Innocent? #BlogBattle

The chocolates have got teeth marks
and the tinsel has been mauled.
The presents have been bashed and chewed,
the Christmas tree looks bald.

There are baubles in the kitchen
and a stocking in the sink,
the fairy’s disappeared
– have we driven her to drink?

The lights are in a tangle,
they’ve been strewn across the floor.
The tree is artificial
but it’s shedding on the floor!

“What on earth has happened here?
That poor, old Christmas tree,
it’s totally dishevelled
and it’s littered with debris!”

“It looks like you attacked it
in a catnip-filled assault!”
“Who me?” replied the cat, surprised,
“It’s really not my fault.”

“I’m innocent. I’m blameless.
I’m as good as gold. You see,
I was curled up, sleeping deeply
but the tree… it fell on me!”

“I might be sitting here with
a bauble on my paw,
I caught that one especially
as a gift for Santa Claus!”

“And I’m fully out of catnip
– to that I must confess –
So human, run and grab some more
… and do clean up this mess!”

Fluffy Festivities

Who me?

Gloria Chufflepuff Braveheart the first!
You might be a cutie, but you’re by far the worst
for fluffy attitude and arsiness and grumpiness galore,
when you don’t get your way and we shout out, “No more!”
as you cavort round the house, knocking things on the floor,
swinging from curtains and causing uproar.
Stalking the birds as you stare at the skies,
then running to hide from the big, bad magpies.
Splashing in water that you’re meant to drink
and shouting out, “Ham!” as you sit in the sink.
Swishing your tail and shaking your floof
with your nose in the air as you act all aloof.
Until darkness falls and you creep to my bed,
where you snore and fidget and sleep on my head
– one paw in my mouth, another up my nose.
Who knew that cats had such sharp elbows?!
But today is your birthday! I’ve tried not to shout
when you leaned in to kiss me but gave me a clout,
when you nuzzled my head and then spat in my hair,
when you coughed up a furball and fell off the chair.
Because we all still adore you even when you act tough.
Happy Birthday you infuriating bundle of fluff.

Blowing raspberries in the garden

Floof

Ever wondered what your cat does all day?

I know exactly what mine does.

She floofs.

Everywhere.

I’d only been out for the afternoon. I’d left a relatively tidy house. Yet I came home just 3 hours later to a white, mohair carpet. It was like an explosion in a candy floss factory, minus the pink. Floof central.

Strangely enough, the cat is grey, which goes nowhere to explain how my carpet was covered in white floof. Plus the sofa. And the curtains. The table too. Come to think of it, the standard lamp was also rather skew.

Domestic duties

As I surveyed the scene, in sauntered the chuffin cat – not looking bald as I had expected, but maybe a little dishevelled.

“Holy moly! What have you been up to?!” I yelled.

Gloria gave me a withering look, then looked at the floor. There I spied a mangled fly.

“You spent 3 hours chasing a fly??” I exclaimed.

Wa ha ha haaaa Gloria let out a sigh. I got the impression that she would have rolled her eyes if she could have. Instead she adjusted her tufty paws, swished her tail (oh look, more floof) and stared at the fly again.

Then I understood what she meant: she had spent 3 hours waging war against a monstrous man-eating menace, who had threatened to destroy the house and everything in it. So what’s the problem with a bit of floof and a few broken ornaments?

Satisfied that I now had an accurate grasp of the situation, she stood up and nonchalantly padded to the door.

Then with a turn of her head, she cast her eye across the scene and fixed me with that familiar glare, the one that says, “Look at the state of this place, human staff member, you really should perform your housekeeping duties to a higher standard. No feline needs to spend her day paw-deep in discarded floof!”

Peek a boo!

#BlogBattle Loss of Marbles

My cat has lost her marbles
It’s pretty clear to see
she’s as nutty as a fruitcake,
as moronic as can be.

She doesn’t climb like other cats,
hugs tree trunks like a bear
to hide from birds and squirrels
and pretend she isn’t there.

My cat has lost her marbles,
she’s just stark raving mad,
using my poor stomach
as her personal launch-pad.

Don’t move your head too close to her
and mind those tufty paws,
for when she gives a head massage
she uses teeth and claws!

My cat has lost her marbles,
she’s a little bit ‘cuckoo’.
She cavorts around the bathtub
and then tries to lick the loo.

She doesn’t drink like normal cats,
but uses both her paws
to throw the water everywhere
then lap it off the floor.

My cat has lost her marbles,
it’s fairly safe to say
She’s demented, daft and dizzy
in a bonkers sort of way.

She’s checked under the sofa,
with a wiggle and a bound,
to alleviate her loss although
no marbles can be found!

But I love my potty pussy cat,
my fruit-loopy feline.
She might be cracked and crazy
but she’s special and she’s mine!

I wrote this post as an entry for the February #BlogBattle as seen on Blog Battlers and reblogged on the excellent Anita Dawes and Jaye Marie, where I found it. The word prompt is ‘loss’… but Gloria twisted my arm with her fluffy attitude and rather than writing about something entirely different and rather sombre, the post naturally became all about her … as always!

Just a thought but after being Gloria’s Chief Human Staff Member for 4 years, maybe I’m the one who has lost my marbles…

Enjoy.

How To Be a Successful Rooster. Or Not. By Marlon Fandango, King of the Disco Ball

Always peck at shoes – food will fall from the sky if you do. Purple shoes are the best.
When outside in the garden, look up to the sky at regular intervals whilst shaking the feathers on your head. Spin round in circles and flap your wings. Don’t worry that this makes you stagger round the garden like a drunk at closing time; it’s called swag. All the best cockerels have it.

Sharing is caring

If one of your hens lays an egg, go and sit on it immediately. It then becomes your prize possession, your very own butt nugget.
In fact, if one of your hens is in the nesting box, go and join her. In the same nesting box of course. There’s plenty of space if you sit on top of her. She will certainly appreciate you breathing down her neck as she squeezes out an egg.
If one of your hens shouts at you, run and hide.
Spend hours perfecting your dance moves round the disco ball. It will really impress your hens.

Marlon proudly helped me to write these guidelines, long before I had any idea of the ludicrous events to come.

You see, one morning I was summoned down to the chicken coop by the loudest cacophony of squawks I had ever heard. It sounded like a drunken brass band on speed, and then some. Down at the coop, the thick chickens appeared to be participating in a somewhat uncoordinated tribal dance, with Marlon Fandango leading the way.

Hoping to keep neighbourly complaints to a minimum, I opened the door and walked into the coop, to try and calm things down a little. Instead I found myself at the centre of the celebrations as Marlon proceeded to do his best Scottish reel, twirling in ever decreasing circles whilst shouting loudly. Then events took a decidedly stranger turn – Marlon began to barge into the hens, rubbing his head and neck against each of them in turn. I was hit with a sudden moment of dread: was I caught in the middle of a chicken gang bang?? Feeling desperate to make my escape I tried to move towards the door, but Marlon blocked my way. He let out an almighty holler, then squatted on the ground in front of me. When he stood up I couldn’t believe my eyes… for there on the ground was an egg. An actual egg. Laid by my rooster. My… rooster?? I’m not sure who was more surprised – me or Marlon. The coop fell silent. I looked at Marlon, he looked at me. The hens looked at each other as if to say, “Well, this is awkward.”

Then, being chickens, they got on with the serious business of foraging and kicking dirt about, leaving me in a state of bewilderment amongst the dust. So Marlon is now a hen? This rooster who grew bigger than his sisters, grew hackles on his neck, long saddle feathers on his tail and a magnificent crest on his head, who had spent 2 years crowing in a morning… this is actually a HEN? (We can ignore the fact that he’d grown a beautiful beard – Joyce the Voice had grown an impressive one too, and she’s 100% hen!) But Marlon had certainly laid an egg – I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t witnessed it before my eyes. And no, I hadn’t been drinking that morning!

Suffice to say that in the weeks to follow, Marlon continued to lay eggs: not every day, but regularly enough to prove that it wasn’t a one-off event. He laid them on the floor of the coop and if I didn’t pick them up early enough, he would play football with them. He’d also lay eggs in the garden. It was almost like a party trick – “Hey listen to me crow, now watch me lay an egg! Go me!” The hens were getting a little fed up of the entire debacle by now. The chuffin cat gave him an even wider berth than usual. Nobody likes a show-off.

Upon seeking advice, it seems that Marlon probably had an excess of male hormones for the first 2 years of his life; these levels have now dropped for some reason and his ‘true form’ has finally revealed itself. As you go down to the coop nowadays, you are never sure who you will find down there – “Marlon Fandango, King of the Disco Ball”… or (in a deep voice) “call me Marlene, anytime…” We’ve even had a crow in a morning followed by an egg laid at lunchtime and a touch of flamenco dancing at dusk. It could only happen in my household. But we still call him Marlon – that’s a hard habit to break and he seems to prefer it.

Of course, to Gloria a bird is a bird. Be it male, female or confused, it would still taste good on a plate with a side of tuna for good measure. And yes, I do still shout, “Friend, not food!” as she eagerly hotfoots it down to the bottom of the garden to spend the day hobnobbing with the various inhabitants of the chicken coop.

Teeth and Fluffy Trousers

Today I had an argument with the chuffin cat. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. I have the scars to prove it. That’s the last time I try to wrestle a piece of holly from her armpit. Until next week that is, when I’ll have to do it all again. But then it will probably be a bramble stuck in her bum fur, just to change it up a bit. Maybe I should sell ring-side tickets to watch the battle.

Anyway, keen to put our differences aside, I bought her a catnip ball. Not a tatty, fabric shape infused with 3 solitary leaves of catnip. No, this was an entire ball constructed of compressed catnip: a deluxe treat.

As I handed the peace offering to Gloria, she eyed me suspiciously. Two minutes later, having wrestled with it, batted it, pummelled it, dribbled on it and sat on it, she promptly stood up and cast it aside. Then she flounced off outdoors without even giving it a second glance. Assuming that put an end to our disagreement, I made a well deserved cup of tea. As I headed outside with my mug, I felt content in the knowledge that I would be able to sit peacefully in my bear chair, without the worry of being clawed through the wooden slats by a revenge-seeking tufty paw.

Ten minutes later, I received an unexpected present from Gloria in return – a plump, soggy, brown mouse deposited carefully at my feet. A very much alive mouse who promptly took two large gasps of air, and then waddled off at a brisk pace.

The face of disapproval Gloria looked from me, to the mouse and then back to me again. Clearly she was expecting some form of action. We watched together as her ‘offering’ disappeared back into the undergrowth, like a mini spy on a secret mission, having infiltrated enemy lines. He was only missing the dark glasses and briefcase. Maybe he’d left them in the hedge earlier.

Gloria threw herself on the grass in front of me, an air of disgust hanging like a dark cloud over her fuzzy head. She glared at me. I glared back. And thus we ended up right back where we started from. In my role as Chief Human Staff Member, I had yet again failed abysmally in trying to live up to Gloria’s high expectations.

Note to self: you can never win a fight when teeth and fluffy trousers are involved (just to clarify, both of those relate to the chuffin cat and not to me).

Is Anybody There?

Hello!

Remember me?

Chief Staff Member for Gloria Chufflepuff, the chuffin cat, Head Poo Picker for the thick chickens, referee and chef for 3 fetid boys. Yes, that’s me – ring any bells?

It’s been a long time. Too long. This poor little blog has been neglected and filed away in a dark corner with only spiders and the odd errant mouse (Gloria’s latest house guest) for company. I think it’s time to bring it back – who agrees with me? (‘It’ being the blog, not the mouse, if you’re listening Gloria).

It’s been something of an enforced break, but more on that another time. For now, I’m sure you’re all desperate to hear the latest news.

*cue tumbleweed*

Gloria is as rambunctious as ever. She has grown bigger and poofier, as has her attitude. Her headbutts can knock you into a neighbouring room, particularly with 14 pounds of force and sassiness behind them. She was out in the garden yesterday, now that the sun has finally made an appearance. As she patrolled across the lawn, tufty feet pounding the ground, tail wafting in the breeze, I noticed that her belly fur was actually touching the grass. Bearing in mind that I recently mowed the lawn, it made me realise that she’d been caught unawares – her summer body is a long way off (I know the feeling!). That’s what a prolonged winter does for you. Well, that and a voracious appetite for Dreamies treats…

The thick chickens, of course, moulted in the middle of winter, with snow heavy on the ground. As I ran around the coop trying to collect up the discarded feathers which were being buffeted by the hurricane-strength winds, I did wonder whether to sew them into mini jackets for the hens. I mean, obliging little souls that they are, I didn’t really want ready-plucked frozen chucks, even if it was Christmas-time.

The boys have also grown. In size and in noise. And in messiness. My cupboards are always bare as they manage to eat every single morsel they can find, however well-hidden it may be (even my Mint Choc Club biscuits from the secret compartment in the fridge – how very rude!) Have you ever seen a boy inhale a jaffa cake? I have. And don’t even get me started on the husband.

So I’m still here, and planning to do lots more writing. Which leads me to my main question: is there anybody left to read this?

A Feline Facial?

The day that Gloria realised she could jump onto the kitchen worktop gave no cause for celebration.

She had spent some little while jumping up and performing what could only be described as a ‘Scooby Doo scrabble’, moving all 4 fluffy feet together in a manic frenzy as she landed on the edge of the worktop and fell off. Repeatedly. Never one to be deterred, she clearly decided it was worth persevering with this charade, mainly because it could lead to an impromptu munch on some otherwise forbidden food that had been left unattended to cool.

Antici…..pation!

Of course, once she actually managed to stay up on the working top, she realised that there was something even more exciting to be discovered: running water. Oh yes.

The first I knew of this was when, having been out, I returned to find Gloria sitting beside the kitchen sink with her head bobbing up and down as she watched the water running from the taps with fascination. She was so entranced that she even failed to notice me standing there watching her, hands on hips, shaking my head.

“Why you little…!” I exclaimed. Only then did she avert her gaze and look at me with an expression that said, “Wow! Oh wow! Did you know this would happen if you push that shiny bit forwards?!”

Not wanting to miss any of the action, she then turned her attention back to the continuous stream of water. Turning off the tap, I grabbed Gloria, placed her firmly on the floor and said in a very stern voice, “No!”

Not that she took much notice of course; with a flick of her fluffy tail, she raised her nose in the air, gave an indignant <chirrup> and padded off in the opposite direction.

I’m sure it goes without saying that this rigmarole continued for the next few days. Word for word. Action for action. Until one day the situation escalated. You see, Gloria discovered 2 things that day: the hot tap and the plug. Together.

She cleverly chose a day when most of us were out, leaving a rather unobservant Handsome Hubby home alone with his little fluffy charge. The first he knew of Gloria’s new discoveries was when, having been pottering in the garden, he wandered inside only to hear running water. Yet the water wasn’t running free. Oh no. He could hear it collecting. As he sauntered into the kitchen, he couldn’t believe his eyes: the sink was full to the brim with steaming hot water, with the chuff of a cat sitting beside it, almost clapping her fluffy paws together with glee. Maybe her pores (or paws? Oooh what a pun) needed cleaning, who knows? Handsome Hubby shot across to the sink and turned off the tap. Had he been but a few minutes later, the sink would have overflowed with red hot water all down the cupboard and across the floor.

Hmmm I think I need a facial

Clearly disappointed that her fun facial had been abruptly cut short, Gloria jumped down onto the (thankfully dry) floor and crept off into the lounge to sulk, leaving Handsome Hubby to empty the sink and heave a big sigh of relief (whilst wondering how the hell the cat managed to put the plug in the plughole!).

Luckily the bath taps are of a different design: you turn them not push them. So Gloria has to wait for a member of staff to turn those on. That doesn’t prevent her from sitting on the side of the bath to splash the water as it runs from the taps though. No bathtime goes unsupervised with a Chufflepuff in the house. It’s like living with a penguin who insists on wearing a designer fur coat.

Mind if I join you in the bath?

Friend not Food!

Doris DooDah has recently changed her name; not by choice but out of necessity. She is now known as Doris ‘friend not food’ DooDah. The reason? Yep, you guessed it: one over-enthusiastic fluffy gladiator named Gloria Chufflepuff.

We recently decided it was time for Gloria and Doris to meet. Having seen the way Gloria likes to chew an ornamental chicken that we received as a gift, a series of supervised playdates seemed the safest thing to do. Let me give you the run down so far:

Playdate 1 – through the patio door.
Aim: to let Doris potter about the garden whilst Gloria watches through the glass.
Result: chicken spied cat and squawked in panic. Cat spied chicken, licked her lips, pounced and headbutted the patio door.
Verdict: worrying.

I smell chicken!

Playdate 2 – at the coop.
Aim: to take Gloria down to the coop to see Doris through the safety of the coop wall.
Result: chicken spied cat and crowed continuously in a state of sheer panic. Cat spied chicken, paced the perimeter of the coop in a sly, scheming manner then pounced at the mesh enclosure, tufty paws ready for action.
Verdict: could have gone better.

Playdate 3 – face to face.
Aim: to let cat and chicken out in the garden together, using a human shield between them.
Result: Cat behaved surprisingly well and spent an eternity stalking the chicken in a protracted game of ‘follow my leader’. Chicken couldn’t believe her luck.
Verdict: just plain odd.

Playdate 4 – sharing the garden.
Aim: to let cat and chicken socialise in the garden together, since the last playdate went so well.
Result: cat spied chicken and went into full-on hunt mode* (*wiggling bum, stamping feet, flattened ears) leading to ninja battle cry and ambush. Chicken’s eyes went the size of saucers, accompanied by incessant clucking, squawking and use of various chicken expletives (note to self: must apologise to the neighbours)
Verdict: disaster. Chicken needed a grape to calm down.

Playdate 5 – hired protection
Aim: to escort the chicken safely around the garden, chanting ‘friend not food’ whilst cat watches in a perplexed heap.
Result: sons no 2 and 3, along with me, formed a guard of honour around the chicken, who was escorted safely to a bear chair, where she sat beside me and blew raspberries at the cat. Cat sat in the shade and sulked.
Verdict: labour intensive but stress-free.

Playdate 6 – retaliation.
Aim: for the chicken to ‘man up’ and sort the cat out.
Result: chicken was escorted to bear chair again, using full guard of honour. Cat skedaddled under chair and lurked about, eyeing up the fat chicken above her. Chicken panicked and shot a projectile turd in the cat’s direction – missed the cat, hit a ‘guard’ who promptly resigned. Cat disgusted (and slightly impressed), scurried off to fight a butterfly.
Verdict: success. For a day.

Disgusted…but slightly impressed

A Rather Sickly Affair

Who me?

Gloria has taught us many things in the few months since we adopted her, one of the biggest being ‘how to poison your cat’.

Take the first episode – drinking from a flower vase containing cut daffodils. Harmless enough for a cat, or so you would think. Wrong!

“Mum! The cat’s frothing at the mouth!” came the cry from son no 2.

Just a little slurp

And indeed she was. There followed a bout of heaving and groaning underneath the dining room table. Having spent most of the morning removing her face from the daffodil vase, I deduced that the flower water was the cause. A quick call to the vet, who checked with toxicology, confirmed my suspicions. Oh good. Luckily the effects weren’t expected to last for more than 24 hours. So we passed a quiet evening, with Gloria Chufflepuff feeling really quite sorry for herself. Shame.

The following morning, I came out of the shower to discover that our crazy feline had snaffled a cotton reel. Not only that, but she had thrown it around so much that the end of the reel had come free. I was greeted with a lounge covered in streams of cotton: think Spiderman’s den, but with a home-made flair. Two things came to mind: either our chuff of a cat had made a full recovery or she had instead ingested a mutant spider (rather than daffodil juice) thus creating a psycho-spider-cat. Despite son no 3 desperately hoping for the latter, it became apparent as she scampered about the house that the Chufflepuff had recovered. Phew.

Just a spot of flower arranging. Honest. Slurp.

Fast forward a few weeks…yes it did actually take a few weeks of Gloria attempting to eat anything and everything in the house, before she yet again managed to poison herself – this time by chewing on a beautiful Gerbera plant that I had gratefully received as a gift. What made it worse is that I’d already reluctantly given away a gorgeous bunch of flowers that very day, assuming that she’d make a direct bee-line for them the moment I placed them in a vase. Grrr.

Yet again we had 24 hours of sickness and lethargy coupled with a bit of a runny tummy. Just as I was on the verge of calling the vet for advice, Gloria seemed to make a fortunate recovery…in good time for us to host our smallest boy’s birthday party the following day. Yes her timing was impeccable, as always.

So to set the scene some 24 hours later…it was 1.55pm: balloons and banners – tick; food prepared – tick; bouncy slide in the garden – tick. Our neighbours were already here; all we needed was a heap of rambunctious invitees to turn up. Then the inevitable happened – yes, that’s right: the chuffin cat’s rear end suddenly exploded in spectacular fashion. As I said earlier, impeccable timing. Cue lots of frantic shovelling in the litter tray as I cleared away the rancid evidence, whilst madly spraying a can of air freshener around the room to try and eradicate the overwhelming stench. It wouldn’t have been so bad had the chuffin cat not then decided to run off, deposit herself on the floor of the dining room and rub her arse across the carpet in front of our rather bemused neighbour, who was left wondering if this was all part of the entertainment.

Can I hear my food bowl calling?

As handsome hubby grabbed the cat under her armpits and bolted outside, I grabbed some antibacterial wipes and threw them at son no 2, whilst shouting, “Just scrub!!!” and pointing at the putrid tramlines burning a hole in the carpet. I then found some wet wipes and shot outside to join handsome hubby with the somewhat perplexed fetid cat. One look at the state of the cat’s feculent fluffy trousers told me that the wipes were rather an inadequate choice.

Then the doorbell rang: the first guests had arrived. Oh good. Perfect in fact.

Directing handsome hubby to go round the side of the house, I ran through the lounge (skirting round the rapidly disappearing tram lines in the dining room) to the front door to greet an army of excited young boys.

“Straight through to the garden!” I ushered, trying not to sound too panicky whilst wafting the air around me.

Thank goodness the only things on the boys’ minds were “where’s the bouncy slide?” and “which Nerf gun can I use?” How I love having boys!

“Bit of an incident with the cat,” I whispered to the confused parents who followed on behind.

Meanwhile down the side of the house, handsome hubby and son no 1 were having to shower Gloria’s fluffy trousers using a hosepipe. Yes, really.

The only option was then to shut our soddened cat in a cloakroom for the duration of the party, complete with water, litter tray, towels and copious sheets of newspaper. All that was missing was a good book. To be fair, she seemed to quite enjoy herself in there…until she realised that her food bowl was missing. Clearly, by completely and violently evacuating her bowels, Gloria had made more room for grub – talk about a silver lining. Marvellous. Needless to say, the rest of the party passed without incident, as did the cat in the cloakroom (apart from the frequent shouts of “HAM!” each time I opened the door to check on her).

A Magnificent Pair of Fluffy Trousers

The following day I gave Gloria a really good groom, complete with a quick bum fur trim – her fluffy trousers were most unruly after the trauma of the previous day – but thankfully the poisoning debacle had completely passed.

All of this led me to an important conclusion: a poisoning episode should only affect your cat for 24 hours, unless you have an important function the following day; in that case, and only that case, it will last for a full 48 hours.

Grrrrrr Gloooorrrrriiiiiaaaaaaa!!!!

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chuffincat

By popular demand.

#chuffincat

Innocent? #BlogBattle

Fluffy Festivities

Floof

#BlogBattle Loss of Marbles

How To Be a Successful Rooster. Or Not. By Marlon Fandango, King of the Disco Ball

Teeth and Fluffy Trousers

Is Anybody There?

A Feline Facial?

Friend not Food!

A Rather Sickly Affair

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