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.
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).
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.
chuffincat 