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.

Grumpy Old Cats

I am ruled by an unholy trinity of moggies. They are all black and they are all the same age.

I’ve discovered something else about them:

They are all older than me.

In human years, my three cats are all 10 years old – and no, I am not younger than that (though I wish I was). If you translate my cats’ age into feline years, all three of them are 57 years old.

And that explains a lot.

It explains why all three of them are as grumpy as hell.

As I get older, I see more and more nonsense to rant about and I have worn out many soapboxes as I have pontificated about the inane, the stupid and the ridiculous.  I lose patience with stupid people, anal people, jobs-worths, egomaniacs, pseudo-intellectuals, self-important arseholes, preachers, cosmetic punks and tossers.

 I tear my hair out about the way the world is becoming and I bellow at anybody who is willing to listen to who can’t get away fast enough when I unleash my soapbox.

I can imagine you now saying “Shut up you hypocritical Mancunian windbag!” but at the same time trying to picture a grumpy cat standing on a soapbox.

That’s silly; they do not stand on soapboxes and rant. Instead of ranting they each respond in their own special way.  Whereas I rant about the insanity of life, the target of their grumpiness is …

ME!!

Yes – I drive my cats to grumpiness.

Each one behaves differently.

Jasper, the biggest cat, used to have a carefree existence and tolerate my attempts at baiting him. He would roll over and tempt me to stroke his tummy, before grabbing my hand in his paws and actually licking it making sure that I knew who was boss by digging his claws into my skin just enough to prevent me from pulling away without tearing my flesh. If I tried to pull away he would kick me with his back legs and gently bite me. It didn’t hurt and we had fun.

Nowadays he meows when I try to tempt him to attack me and stares at me as if I am piece of waste floating in a cesspit. The meow is grumpy; you have to hear it to believe it. I imagine him saying “Bugger off you great oaf! I’m trying to sleep.”

He also parks his fat arse outside our bedroom door in the morning and when we get up, we are greeted by an indignant meow that sounds like an old man saying “NOW!!!!!!”.

Poppy is terrified of everything but even she is grumpy. In the past she used to race around the house, fleeing from invisible pursuers with a high pitched “BBRRRPPP!!!!” noise. Whenever I entered the room, she would be away before I could say “Cat”.

Now she stays where she is, looking for an exit, and growls like a dog. Her ears flatten against her head and sometimes she actually hisses at me.

HISSES!!!

What’s going on?

Finally, we have our most recent additions, Liquorice the Hellcat. She is not scared of me at all and sits there watching me, like she watches prey. Sometimes, she is friendly and sits on my knee; the moment I move, though, she stares at me with a look that says “Do that again and I will take your face off.”

I don’t have much to compare Liquorice with in terms of what she used to be like, but she is showing lots of signs of utter impatience and sheer contempt with her life sharing a house with me.

She has her own chair in the lounge, which is next to a lamp; if I try to switch off the lamp at bedtime, she actually attacks me with a meow that is deep and menacing. She has also been known to stalk me, leaping out from behind a chair to attack my ankles – presumably because my antics make her want to tear me to pieces.

I’ve tried to remedy the situation, dear reader.

I no longer poke Jasper with my hands to get him to attack me; instead I scratch his ears, tickle his tummy and gently stroke him. He has actually started purring.

As for Poppy, I creep around the house, rather than (as Mrs PM describes it), stomping around like a demented elephant on crack! And now I can walk into a room with Poppy inside and she will allow me to stroke her gently or, if she’s feeling really generous, allow me the privilege of feeding her.

As for Liquorice, I simply let her walk all over me. This is not just to make her less grumpy; it is also a natural instinct to preserve my own life.

We are kindred spirits, my cats and I. I rant at my world, putting it to rights by hurling abuse at everything that is wrong with it. The cats treat me with utter contempt and tell me in no uncertain terms what they think of me, aided by growls, hissing, tooth and claw.

I have improved things and now they are less grumpy.

Is it too much to ask for the world to improve so that I can retire my soapbox too?

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.

Killer Cats (Part Two)

Have you ever had a moment when you are convinced you are dreaming even though you are awake? I had such a moment earlier this week.

I was watching a World Cup clash between Argentina and South Korea. Jasper, our big fat lazy black cat, had squeezed his massive bulk into his favourite box and was snoring like a wild lion.

I’ve never understood why cats are fascinated with cardboard and paper. I can entice Jasper onto my lap by putting newspaper across my legs. You can guarantee that he will climb aboard and start clawing the paper as he strives to get comfortable.

He is equally fascinated with boxes and will attempt to climb into any box no matter what size it is. His current favourite is a small box that is barely big enough to contain his big fat arse – here’s a photo of him in it:




And boy does this cat snore. On a couple of occasions, when I have been foolish enough to allow the cat into our bedroom, I have been woken up by the sound of a snoring leviathan. In my dreamy state I have shoved Mrs PM, thinking it was her, only to be punched in the arm, before realising that the noise is in fact emanating from a black lump at the end of the bed.

Anyway, back to the tale.

You now have a nice picture of the scene in my living room. I was alone in the house, watching the football with only my fat cat for company.

It was at this moment when I thought that I had transcended a peculiar plane into a crazy parallel universe.

I saw something in the corner of my eye that made me glimpse away from the screen towards the curtains. I shook my head in disbelief.

A mouse was climbing the up the cloth in full view of Jasper.

I had never seen a mouse climb before and the sight of the little creature hauling its tiny body up my curtain was almost surreal. Within a minute, it was on the window ledge, looking around as if it owned the place and was surveying its kingdom from the summit of its mighty throne.

I watched for almost a minute in total disbelief before deciding that I was going to save the mouse and return it to the wild. Thanks to Sky+ I can pause live TV, so I stopped the game to allow me to rescue the mouse.

I wondered how the creature had managed to get into the house and concluded that one of our cats must have kidnapped it and released it in the lounge. You may remember that this has happened before when Poppy, our other black cat, brought a live mouse into the house, took it upstairs and dropped it onto Mrs PM who was asleep in bed (read about it here – Killer Cats).

The poor creature must have been hiding somewhere waiting for the opportunity to escape from its feline captors, preferably with its life intact.
I sprung into action – and grabbed my camera and took a couple of snaps. Here they are:



The mouse, meanwhile, thought that it could leap through the window and hurl itself into the front garden. Sadly, the glass prevented it from doing so and it spent a couple of fruitless minutes hurling itself at the glass. I learned something else – mice can jump – and mice are stupid.

I was fascinated and watched the antics of the little beast as it explored its options. Eventually, it gave up and I learned something else; mice can get angry.

Having battered its tiny little nose against the glass for a couple of minutes, it howled in frustration. Thankfully, being a small creature, the howl was just a squeak and it continued to make noises, noises that were just loud enough to wake Jasper.

One minute Jasper was snoring, the next he was looking up at the window in the direction of the enraged rodent.

I had to act.

I grabbed Jasper and tried to haul him out of his beloved box. Sadly, he is so fat that he was totally wedged into the box and all I managed to do was lift up the box as well. After a few seconds wrestling with the cat, I managed to extract his bulk and carry him to the kitchen, where I unceremoniously dumped him outside through the cat flap.

He stared at me through the glass and I sensed he was saying:

“You bloody great oaf!! I was having a fabulous dream about food. How do you expect me to look after this house if you won’t let me have my pre-nap snooze? I need as many snoozes as I can during the day so that I have the energy for my main sleep in the evening. You utter git!”

I then had to decide how to catch the mouse – and hatched a plan.

In the kitchen I found a plastic sandwich box that was big enough to accommodate a rodent in ample comfort for the small trip I had planned for it. I would walk into the lounge, put the box over the mouse, slide the lid under the box and then carry the box out to the front door where I would release the mouse back into the wild. This plan had the added bonus that the cat would not be able to reacquire the mouse since we never allowed him out of the front door.

As I approached the lounge, I remembered that we had two cats and I didn’t know where the other one was. I peeped into the lounge and saw the mouse still considering its options on the window ledge. Poppy, our second cat, usually slept upstairs in one of the other two bedrooms, so I locked the mouse in the lounge and searched upstairs for Poppy. She was, as expected, asleep in the back bedroom. I carefully locked her in before returning to the lounge.

The mouse had gone.

“Oh crap!” I thought.

I put the sandwich box on the settee and began to check behind the curtains. There was no sign of the mouse.

Disappointed, I decided to continue watching the game. I picked up the camera and had a quick look at the photos I had taken, chuckling at my efforts, when the mouse reappeared.
This second encounter taught me that mice are very, very fast.

As I was looking at the camera, the mouse, which had now climbed down from the window ledge, shot across the room like a big furry bullet. The little creature ran straight towards me and across my bare feet, causing me to drop the camera and, at the same time, accidentally taking a picture of the ceiling and my shocked expression.

The mouse is responsible for this comedy photo:

I had left the lounge door open and the mouse zipped straight out the door, heading for the back room and the kitchen.

At that point, I heard a massive commotion with the sound of tiny claws scrambling on a wooden floor.

“Crikey,” I thought, “I didn’t think a mouse could make that much noise.”

That’s when it dawned on me. It wasn’t the mouse that made the noise at all.

Jasper had returned and was waiting for the mouse as it escaped from the lounge.

“No!” I screamed as the cat ran towards the back door. I was determined to rescue the mouse so I pursued the cat through the kitchen. Jasper burst through the cat flap and sat outside with the mouse in his mouth. I didn’t realise that my fat cat could be so fast.

Sadly, the back door was locked and the key wasn’t around so all I could do was watch as the cat dropped the mouse and started playing with it. The mouse lay still.

It was over. Here's my murderous moggy with the poor ex-mouse:

I had failed.

My fat killer cat had struck again.

Eventually, bored because the dead mouse wasn’t playing any more, Jasper crept back in and crowbarred his mass into the box for his second pre-nap snooze, oblivious to the trauma caused by my failed attempt to rescue the mouse.

I found the key and carefully picked up the dead mouse by its tail with some kitchen towel. I found a little spot for it in the back garden and buried it, saying a little prayer for the little creature whose life had been cut short so violently by my mad moggy.

As wonderful as cats are, the episode reminded me once more that our two loveable little pets are in fact monstrous killers. One minute a cat can be sitting on your knee, purring and being cute, and the next it can be prowling the undergrowth looking for a creature to kill.

Still, at least the mouse is immortalised on this blog and, thanks to you dear reader, his memory will live on for a while at least - and of course it gives you a chance to see another photo of my ugly mug.