The children, the childminder and I arrived home this afternoon to find the cat sitting by the sofa, pointing a proud paw to another small dead bird. That’s the second one this week.
Suggestions to stop the carnage?
The children, the childminder and I arrived home this afternoon to find the cat sitting by the sofa, pointing a proud paw to another small dead bird. That’s the second one this week.
Suggestions to stop the carnage?
Saturday morning when I came down to breakfast, we had the following scene:
Michael (dancing around the floor and pointing): The cat has got a dead bird, the cat has got a dead bird.
Mr. Waffle (not looking up from the paper): Really, well fancy that.
Me: Eeek, dead bird, dead bird, dead bird.
Mr. Waffle (leaping from the table): Bloody hell (or words to that effect).
To the cat’s intense chagrin, he removed the corpse from her clutches and put it in the bin. All weekend, we’ve been finding tiny, downy, baby bird feathers under the presses. The killer in our midst doesn’t care.
Regular readers may recall that the cat has been put on a diet. She’s fighting back.
Only the other night, Mr. Waffle was expressing the mildest affection for the cat. Of course, that just invited what follows.
Shortly thereafter I was dropping the babysitter, M, home. “How was it?” I asked. “Fine,” she replied, “there was just one thing.” Apparently, as the Princess was playing Club Penguin, the cat came into the room with a pigeon clutched between her jaws. M saw the cat playing with something but didn’t notice what until feathers began to float around the room. With great self-possession, M did not squeal, as I would certainly have done. She left the Princess playing Club Penguin and unaware of the drama and, to the cat’s consternation, picked up the bird with a cloth (note to self – where is that cloth?) and chucked it out the back door. The cat followed and continued to play with the corpse outside. M was force to put the dead pigeon in the bin in a plastic bag. Apparently, it was a fully grown pigeon. Since Hodge is not a fully grown cat, I do wonder whether she would be able to bring down a big pigeon. I can’t help fearing that she found a dead pigeon somewhere and this is not going to be good for her health or ours.
The following morning when I came downstairs, Mr. Waffle had thrown the sofa cover in the wash. Apparently the cat had coughed up a hair/feather ball on it. Lovely. When I left for work the cat was lying on the Princess’s bed enjoying the morning sunshine looking like pigeon wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
The cat got spayed on Thursday. We were all a bit disturbed to see a big patch of her fur shaved, a nasty cut with stitches on her flank and a lampshade on her head. She was miserable last night and mostly quiet except for the frantic run around the house when she managed to get her lampshade off and we got it back on again. Mr. Waffle, who pretends not to like her, bought chicken specially for her and she was tempted to try a little bit. She was a bit chirpier on Friday. By today she was pretty much back to normal, but she has to be kept quiet and indoors for 10 days with the lampshade on. Frankly, I can see this proving challenging, she’s taken to sitting by the (temporarily locked) cat flap and mewing pathetically. Poor Hodge.
Before:
After:
The Princess loves Hodge.
She spends her time poking Hodge in the eye and putting her hand, daringly, in the cat’s mouth.
When she is not carrying her around.
I tell her to put the cat down and leave her alone. But, surprisingly, the cat sticks to her like a limpet.
Still, Hodge sometimes likes to get a good tree between her and us.
Also she sleeps with a gun under her pillow, just in case.
Incidentally, did I mention that Mr. Waffle finds himself speaking in French to the cat which is hilarious.
Friday night
7.00 – Arrive home from work
7.30 – Leave for 50th birthday
2.00 – Stumble into bed
Saturday
9.30 – GAA. Herself refused to play and the boys drew the line at hurling. Michael got lost. Not a success.
12.00 – Lunch
2.00 – Horseriding for children in the Dublin mountains. Their kind aunt got them vouchers. They absolutely loved it. I spoke to a mother on the sidelines. “Three children riding, it’s going to be bread and water for you from now on.” Hmm. They may have to contain their enthusiasm.
4.00 – Work thing for me.
Sunday
13.30 – Lunch at a friend’s house
16.30 – V. pleasant walk in the war memorial gardens at Islandbridge
18.00 – Arrival of Hodge.