How to Age 10 Years in 1 Week – Part 1

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Cobweb Gladys - 3 days oldTake one small white chicken: a much-loved little hen who you have raised for the past 6 1/2 years, after adopting her as a 1 day old chick. Go down to the coop one day and find that little hen looking very sorry for herself – her head hung low and her usually pert comb flopping heavily over her left eye. Not so much Pirate Pete, think more along the lines of ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody from Harry Potter.

So you go to the kitchen and you cook up some scrambled egg, adding a tasteful garnish of fresh parsley. Your Handsome Husband enters the kitchen. “Oooh scrambled egg!” he says appreciatively.

“Think again!” you reply with a frown. “This is for Cobweb Gladys.”

As you head out of the door, leaving him salivating and somewhat perplexed, you add, “There’s some bread on the side, you can have that.”

Wife of the Year, that’s me.

You place the tasty breakfast in front of your little hen, and sigh as she refuses to eat it. You let both chickens out into the garden, and follow the poorly hen’s every move like a crazed stalker. Over the next few hours you pick random leaves and offer them to her to peck, marvelling at the variety of greenery on offer for the average garden-dwelling omnivore. Then you sigh again as you realise that what minute amounts of food or drink make it into your little hen’s beak, soon squirt out the other end twice as fast…that’s if it doesn’t dribble out of her beak first.

Cobweb Gladys SelfieLeaving your boys on sick chicken duty, you head indoors to cook your little hen a nice bowl of warm rice, mixed with chopped grapes and mealworm. You put tonic in her drinking water (minus the gin) and take it all down to the coop. Your little hen stands at your feet, so you pick her up and tuck her under your arm. She nestles against you and blinks slowly.

“What’s happened, Cobweb Gladys?” you ask in a soft voice. You feel so helpless; you’ve never seen your little hen look so poorly. She just closes her eyes and bows her head. You place her down gently on the dirt floor of the coop and she slowly makes her way up the ramp to the hen house…oh so slowly. Meanwhile her sister, Dim Doris, munches noisily on the treats that you have provided, wondering if it’s her birthday or maybe Christmas, but not really caring either way.

The next couple of days pass in much the same way. You miss the coarseness of your hen’s voice shouting obscenities at you from across the garden, the way she always scuttles towards you at full pelt from the moment she spies you. You dose and you nurture and you cook; oh yes, you cook up all sorts of treats to tempt her.

By the fourth day it is raining, but you still let your little hen out of the coop – she only wants to be near you, even if that means sitting in a chair under an umbrella, listening to the rhythmic tap, tap, tap of the raindrops. You chat to her about all manner of things and she listens carefully with half-closed eyes.

“Come on, Cobweb, you need to get better.  We’ve still got lots of fun to have together” you repeat over and over again.

Her Chuffness resting in a hammockThen you discover your chuffin cat, usually so full of life and cheeky attitude, looking forlorn and refusing to eat. I repeat: refusing to eat! That single fact in itself rings alarm bells. So you dash her to the vet, who checks her over and shakes his head. He holds her down, shaves her throat and takes some blood: brutal but necessary. She sits hunched and dejected, her fight having ebbed away.

You kneel down and press your forehead gently against that of your ailing cat. “Noggin” you whisper in a choked-up voice – a word from your shared vocabulary, a word that means everything yet nothing. You close your eyes and sigh, a tear making its escape down your cheek.

Your beautiful, naughty-natured cat won’t be coming home. Instead you have to leave her attached to a drip, laying on a heat pad in the sick ward. She watches you leave, her glassy eyes pleading with the little energy she has left, a look that punctures your heart.

You are tasked with taking her blood samples directly to the animal lab, to speed up the process of investigation. Then you return home, to an empty house brimming with memories of your cat’s unique chuffness: her discarded catnip mouse, a clump of fur carelessly tossed on the carpet, her battered scratching post rudely upturned in the corner.

You look at the telephone, waiting for it to ring with what you hope will be positive news from the vet. Anything, just please make it positive.

Cobweb Gladys in the gardenThe silence is too much to bear, so you head down to the chicken coop. As you approach, you hear a lowly <cluck>, somewhat despondent but still far more than you’ve heard from your little hen all week. You open the coop door and she potters gingerly out into the garden. You watch as she pecks carefully at a few selected leaves. There it is: a small glint of sunshine battling its way through the funereal thunder clouds. You need that right now.

A crane fly lands gracefully on the ground near your sick chicken. Never before have you been so pleased to see an insect beheaded before your very eyes, as your little hen pecks at it then shovels it slowly into her beak. Such a shame that her sister suddenly snatches the insect carcass, pulls it from Cobweb’s beak and eats it herself. Still, half a crane fly is better than none. That will help the protein quota. You’ll take that.

After what seems like an eternity, the telephone springs into life: the news you’ve been anxiously awaiting. You hold your breath and listen. Your cat is still poorly, but stable…however the blood results haven’t shown anything nasty; in fact they haven’t shown much at all which is confusing the vet. They indicate that your cat is fighting something big, maybe a virus. (You can recover from viruses, right?) She has been pumped full of antibiotics and painkillers to try and help her. Then the vet drops a bombshell: he is concerned about your cat’s breathing. Her heart is racing and her respiration is far too fast. A decision is made: being on the sick ward is distressing your poor cat and making her worse. The vet asks how you feel about tending your ailing cat at home, counting her respirations, checking her breathing – can you nurse her overnight then bring her back in to the surgery the next day? Yes, you can do that. Yes! Just let your chuffin cat come home, let you nurse her. You can count, you can cuddle, you can nurture. Who needs sleep anyway?

You usher the chickens back into their home, surrounding the coop in a bubble of positivity. “Come on Cobweb!” you say to your little hen. “You can do this.” She looks at you and cocks her head on one side, her comb still flopping over her eye. It looks like she’s trying out a new ’80’s hairstyle. You nod at her and she blinks slowly. An agreement of sorts. This has to be the start of her recovery.

And now you have 2 sick pets to care for.

 

A Cup of Tea

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What a beautiful day. Determined to make the most of the glorious sunshine, I ventured outside. As I inhaled large lungfuls of fresh air, I noticed a pretty yellow butterfly. Perched on a fox turd. Nice.

I could hear the perturbed chickens shouting obscenities at me from the bottom of the garden. Accompanied by the chuffin cat, I went to release them from their coop. As I opened the cage door they looked up at me, squawked and hurtled off onto the lawn. As opposed to the chuffin cat who hurtled headfirst vertically up the nearest tree.

Son no 3’s voice drifted across to me: “Mum! I’m stuck on the trampoline!”

I ambled across to him to see what the trouble was.

“Every time I move, I get an electric shock” he complained.

“Best sit still then, love” I replied with a smile.

Chuffin cat on a slideThe poor little chap was having a bad day. He’d already spent half the morning tied to a tree, courtesy of his brothers. Having struggled free, he’d then had a fight with the chuffin cat as she wouldn’t let him play on the slide – she was having far too much fun clambering up and down it and completely refused to take turns. Now this.

I left him in his bouncy prison, rocking a funky new static-spiked hair do, and went inside to make a drink. I love a nice cup of tea, particularly Earl Grey … although my family don’t call it that after son no 3 once misheard the name, causing much hilarity: he thought it was called ‘Old Gay’ and the name stuck.

I looked through the window to see the chuffin cat was now playing hide and seek with the chickens. Well, she was hiding, they were seeking. A large crow suddenly landed in the garden, a menacing gleam in his eye. He didn’t stay for long – who chased him away? Yes, that’s right: Cobweb Gladys the small white hen, whilst the chuffin cat bravely cowered behind a blade of grass.

I brought my cup of ‘Old Gay’ outside and wandered towards a garden chair. The chickens instantly spied me and came running full pelt, their little spindly legs working hard as their fat, feathered bodies waddled from side to side. I placed my cup on the ground and they took it in turns to peer impertinently at the tea. Much to my annoyance, a small black fly decided to nosedive directly into my cup. Chuffin cat stuck up a treeIn a frenzy, Cobweb Gladys plunged her beak into the hot tea. It didn’t stay there long: she shook her head in a stupor, knocking the cup and spilling the entire contents all over the grass. Not to be outdone, Doris DooDah decided her errant sister should lose her ‘Head Chicken’ status at that precise moment, and she launched a full scale mutiny. The chuffin cat hit major panic mode and shot up the apple tree, her claws splintering on the trunk in her haste to escape. There she remained, shouting loudly as if to provide a running commentary on the battle unfolding below her.

I sighed in frustration. How could a simple cup of ‘Old Gay’ have turned an idyllic afternoon into a scene from Gladiator?

Son no 3 appeared, evidently having managed to extricate himself from his static cell.

“Mum, I’m hungry. What’s for tea?” he asked.

“Roast chicken!” I replied tartly, looking at the squabbling heap of feathers fighting at my feet. “Take your pick!”

"Got any grapes?"

A Twerking Mouse…?

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A strange thing happened the other night.  As I was driving along the lane that leads to our house, I saw a mouse. That in itself isn’t strange. We have a large mouse population in the neighbouring hedgerows and woods. Just ask the chuffin cat – she’s on first name terms with a whole variety of local rodents. This mouse was different. It wasn’t scuttling along the dirt track or bouncing through the shrubbery. No, this mouse was poncing about on my car bonnet.  That’s right, on my car bonnet. How very absurd.

I continued to drive slowly down the lane, one eye on the hedgerow, one eye on the mouse, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. The mouse seemed to be having a splendid time cavorting up and down across the bonnet. Every so often he turned and put both front paws on the windscreen, like an open invitation to play pat-a-cake.

Then the ultimate insult: he turned round and stuck his rear end in the air towards the windscreen. Not only that, but his body jigged up and down as the car jostled along the bumpy track. Yes, that’s right – the mouse was brazenly twerking on my car bonnet! Most uncouth for a rodent of any standing in the community. Bizarrely enough, I was actually playing a Robin Thicke song in the car at the time too.

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Pulling up outside our house, I grabbed my phone and took a photo. As you do with a twerking mouse. Quite satisfied with its achievements, the romping rodent then disappeared underneath the car bonnet. I went indoors and told the rest of the family about my experience. Having assured them that I hadn’t been eating magic mushrooms, we all laughed at the photo and promptly forgot about the whole episode. Until a week later when exactly the same thing happened again – yes, driving along the lane, Robin Thicke started playing in the car and up popped the twerking mouse on the bonnet again!

Now as far as I’m concerned, one appearance is an isolated visit; two appearances make it a residency. I wondered if I should track down the mouse to try and extract some rental income. Let’s face it, he wouldn’t be difficult to find – just look for the mouse with the muscular fingers (from clinging onto the bonnet) and pert buttocks (that amount of twerking must be great for toning!).

On the bright side, it could be quite a good selling point if you like a spot of unusual on-board entertainment in your vehicle. Imagine the marketing campaign:

FOR SALE
nice car, low mileage, careful owner
includes electric windows, central locking, twerking mouse

A twerking mouse? On the car bonnet? How disgusting. Ill catch him and teach him to do the salsa instead.

A twerking mouse? On the car bonnet? How disgusting. Ill catch him and teach him to do the salsa instead.

Thirst

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Good morning, human staff member!Chuffin flower power

What?  Me?  Drinking out of your flower vase?  No, you must be quite mistaken.  I was just admiring the scent, whilst rearranging the flowers for you before you got up.

The flowers on the floor? No, that wasn’t anything to do with me.  You’re just not very adept at flower arranging, are you?

Yes, the water level in the vase does go down quickly.  Isn’t it amazing how much water these flowers need?  Very thirsty, these flowers.

Fur in the flower water?  Hmmm, yes there is.  Mind you, there’s fur in all manner of places in this house.  You should clean more often.

Why am I on the windowsill you ask?  Well somebody has to protect the house whilst you staff members are lazing in bed.  I mean, anyone could come and steal these flowers.  Where would we be then?

Thirsty?  Me?  Why would I be thirsty?

Anyway, now that you’re finally awake you can fill my food bowl.  You’ve neglected to feed me all night.  I might pass out soon through starvation.

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Oh, and I’d put some more water in the flower vase too.
For some reason it looks empty.

 

Top 10 Tips – How to be a Proper Chuffin Cat

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Close up!1 Compose your own haka, then perform it to all the garden birds on a daily basis through the kitchen window.

2 Flirt with the milkman. Not only does he loudly praise your singing talents, but he keeps similar hours to you too. Plus he has free milk.

3 Survey the clean, fresh water in your drinking bowl regularly, but never drink from it. Instead, venture outside to lap from the most stagnant puddle that ever existed. Failing that, why not take a nice, long slurp from your human’s favourite flower vase. Just pull the flowers out with your teeth and scatter them across the floor if they get in your way.

4 Why use your cat flap when there’s a perfectly good patio door just 3 feet away? Not to mention the army of human staff willing to let you in on an hourly basis, day or night, if you sing loudly enough.

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5 Watch as your human staff member brings you a new stuffed toy. Watch as they place it near you. Watch their excited face as they move the toy repeatedly from left to right and back again. Watch the toy very carefully. Then pounce viciously on the hand holding the toy.

 

6 It is important to announce your arrival in a very loud voice each time you enter the house, particularly during the middle of the night.

Sherbet fetish7 Whilst all conversations with your human should end at your food bowl, this in no way obligates you to eat out of that bowl. In fact, the tastiest food can be found on a human’s plate. Claws are ideal for hooking a tasty morsel. Just don’t get caught, as humans aren’t very good at sharing.  Sherbet fountains should never be shared; wrestle them from your human at every opportunity.

8 Fur balls are no laughing matter and all throwing up, even if you are outside, should be undertaken indoors – preferably on a clean, pale carpet, the tassels of a rug or on a doormat with long bristles. Throwing up is an art in itself, practised by performing a reverse caterpillar movement, loudly and repeatedly. Shake your head at the end for a maximum splatter effect. It is then imperative to vacate the house at breakneck speed and deny all knowledge of any involvement in the entire affair. Practice your look of disdain to use in such scenarios.

Perfect sleeping position9 There are many marvellous places to rest, but there really is only one position in which to sleep: on your back with all 4 feet in the air. Splendid sleep locations include on clean laundry and also on dirty laundry, particularly if it is in a laundry bin – this has the added bonus of providing you with a hideout from which to ambush your human on their midnight trip to the bathroom. Alternatively what about sleeping on the back of an armchair, resting your feet on a human’s head.

Smug face

 

10 The flat roof of a building will make an excellent litter tray, particularly if it is covered with gravel. The joy at squeezing out a turd whilst eyeing up the birds is completely unrivalled.

Kidney Chaos

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I hate hospitals.  I am the world’s worst patient.  It’s not that I’m squeamish – I can handle blood and guts, but only if they belong to somebody else.  My doctor has diagnosed me with significant ‘white coat syndrome’.  By that, I assume he doesn’t mean that there’s a significant risk that the men in white coats will be here to cart me away.  No, I see a white coat and my instinct is to run as far as possible in the opposite direction.  Probably straight into the path of an oncoming truck, knowing me.

So I had to go for a kidney scan.  The last one didn’t go too well.  The letter sent from the hospital clearly stated to “drink 2 litres of water at least 2 hours before your appointment time”.  It should have added on the end “if you have a bladder like that of an elephant”.  I duly complied, then wished I hadn’t.

The road leading to the hospital was littered with speed bumps, randomly scattered at various heights to ensure that each one caught you and your exceedingly full bladder completely by surprise.

003Upon arrival at the hospital, I had to sit in the ultrasound department along with a queue of other full-bladdered people.  In a row, outside the toilet.  Seriously – who planned that?  It was like some form of cruel torture, our eyes bulging as we scanned the toilet door, bladders fit to burst.  Yet nobody moved.  What amazing willpower we had; either that or we were all terrified of the nurse marching up and down the corridor, clipboard in hand ready to slap anybody who stepped over the toilet threshold.

After what seemed like an eternity, my name was called and I staggered behind the nurse as she led me into a darkened room.  It was in that room that I discovered something about myself: I have a new ticklish spot.  Well 2 to be precise, one on each side of my waist which just happen to be exactly where the radiographer needed to prod me to scan each kidney.  Bingo!  Each time the poor man thrust the transducer probe into my side, my leg shot up uncontrollably, my knee connecting with his body on several occasions.  I didn’t realise that being a radiographer was such a dangerous occupation.  Neither did he, judging by the lack of humour he exhibited.  I lost count of the amount of times he barked at me to “please try and keep still!”  I was giggling too much – no mean feat with an exceedingly full bladder. By the end of the scan, I wasn’t the only one staggering out of the darkened room, although I was the only one with a smirk on my face.

Then it was decided that I needed a repeat scan.  Deep joy.  Proud as I was of my immense bladder control at the last scan, I decided to go for the more sensible option and drink less beforehand.  Joining the queue by-the-toilet-but-not-FOR-the-toilet, was less painful.  In fact I almost felt a little smug that my bladder wasn’t as pin-poppingly full as those of the other cross-legged people waiting.

As I entered the consultation room, I noticed that it was a different radiographer: a pleasant young man who seemed to be pressing his palms against the walls in the corner of the room.  Clearly news of my killer karate kick action had spread.

He approached me warily with the words, “This might hurt a little.”  Huh?

He placed the probe not on the side of my waist, but on my lower rib.  Then he pressed down. Hard.  As I winced, he said, “I’m sorry, it will be uncomfortable.”  Of course it was uncomfortable! He might as well have grabbed a large mallet and smashed my lower ribs to smithereens – there, that would have given him a perfect view of my kidney!  Alternatively I could have given him a pair of drumsticks and he could have serenaded me with a tune of ‘nick nack paddywack’ on my ribcage.

The scan didn’t take long.  Maybe that was due to my furrowed brow and clenched teeth.  Who knows?  “Well,” he said with a very big smile, “that all looks perfectly normal!”  We breathed a collective sigh of relief: me that I had the all clear; him that he could put away the armour plating and never see me again.  Well not for another year anyway.

So what did I learn from this little episode?

  • 002Speed bumps and full bladders don’t mix
  • I can get quite violent when I’m being tickled
  • Radiographers aren’t generally into kick boxing
  • Sometimes it’s necessary to break a rib or 2 to check if a patient’s kidneys are healthy

 

Oh, and a final note to self: when using the ladies’ toilets after having crossed your legs for a couple of hours, don’t choose the cubicle next to the hand dryer.  No matter how desperate you are to empty your bladder, it’s highly embarrassing when someone dries their hands, and the rush of air blows under the cubicle door and wafts your frock up over your head.

A Question of Taste

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The chickens were revolting.  Not in the sense that they smelt rancid, well not on a good day anyway.  No, they were causing a riot down in the chicken coop.  Upon further investigation I discovered the reason for their rumpus: their food bowl contained a large pile of dust.  Son no 2 had been tasked with tending them for a couple of days, but he had clearly been feeding them the dregs from the bottom of the bag of pellets.

Cobweb Gladys inspected the bowl of dust, then glared at me in disgust.  Doris DooDah let out a melancholy <cluck> and shuffled off to sit on the perch in a despondent heap.

“Never mind, ladies!” I addressed them cheerfully,  “We’ll get you some more.”

The chickens glanced at each other Cobweb and Cornflake face-offand together let out the avian equivalent of a very loud ‘tut’.  If they could have rolled their eyes, that would have followed.  Cobweb went to join her sister on the perch and there they sat, a perturbed pile of plumage, eyeing me in an accusatory fashion.

Feeling rather guilty, I grabbed sons no 2 and 3, jumped in the car and we shot off to Pets at Home.

Ah the fun to be had at a pet superstore.  The chicken food was soon forgotten as the boys became engrossed in 4 caged degus, fighting it out on a large wheel to see who could stay on it the longest.  Their little beady eyes glistened as their furry bodies heaved and shoved, legs going like the clappers.  So this is what a wrestling match would look like if the men wore furry bodysuits rather than lycra unitards.  Marvellous.

“Please can we get some?” asked son no 3, hope shining from his big blue eyes.

“No” I replied.  “They would frighten the cat.  Besides, they’re too expensive.”

The boys sighed and carried on moseying round the shop.

Suddenly son no 2 piped up, “Wow!  Look!  These are half price – we have to get some!”

Son no 3 ran across to have a look, then recoiled in disgust: his brother had discovered an entire shelf packed with plastic tubs which contained live crickets.

“No!” I said feeling somewhat bemused.  “We certainly can’t buy any of those!”

“Why not?” asked son no 2.  “Will they frighten the cat too?”

“No” I laughed.  “You don’t buy them as pets!”

“But they’re half price!” exclaimed son no 2, clearly trying to appeal to my frugal nature.  He pointed to some locusts: “These are even bigger, so they’re a much better bargain too!”

I shook my head, trying to suppress a smile.

“If they’re not pets, then why do people buy them?” questioned son no 3.

“For food,” I replied absent mindedly.

“EURGH! That’s disGUSting!” exclaimed son no 3.  “How do you eat them?  They wouldn’t be a very big meal would they?”

“They’re not for US to eat!” I laughed.  “Look, they’re for the bearded dragons up here.  Oh and no, we’re not getting a bearded dragon either!”

The boys could hardly contain their disappointment as I threw a sack of chicken food their way and made my way to the till to pay.

So what have I learnt today?Dim Doris

1.  Chickens might bathe in dust, but they won’t eat it.

2.  Degus put on free wrestling matches to endear themselves to boys.

3.  It might be worth buying some half price crickets, to try and increase son no 3’s protein level.

Jazz Paws

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NOTE TO THE CHUFFIN CAT: the camera on the rear of my car is to enable me to reverse my vehicle safely, thus avoiding any hidden obstacles. 023 It is not your personal video camera, for you to film yourself cavorting about across the drive.  I do not need to see your disapproving face glaring at me as I concentrate on my reversing manoeuvres.

“Keep driving Mum, she’ll move out of the way,” advises son no 2.

Will you heck as like.

I have to stop when all I can see are 2 lynx-tipped ears defiantly twitching at the bottom of the camera screen.  Imagine if my last image of you was your face splattered on the screen.  Or even worse (and more likely) your fluffy arse squashed against the screen.   Seriously.

So instead you just sit there, completely immersed in your own self-importance,Disgruntled Eth round pic knowing that all the car occupants’ eyes are glued to the camera screen, staring at you.  Yes, you.  Finally, the attention you deserve.  A modern day stand-off: a tonne of mechanised metal versus a fat-arsed fluffy cat.

I send son no 2 to forcibly remove you from view – such a brave boy, approaching you minus gauntlets and riot gear.  You eye him up and down stubbornly, always making sure that your best side is captured by the camera.  Then you skedaddle.  Hurrah!

Son no 2 gets back in the car just in time to watch you hurtle back across the camera screen again.

I sound the horn … and you start to tap dance in time to the noise, still in front of the camera.  Next it’s IMG_6516the goose step, then a hop, skip and jump complete with jazz paws and sparkly teeth, to and fro, to and fro.  All with your face turned towards the camera.  I am tempted to turn off the engine and abandon the car in the middle of the street, but you know perfectly well that I won’t do that.  You know because we have this entire rigmarole every single time I reverse into our driveway.  Much to your absolute delight.

Finally you exhaust your repertoire.  You reluctantly turn away from the camera and deposit your rear013 end on the ground.  I can almost see you gritting your teeth as you flatten your ears and raise your nose in the air.  But I am still unable to reverse … why?  Because you may have removed your fat furry body from causing an obstruction, but in doing so you have now stretched your tail across the corner of the driveway.  Much as I find you the most exasperating sod of a cat, I really don’t want to steamroller your tail.

I groan and lean forward to rest my head on the steering wheel.  Never have I known such an infuriating feline.  Son no 2 hops out of the car again in what appears to be another attempt to remedy the situation.  “Mum, she’s gone!” he shouts.

Then I hear another commotion: as I lift my head and rest my gaze upon the screen once again, I’m not greeted by either end of the chuffin cat.  Instead, I’m greeted by not one but two goofy faces – sons no 2 and 3, blowing raspberries and gurning for the camera.  Give me strength.  I’m not sure which is worse: gurning boys or the cat’s arse.  Either way I’m not going to reach my much-needed cup of tea any time soon.  Next time I should bring a flask with me, perhaps even a picnic or a sleeping bag.  Then again, the chuffin cat would probably only monopolise that too.

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