This weekend I have the duty of feeding my friend Mat’s cat. I like how that unintentionally rhymes. It has, several times, sat on Mat and I believe all involved were pleased with the rhyming eloquence of the situation. I’m very happy to feed Zeppy, as over the years, Mat and Hannah have looked after cats when I’ve had them, several times. Its one of those things that friends do and its a high level of trust to be guarded with someone else’s pet’s welfare. Should they return to find a dead cat, I daresay our relationship as friends would be somewhat tainted. Even if the cat was hit by a car or specifically targeted by a cat burglar whilst I was elsewhere, I still feel the responsibility would be mine. Its what happens as people get older. You look after their cats, then eventually their kids and all the while you bear that worry that you might screw up and break them. Hour after hour of checking cat/kid hasn’t climbed into the washing machine or isn’t trying to eat a knife or a fire or something. Endless nightmare. I’m fairly good with cats though. I used to own some, I’ve seen them before. They are like dogs only smaller and fall better out of windows. I’m pretty much an expert. So they were right to trust me with Zeppy’s welfare. Last night it only took me 30 minutes to find where the cat food was, and then only another 30 mins to stop panicking about the fact she was outside when fireworks were going off and trying to get her in before giving up and leaving. I went through a series of calls ranging from the simple ‘Zeppy’ in various ranges of voice, all the way to ‘seriously there are no dogs or er, cat killers, or or cat death traps in here. Promise!’ Again, this was in various pitches of voice. Either way she didn’t trust me and there was no sign. I was expecting her to waltz in as I was leaving at which point she’d knock her dried food out its bowl and arrange it to say ‘go away, you’re not my real owner. I’ll come in when I like.’ Instead I locked the cat flap so that once she’d got back from her Guy Fawkes party she’d be unable to leave. Haha! Winner. I am the Cat King! I am Cat Stevens, Cat Deeley, Cat Man Do!
This morning I arrived and a very wide eyed Zeppy was staring at me as I opened the door. She meowed and skulked away, leaving me to discover the small present of a frog so terrified it was unable to move, sitting by the bathroom door. I originally assumed it was a present, and was mostly upset she hadn’t got me chocolates or beer. Either would have been preferable. I wondered if it was one of those presents you get for someone hoping they’ll give it back to you and immediately classed Zeppy as the selfish kind. Apparently its worse than that. I was informed by @MadgeHooks on Twitter that they give you animals like that because they assume you are crap at hunting. I feel like I’ve been slapped with a tiny cat glove and challenged to a duel. I fully intend to return tonight with a huge dead Emperor Stag, lay it on the living room carpet and tell the cat that if she doesn’t do what I say she’ll be sent to a cat home. The war is on. More likely I’ll return without any kill and instead find a hoard of dead frogs lining all the floors and walls with Zeppy sitting proudly in the middle waving a sparkler to spell out ‘Fuck You’ in the air. Bloody cats.
That’s all for today as I’ve got Comedy 4 Kids to do and tell them all about how putting sparklers in a bucket of water makes sparkling water and they should all drink it afterwards. I expect at least three complaints.
