Saturday, December 09, 2006

"Evil the Cat"

An early attempt, on my part, to describe my dissatisfaction with an uninvited nocturnal feline guest.... Jazzed up just a little...

So there's this black cat right? Big. Black. Or a small panther, I'm not sure. Anyway, the neighbourhood witch (like a neighbourhood watch, but with more dancing naked in the woods) reports that its allegedly terrorising most of the local moggies. I have good reason to suspect that its been in my house, due to the occasional traumatised state of my own two little ones, and the black hairs round the cat flap. Not to mention the fact that I've seen the bugger.

Now, I don't object to an occasional social visit, but that's not what's on Evil's mind. Nope. He's there to eat two plates of Whiska's Kitten (Meaty Chunks) and possibly frighten, if not have sex with, my two little innocents. Next thing he'll be round with his mates, wrecking the hi-fi, emptying my drinks cabinet and phoning up for cat-pizza. Up with this, I will not put.

I discuss tactics with one who shall remain anonymous, but has experience of cats, bastard and otherwise. Over a few pints which are given no chance to warm up, he shares his decreasingly coherent views with me, pausing only to mock my recent failed attempts to play the stock market, and take the piss out of my car. He is my friend, as he will later prove by emailing me at 1am with a message to whit I am a Bastard for (a) getting him drunk, and (b) not making him a bacon sandwich. His advice, as I remember it, involves fixing the cat flap so things can come in, but not go out, and a bucket of water.

Now, its the end of an industrious weekend, my washing is done, the front garden looks like Alan Titchmarsh has been labouring on it for a week (with that girl with the big, erm, T-shirt, yes.), and I have successfully 'kegged' five gallons of home made ale, which I shall probably call "Scruttock's Old Dirigible" because I almost always do. There is only one black cloud lurking with intent on the horizon. Evil the cat. So, I fix the cat flap es reccomended by my Cider fuelld acquaintance, firmly close the utility room door, and retire to my pit safe in the knowledge that my kittens will remain unviolated, their food will not be stolen, and I will catch the perpetrator.

5am, Monday morning. I'm awake (relative term) earlier than normal. There's a noise like an express train full of paralytic, tone deaf violin players hurtling around my utility room. I begin to suspect that I may have trapped Evil, and wander downstairs in my night attire (Like Marilyn Monroe's, but without the Chanel Number 5). I'm awake enough to realise that blundering into a six by four enclosed space with an enraged tomcat whilst wearing a minimum of clothing would not be the brightest thing I've ever done.

Minutes pass, and I return to the door, now dressed more appropriately in a Two Piece, Kevlar armoured leather bike suit, and sporting a pair of reinforced gloves guaranteed not to shred in a 90MPH bike crash. These may afford a little protection.

So I'm in there. Evil hasn't taken kindly to this, and is doing a wall of death impersonation about five feet off the ground. My sluggish brain, which at this point is still going through the power-on-self-test comes up with the brilliant observation that Ill have to catch him. As I follow him round the room, and just before I keel over with dizziness, I spot a five gallon fermenting bucket. Perfect. One athletic lunge later I have him, trapped between a wall and the bucket.
Now he's seriously pissed. The noise from the bucket tells me that my troubles are only just starting. What the bloody hell am I going to do now.

The brain has finally finished its morning machinations and is now almost fully awake. Almost - I'm in that state where I can have ideas, but have no chance of discerning between a potential Nobel Prizewinner and a recommendation for the Darwin awards for stupidity.

By dint of superhuman timing, and an agility I never new I possessed, I get the lid on the bucket without letting the cat out. As I rest on the floor, weight firmly on the disk of brown plastic that separates me from a pair of fangs Dracula would be proud of and four sets of razor sharp claws, the rest of my cat-expert's advice comes back to me. Bucket Of Water. Well, I've got a bucket. There's the tap and, oh joy, the hose I use for home brewing is sill attached. A little manoeuvring, delicate fumbling with bucket, lid and hose, a quick blast of cold water and suddenly everything goes quiet.

So now I've got a five gallon bucket that contains one homicidally pissed off black cat, quietly biding his time and no doubt waiting for an opportunity to meet me on a dark night, and two pints of cold water. In the back of my mind, that little bit of music from Jaws that comes on just before people get eaten is playing over and over again. Carefully, I take the bucket outside, unsnap the lid all the way round the edge, and hide behind the back door. All this without ever removing my right hand from the lid.

Its the moment of truth, the phantom soundtrack builds to a crescendo and then silence. As quick as I can, I flip the lid off of the bucket, and tip it onto its side, snaking my arm back inside and safely slamming the back door. All academic of course, since that's the exact time I remember that the cat flap is still set to allow Evil back in, but not out again.......
Luckily for me, he decides he's had enough for now and shoots off over the side gate like his arse is on fire.

I wonder if he'll be back....

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