I think I’d best admit that, without my psychotherapist and only wine, not vodka, in the evenings, I’ve resorted to blogging. I’m afraid you’d best get used to it. So, without further adieu, I present to you, my newest irk.*
Summary of my house/Guns**/living situation: I’m on a property with three flats facing a sea filled with disgusting dolphins. One is occupied by me (flat, not dolphin, don’t be gross), the other by a lovely old lady that can’t figure out the TV power button and the other by…. (dum…dum…dum…dum) the Caretakers.
Although nice enough, my problem thus far has been that, as some of you know, the owners specifically told me I’m not allowed to tell the caretakers that they’ve given permission for me to have cats – some sweaty, petty problem previously – until they return from their 3 month sojourn in Oz.
The first month of the Guns’ existence at my flat was filled with secrecy, taping down the curtains and generally being rather spy and secret like. Not surprisingly, they don’t trust me as far as they could throw me (it didn’t help matters when I told my friend ‘Be quiet about the Guns, they’re supposed to stay secret,’ within accidental earshot of them).
So now they return on Monday. Panic starts to well when the daughter arrives early. She’s come to set the place up for their arrival and stay an additional two weeks. She kindly brought with her the caretakers’ Chihuahua and her own motherf*cking large, male cat.
I’m not going to go into details about the cat, except to say: Who takes theircat on vacation with them and lets them roam? Highly unfair to territorial animals, if you ask me. Secondly, he’s twice the size of the Guns, about two years’ old and very, verynot-fixed. He’s got veritable bowling balls going on down there. I can see nothing but trouble coming my way, with 3 male cats at each others’ throats.
However, the handbag dog is just great. He’s actually smaller than my 6 month old cats. This dog is just plain arbitrary. I know that Chihuahuas are generally nasty looking animals, but this poor bugger takes it to a new level. I’m sure he’s thicker than a walnut, but he still has this very large, golf-ball pitted skull.
So, handbag dog skitters around the place, with his one eye way bigger than the other and perilously close to being cross-eyed. He then sees Axl and has a little chase. Good on him, not a single bark. Skitter, skitter, skitter, but it’s half-hearted. Axl puffs up into one big walking cactus, hisses and runs like a Shark out of Loftus.***
I manage to get him in, the handbag dog has all but skittered off, and I close the security gate. The back door is wide open, but the cats seem ignorant of this, so they perch at the security gate, waiting, watching. Well, Slash waits, Axl occasionally musters up the courage to have a peek (at nothing) and then shoots back behind the couch.
Finally, the big ol’ scary, boggle-eyed handbag dog skitters up to my security gate. Slash puffs up into a larger, sitting cactus. He doesn’t even bother to hiss, he knows he doesn’t have to. Handbag dog stops…pauses…and then dashes away.
Handbag dog = 0
The Guns = 1
Let’s hope this winning streak continues to the curious case of the mammoth cat.
*Not sure I can use this as a noun, but I’m going to anyway. Poetic license and all that crap.
**The cats, Axl & Slash – read further blogs to find out more.
***Special reference for my cousin. Just cos they’re being made to wear pink, doesn’t mean the Bulls won’t kick the Sharks’ asses 🙂