some food out for her so that I could inspect her for signs of damage. There was none. There were no clumps of fur missing and no sign of scratches or bites.

“Oh no,” I thought. “Liqourice!”

I ran upstairs calling her and, sure enough, I heard her leap down from the wardrobe. She trotted out to see me. I kneeled down, wary that she might be in a savage mood and prepared to rip off one of my fingers.

She meowed and rubbed herself against my knee and allowed me to stroke her. And again there was no sign of injury and all of her fur was intact.

I found Jasper in the lounge and it soon became clear who had been involved in the fight. He looked fine but I noticed a clump of fur missing. What’s more, he had a lump of white fur attached to his neck.

I returned to the kitchen and took a closer look – the fur was black and white. It was then that I remembered the big black and white cat I had seen prowling around our garden. The cat lives three doors away and I have seen both Jasper and Poppy growling at him. He must have tried to infiltrate Jasper’s territory and been attacked by Jasper.

I told Mrs PM and she examined “her big boy” (not me you understand). There were a couple of minor cuts but it appears that the black and white invader came off worst.

And because Mrs PM loves cats, she is now worried that the invader might be really injured.

I reckon he’s alright and I think he will probably not venture into our house again. Besides, he’s had one rather nasty haircut at the hands of Jasper – I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want another.

I’m just hope that our three cats get along – and I think they are getting there. Liquorice is certainly allowing the other two to get closer before mutating into a hissing ball of fury.

And me? I have all of my limbs intact – despite losing my beloved internet for ten days.

Introducing Liquorice

There is a pecking order in my house and I am firmly entrenched at the bottom. Until last Tuesday I was fourth.

Now I am fifth.

We have a new cat, who has popped in to the pecking order chart ahead of me.

Here she is:

Why have we acquired a third cat?

Mrs PM has a friend in London who is moving to Abu Dhabi and she wanted her cat to go to a home where she would be loved and well looked after, preferably by somebody she knew.

Mrs PM was the obvious choice.

Regular readers will know that we already own two black cats called Jasper and Poppy, who are the undisputed masters of our home. In their eyes I am a mere servant (and a very poor one at that) and my place in the pecking order reflects the position that these two moggies have placed me.

To them, I am a mere slave; I feed them, I clean up after them, I pamper them, I groom them, I play with them and, when it takes their fancy, I am their prey.

I have learned my place over nine long arduous years and in that time I have suffered - here are some examples:

• Jasper, a huge fat bloater of a moggy, leaping from a wardrobe while I was asleep, and landing on my stomach; it felt like I had been body-slammed by a crazed wrestler.
• Walking, blind, to the toilet in the middle of the night and stepping into cat shit or vomit with my bare feet.
• Having my bare feet attacked by both cats in the middle of the night.
• Receiving “gifts” of dead mice, birds, frogs and even next door’s paintbrushes. My next door neighbour still thinks I am a weird pervert.
• Dropping a live mouse on Mrs PM while she was asleep (I still think that is hilarious).
• Having my finger bitten by Poppy as I tried to give her a pill and, when escaping, using my face as her chosen route to safety, leaving my already weird face now covered in scratches.

There are many more examples.

Nevertheless, I love cats and have tolerated their foibles and demands and accepted my place. The rewards are there for all to see.

Now what about this third cat?

I have met her a few times and each time, without fail, she has attacked me. She is nine years old, the same age as our cats, and also, like them she is black.

Her name is Liquorice.

When Mrs PM suggested that we inherit Liquorice, I said two things.

“That cat hates me.”

“We are changing her name.”

Mrs PM replied.

“Well she likes me”.

“We are NOT changing her name.”

I tried suggesting a few other names that reflect her violent personality, like Fang, Tank, Miss T, Chomper, Medusa, Shredder, Ripper, Raptor, Boudica, Claws and Piranha.

“WE ARE NOT CHANGING HER NAME,” said Mrs PM.

She arrived last Tuesday and since now we are in the middle of a period where Liquorice needs to settle. She is not allowed out of the house for two weeks, which means that we have to revert to using a litter tray for all three cats.

I hate litter trays – particularly full ones.

So how is Liquorice settling in?

It’s a difficult question to answer because I can’t communicate with cats. Even if I could they would probably ignore me. I can only give you the evidence and let you judge for yourself. Here’s what has happened since Liquorice moved in:

Liquorice has allowed me to stroke her. At first, I thought that perhaps she actually liked me. Sadly, she was lulling me into a false sense of security and has bitten me three times and scratched me twice.

Liquorice hates Jasper and Poppy. When they appear within her sight, Liquorice becomes a hissing, growling black ball of rage and attacks anything that enters her personal space – like me when I tried to comfort her by stroking her head. She seized my hand in her jaw and I only just managed to remove it in one piece.

Liquorice has explored our house and decided that our bedroom is her favourite room. Unfortunately, when Jasper or Poppy enter the room, she reverts to her Mrs Hyde state and becomes the hissing, growling ball of rage, usually at four o’clock in the morning and waking me up.

Liquorice can be very friendly and has fallen asleep on me in bed, allowing me to stroke her. I even managed to get a few purrs out of her.

Jasper and Poppy have allowed Liquorice to enter their kingdom with nothing more sinister than passing curiosity. Take today for example. Liquorice was sitting next to the settee when Jasper decided that he wanted to sniff her. He marched up to Liquorice and sat just two feet away staring at her. Liquorice responded with prolonged hissing and growling and then attacked my hand.

Poor Poppy doesn’t know what to make of Liquorice. She has tried to be friendly but so far been met with the same venomous growling and hissing.

How do we feel?

Mrs PM loves Liquorice and now has “a third baby”, despite Liquorice attacking her once or twice.

Me? I like her too. I like feisty cats and Liquorice has proved to be very feisty. She is also very agile and seeks sanctuary in the highest places in the house, like the top of the kitchen units or our wardrobes. She has also proven to be very friendly despite the trauma of now having to live with two other cats.

I think she will settle and in a couple of weeks we will try to introduce her to the cat flap so that she can explore the outside of the house.

And, of course, she will undoubtedly start to treat me like the lowly minion I am. In fact that has already started – she has just managed to fill the litter tray with an enormous turd.

I know my place.

The Pros and Cons of Cats

Regular readers will know that my life is dominated by two black cats called Jasper and Poppy.

Jasper is a huge bucket of fat covered in black fur.

Poppy is a terrified moggy that I only occasionally see as a flash of black as she bursts out of the cat flap when something has frightened her (something like a fleck of dust drifting to the floor).

Mrs PM dotes on them.

I am bottom of the pecking order.

Recent episodes, mainly involving Jasper, have led me to question what is good about owning a cat. I don’t want to get rid of them (Mrs PM would surely throw me out before the cats) but for a bit of fun I thought I would list the pros and cons of cat ownership based on my experience with Jasper, Poppy and our dearly departed Spike, as well as my experience as a child with three other moggies, one in particular, Midge, who was without doubt the most vicious and violent cat I have ever experienced.

CONS

(1) Cats bring dead creatures into the house as gifts. Our house has in the past been a graveyard for dead mice, birds, frogs and paintbrushes. Yes – you read that correctly. As a kitten, Jasper went into next door’s shed and stole around ten paintbrushes, leaving them in our house. Mrs PM thought I was playing a joke on her until she saw him dragging a massive brush that was bigger than he was through the cat flap.

(2) Cats bring live creatures into the house. There is nothing more frustrating than trying to catch a frightened bird as it craps all over your furniture and carpet.

(3) Cats throw up in the house. In the summer, especially, when the cats moult, they deposit fur balls around the house. Why they think this is okay is beyond me.

(4) Cats scratch furniture. Our cats have their own little scratch posts and they choose to ignore them in favour of carpet, the wooden floor, the doors, the newspaper etc.

(5) Cats want to be fed in the middle of the night. Jasper in particular howls outside our bedroom door for food at dawn every day. If we let him in the bedroom he walks all over us and even scratches us in order to wake us up for food. I have considered testing to see how well a cat flies but I daren’t - Mrs PM would destroy me.

(6) Cats and vets and pills are a lethal and expensive combination. I have almost lost my hand trying to give cats any prescriptions from the vet. And I’ve had to pay an exorbitant amount of cash for the privilege. The last visit cost £70 and all I got was a quick prod from the vet (well the cat did – not me) , some pills and laxatives for the cat. I didn’t know that cat laxatives even existed.

(7) Cats fight each other. Jasper and Poppy fight with each other and with any cats who dare to invade their territory. Usually this involves scratching, screeching and a visit to the vet.

(8) Cats get killed. Sadly when I was a child, we lost three cats all of whom were run over by cars on the road outside our house. This doesn’t tend to happen with dogs.

(9) Cats embarrass me. Mrs PM told me that Poppy is scared of me because I have big hair, stomp around the house like an elephant and shout like a howling banshee. I made an effort to build bridges with her by speaking in a high pitched voice – “Hello little girl. How’s my little Poppy? Are you OK? Do you want some dinner?” I hear the neighbours think that I am a total fruitcake because of this.

(10) Cats are violent. Midge almost ripped my arm off several times just for fun. He would scratch and bite all the time; I’m sure he considered me to be a monster mouse and therefore a challenge. I lost every single encounter and my teachers thought I was an abused child. I was – by a mad moggy.

PROS

(1) Cats are loving creatures – this is not strictly speaking true. Cats are only affectionate when they want something. In the case of Jasper, it is when he wants food or warmth. Same for Poppy actually (as long as she is more hungry than scared).

(2) Cats are clean. Generally, cats go outside to go to the toilet. Ours certainly do. The only problem is that our garden is now full of cat shit.

(3) Cats can look after themselves. Generally, when we go on holiday, we invite a friend or neighbour to pop in and feed the cats once or twice a day.

(4) Cats are comforting. After a stressful day, it is nice to sit down watching TV with Jasper half on my lap purring as he sleeps. The fact I have had to bribe him with treats is irrelevant. Apparently it has been proven scientifically that a cat’s purr is relaxing and causes stress to evaporate.

(5) Cats are cute. I can have endless hours of fun with Jasper with either a pen or a piece of string. For some reason he goes completely wild when I gently slide a pen towards his paw. Great fun.

(6) Cats rid the house of vermin. If you ignore the fact that they probably brought the vermin in the house in the first place, they are remarkably good at removing any adventurous mice from the premises, sadly with fatal consequences usually. Even better, they eat insects and spiders too. The most impressive thing I have seen is Poppy leaping in the air and catching a fly between her front paws, before eating it.

(7) Cats generally don’t stink. If you ignore the crap buried in the garden, cats are generally clean creatures and do not stink the house out, like some dogs can do.

(8) Cats make me laugh. Every single cat I have ever owned has had enough behavioural weirdness to make me laugh. For example, when I was a child, Midge used to rampage through the house like a Tasmanian Devil high on a cocktail of Red Bull and speed for a period of about 30 minutes for no reason at all. Woe betides the idiot who got in his way (like I did once). My mum used to call it “a mad half hour”. The best cat related moment was when Poppy dropped a live mouse on Mrs PM while she was asleep. I still laugh about that every time I think about it.

(9) Cats can come and go as they please. If you have a cat flap then your cat can come and go as it pleases, so you don’t have to take it for several walks a day. Though having said that, Jasper is so fat that perhaps I ought to consider putting a collar on him and taking him out for a walk to give him some exercise. Mind you, that might result in my losing a hand.

(10) Cats make people happy. This is probably the most important reason of all. I don’t know any person who has owned a cat who isn’t delighted by their presence. Mrs PM certainly is and that is all that matters.

There you have it – an equal number of pros and cons. I am sure there are more (cat lovers will no doubt have more pros and cat haters more cons).

Overall I’m delighted with my two moggies.

The only problem is that they are black so they frequently cross my path (usually in the middle of the night at the top of the stairs).

Perhaps this explains why I have never won the lottery.

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 AM NOT A CAT.

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?