I’ve spent a wet afternoon playing with Zemanta (a piece of blogging software, not another Pesian cat) and my envy knows no limits. I’ve not yet been able to see Puss in Boots though some lucky cats have. It seems that some were able to attend a premiere of the movie, snuggle up to Antonio Banderas and strut upon the red carpet.
Ohh, those lucky lucky cats.
I thought that slaves couldn’t become any lazier than they are already but I was wrong.
A clever clogs in northern England has invented a fat eating bacterium which eats up the fat in sewers so slaves no longer need to be careful over what they put down their drains.
The bugs are said to be able to gobble up fat equivalent to the weight of several elephants leaving the municipal drains squeaky clean.
Next thing slaves will be swallowing these bugs so they no longer have to worry about what they put into their mouths either!
Just when I thought that holidays had started and that I could laze in the sun to recover from the rigours of Christmas the slave decided to assault her summer garden……
And yes, you’ve guessed it – the feral hasn’t been here to stay on top of the vermin – behind the hydrangea in the stone wall, she put her hand into the middle of a nest of fieldmice.
Shock! Horror! Squeals of alarm! Followed by a dash to the verandah where I lay snoozing in the sun. She swept me up, thrust me under the hydrangea bush and told me to get to work. What cheek!
I was so offended I was on the point of stalking off to show her that’s no way to treat a Lord of the Universe when the Thrill of the Hunt overcame me. I stayed and slaughtered five (three were pups so scarcely worth the effort) and proudly laid them in a line at the back door. To my great miffment she collected them all on a dustpan and threw them over the cliff edge so I couldn’t drool over the body count. What a spoilsport.
Still no sign of the feral. I really think she must be a twinkling star by now. Quite a relief to find that I am the only cat in residence.
Talking of residence we have moved north to the weekender and I am looking forward to a summer in the sun watching the slaves mow grass and pull weeds………….crazy humans.
I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas. I did. I helped in the kitchen by being decorative, leg rubbing and purring and was rewarded with chili lemon scallops, crayfish with a green peppercorn and martini sauce followed by a passionfruit topped pavlova and summer berries. Yummm. I wasn’t able to move for at least an hour afterwards and just lay on the sofa watching the slaves wash up.
Off to find the sunniest spot…….
I never thought I would say this but I’m worried about the feral. The low-rent cat food which the slave puts out for her once a week hadn’t been touched when I checked the bowl in the tractor shed this last weekend. Is she dead? Is she unwell? Has she been shot / poisoned / run over?
Whilst the fate of a feral is of minor importance she was nevertheless a feline and therefore worthy of consideration. Short pause to mark her probable passing.
Of more importance to me is the simple fact that being a a queen she was a first class hunter and kept the rats and mice under control not only on our property but over the fence at the neighbours as well. Now I will be expected to take her place in the countryside Neverending Vermin Hunt. Sigh. Just when I was looking forward to a summer snoozing in the sun.
Outrage would be too mild a word. Christmas at the White House has become irredeemably tacky.
Bo, the porty installed against all my advice about the inevitable subsequent bad karma, has been placed centre stage.
Forget Santa, Santa’s elves, snow, sleighs, bells, reindeer, the Christmas fairy (and of course Baby Jesus Himself), a worthless cur has elbowed them all aside.
A breathless media tell us that images of Bo are everywhere, in every hallway and every room. Stuffed toy Bo, ceramic Bo, knitted Bo, sculpted Bo, made of buttons Bo, pastry Bo, chocolate Bo…….it’s disgusting and I hope he has a nervous breakdown confronting his ugly self everywhere he looks. I’m just surprised the House Sycophants didn’t decide to stick an image of him on the top of the Christmas tree!
Pah, pah, pah, quintuple toxic poisoned vermin and a plague of cold winds, dust and fleas upon them all.
I think I told you three years ago that it is good karma for a politician to have a cat in the house and NZ’s Prime Minister has proved this once again.
It’s clear to me that Moonbeam Key won the election for his/her slave just as it was obvious that the Labour leader was bound to lose after the whole nation saw him on TV fondling a mangy mongrel. After that it’s no surprise that the Labour party lost and are looking for a new leader.
It’s time an enterprising journo checked out the pet preferences of Messers Shearer and Cunliffe , the two pollies who aspire to leadership of the Labour party.
They should remember…….Cats are electoral assets. Dogs are electoral poison.