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.

Train of Thought (Part Two)

In the crushing grip of a touch of writers block, I decided to look for a little inspiration in older posts and stumbled upon Train of Thought where I tried an experiment just allowing my thoughts to steer me in a certain direction and eventually see which song popped into my head.

I thought I would have another go.

In this particular case, I didn’t have to wait long before an external event interrupted me - in the form of one of my cats.

I have just fed them and hoped for a nice quiet brain storming session. You would have thought that the three of them would respect my wishes. I know – it’s stupid really expecting them to behave themselves.  Besides, they are all higher in the pecking order than I am so I have to bow to their every whim. Telling them what to do just doesn’t work.

All three of the cats have different personality traits, which are highlighted when it’s time for dinner.

Jasper, the boss of the entire house, is a fat monster who is so demanding when he’s hungry that he actually resorts to physical abuse. He miaows repeatedly until he gets attention and then he tries to lead me into the kitchen. If I don’t respond, he sits as close as he can and then gently puts his paw on the nearest part of my body. If that fails, the claws come out and he gently demonstrates how sharp they are, without actually drawing blood. Finally, he uses his teeth and actually takes a nip.

One time, when I allowed them into the bedroom (they are all banned now and that’s a completely different story), I woke up to find him sitting on my pillow and chewing my hair.

Normally I can make him move by using the word Dinner. I’m sure he thinks his name is Dinner.

Suffice it to say, the monster scoffs his dinner faster than I can put it in his dish.

Poppy is a coward who lives upstairs and refuses to come down – this is mainly due to Liquorice, our hellcat. Poppy wails with a high pitched squeak if she’s hungry but, rather than eating proper cat food, she craves cat treats instead. In order to make her eat her food, I pop a treat into the meat.

Liquorice is a hellcat who hates to be left alone. She follows me everywhere – I am her favourite human (I don’t know why) and she often sits next to me, demanding attention but ready to eat my entire hand if I touch her in the wrong place. She is the easiest to feed because she loves cat biscuits, which means that we leave her a permanent dishful on the shelf, allowing her to leap up when she wants to have her fill. She is the most agile of all the cats in my house.

Jasper is a greedy monster and after he has eaten, he will wander around the house looking for Poppy’s leftovers. He can’t get to Liquorice’s food because he can’t jump that high any more.

What’s this got to do with my train of thought?

Jasper has just interrupted me by walking in from the kitchen having gorged himself on food and started bellowing at me.

He’s been doing this for a couple of years now. He usually walks into the back room with his head held high and starts howling – a sort of cross between a miaow and a growl.

Mrs PM calls it his “assembly call”, probably because he’s warning the other cats that he is about to invade their territory and claim what’s left of their food.

I disagree; I think he does it to say:

“Let it be known that I am the king of this house and you are all my minions”.

He has started to make the same noise when I walk past him or if he wants something, like a tickle under the chin, or his ear to be scratched.

And, of course, being a sucker, I oblige him.

All of this means that I am at the command of my feline master – and his minions too – because the two female subordinates also miaow at me to order me around. Liquorice is slightly less patient and I have to be careful not to incur her violent wrath.

Following on from this train of thought, the song that has popped into my head is kind of predictable.

I am a cat person; I have three black cats and if you combined them all into one, you would have a hungry mini black panther, potentially vicious enough to rip off your arm.

If you’ve seen the movie Cat People you’ll know exactly what I am talking about.

I give you the legendary David Bowie with the theme from Cat People, starring all three of my cats (combined and blown up to look a little larger of course). In fact they also appear in the video below.

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?