This post contains cat shit. You might want to give it a miss if you are eating.
There are many, many things in this world that are loathsome and detestable; things that should be outlawed or banned or locked up or made extinct. I hate more things than I can count but one of the things at the very top of my Hate List is cats. Not all cats – I’ve had three of my own in the past, Bodie and Doyle when I was a little dot and Clifford a few years ago. The first two were brother and sister but I didn’t know Doyle was a girl until my dear dead Daddy told me so but not until after they’d been named (no he wasn’t dead when he told me, I’m not Psychic Sally). I loved those three cats, I truly did, and I never for one moment thought they were evil mind-sucking aliens sent to eat every thought I had. No, I don’t hate ALL cats, I only hate other people’s cats.
The people who live next door to me have three cats, sneaky, brash, shitty little things. I’m going to give them aliases so you can’t tell them I’ve been talking about them on my blog, but believe me, whatever names I give them won’t be as stupid as those they already have. Okay, let’s see, I’ll call them Slutty, Slaggy and Pimpy.
Of the three, the one I hate most is Slutty. I don’t know if Slutty is male or female or some third cat gender that we don’t know about yet, and I don’t really care, but what I do know is that it hates me just as much as I hate it. Oh, it looks pretty enough with its pure white hair and small stature. People stop in the street to ooh and aah over it, they bend over to pet it and stroke it, they say to my neighbour ‘can I take her home?’ – Yes, yes, I think, take the fucker, take it now, or come back later and pinch it, you’ll find it in my garden SHITTING ALL OVER MY GRASS.
And there’s the rub. Cats are supposed to be one of the cleanest animals on this planet. THEY ARE NOT. They do their business where ever they want. Cat owners might think they’re clean but that’s only because they don’t shit in their own gardens, they do it in the NEIGHBOUR’S GARDENS where the owners can’t see it or smell it or tread in it. And Slutty does it in MY garden all the time. Every single day. And not only on the grass, I’ve caught it (and Slaggy) many a time digging up my new seeds and bulbs and plants that I’ve planted in big plantpots. And why does it dig them up? To shit in the soil, that’s why. And, as if wrecking my garden isn’t enough, what they do after they’ve done their business is they cover it with the soil they’ve just dug up and with the seeds and the bulbs and the bits of broken plants they’ve just ruined. Why? Why do that? Why hide it so that when I come along with some new herbs or perennials or a new shrub to plant in the freshly dug bed that I made earlier, the first thing my trowel digs into is CAT SHIT. And that’s if I’m lucky – I won’t say anything about my hand going in it because I don’t want to make you as sick as it makes me. It’s malicious and spiteful, that’s what it is. It’s difficult enough for a hermit to get up the nerve to go out into the garden in the first place never mind having to do battle with cats.
Pimpy and Slaggy aren’t as pretty as Slutty. Pimpy is one of those scabby-looking cats that mainly ignore you and really isn’t as bad as the other two – it sits on my shed roof and watches birds but I think it’s too old to pounce. I don’t mind Pimpy, to be honest. Slaggy is worse, not quite as bad as Slutty but I’d still give it a kick if I could catch it. Slaggy is black and white – it curls up inside my bird table and sleeps there most afternoons. It always wins at Stare You Out when it see me watching it through the window, and it comes into my house in summer when I leave the door open, hides upstairs or under the table and gives me a heart attack when it runs out at me. Sometimes Slutty and Slaggy get Pimpy down from the shed roof and they all gang up on me, all three of them sitting in my terracotta pots, squashing my pansies, waiting and staring, their nasty faces all smug and superior, licking and preening themselves like they own MY garden. From my window I show them a picture Google gave me of one of those freaky bald cats (Why DO their owners peel them? Is it legal?) in the hope that they’ll think I’m going to do the same to them when I catch them. But it doesn’t bother them. They don’t care.
My garden used to be my pride and joy before I caught Hermititis and I know it could be again if only I could get rid of them. Oh, I’ve tried everything, green jelly stuff that you squirt in the areas they shit in (which proved too expensive when I was ordering 20 bottles a week); one of those gadgets that are supposed to emit a higher-pitched sound than humans can hear; a big bag of lion shit that nearly got me evicted because I used the rent money to buy it. You name it, I’ve tried it. I’ve got chicken wire all the way round the bottom of my great huge fence; I’ve planted that plant that cats aren’t meant to like; on numerous occasions I’ve shot the three of them with my Super-Mega-Big-As-Fuck-Super-Soaker water gun; I’ve rubbed Deep Heat all over my used teabags and put them all round the garden (TITCHMARSH, YOU LIAR, YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING, DEEP HEAT ON YOUR TEABAGS DOES NOT WORK). I don’t know what else to do. The police won’t help me. The RSPCA don’t do anything. The poacher who lives round the corner laughs at me. Who else can I ask?
I am defeated.
I give up.
You win, Slutty, Slaggy and Pimpy.
Take the garden.
Shove it right up your little cat arses and gloat as much as you want.
I don’t care any more.
(I’m buying a Rottweiler).