Help, help!

The Chief Minion won't let me anywhere near the keyboard! I've managed to sneak on while she's gone up to the tiled litter tray room. I've got so much to tell. Has she never heard of freedom of mew?

Oh no, I hear steps on the going up coming down things. I had better get off here before she...

Lonesome pterodactyl

Another pterodactyl is missing.....

Esther was scooped up into my basket never to be seen again. Where is she? The Chief minion has been sad since she returned with the empty basket. The remaining pterodactyl has been spoilt today, being fed fresh cucumber and radish all chopped up on a wooden board. I think she is secretly pleased that she didn't have to share it with Esther. I'm not getting in that basket - never, never, never. So far I have always returned safe and sound from the v-e-t but I'm not chancing it again. Wherever the pterodactyls have gone I don't want to join them, I like it here with my minion and Jasper (even if he does get right on my frill occasionally). Next time I see that basket the fight is on.....

Frill exposure

It is well known that thousands of years ago cats were worshipped as gods. I have not forgotten this. In my quest to find a minion worthy of caring for my every need, I sought out one that venerated not only the feline species but the highest caste within said species - the Ginger.

Since choosing her as my minion seven years ago we have formed a strong bond, she as my disciple and I am her familiar. The Chief MInion is diligent in her duties, she will do even the less pleasant tasks without complaint (litter tray cleaning, removal of vomited hair balls and, when I was ill - bottom cleaning with warm moist toilet paper). She is kind, caring, attentive and loving at all times but, oh my goodness, she is not very intelligent. 

When relaxing on my pouffe, and this is something all cats do, I can reach a state of near nirvana, a blissful zen like experience where I am chilled out without a care in the world. I roll onto my back exposing my magnificent frill and revel in the warmth and safety I feel in my chosen home. The Chief Minion gets very excited when I do this and often comes to worship at the frill altar. She calls me her 'cuddly teddy bear' and gently kisses my head. I put up with display of affection as it seems to be important to the minion to express her love in this way.  Not content with this the minion will start stroking my exposed white bib and chest and then working her way down to the frill. Mine is rather splendid, even if I say so myself. Our cousins, the lions, have their awesome manes and I have my frill of epic proportions. Her hand strokes the baby soft fur as she coos endearments however, the frill is extremely sensitive. It is very near my tom bits and, as every male knows, these need to be protected at all times. I allow her a few strokes hoping she will stop, but no. She never learns. Always one stroke to many and I have to teach her a lesson (again). In an instant all twenty claws unsheath and my four limbs enclose around her hand, like a ginger Venus Flytrap her hand is caught in a terrifying vice like grip of fur, claws and fangs. Her reflexes are fast, but not fast enough. I manage to get my fangs into  her soft flesh just before she snatches her hand away, moaning and complaining before sloping off to attend to her wounds. I resume my nap immediately, mulling over the fact that this happens everytime the frill is revealed.

Pigeons learn faster than her.

Good vibrations

One of my favourite places for a nap is on the pouffe. It's just the right distance from the fire and I can survey the garden for intruders and any unfortunate prey that may dare to trespass on my territory. It has a soft woolly covering that I have coated in my fur and alluring aroma. The Chief Minion often leaves her detritus strewn carelessly on my coveted spot which gets on my frill. However, this doesn't deter me from sneaking 40 winks if required. Last night, I had settled myself on top of a couple of opened letters delivered that morning, the square plastic things she wears on her eyes and the small plastic box that she spends a lot of time talking to and prodding with her finger. The Chief Minion was upstairs zipping herself into the strange faux giraffe fur she seems to like wearing in the evening when something strange happened. My frill started to vibrate. This was highly unusual and strangely unsettling (but bizarrely not unpleasant). My ears pressed themselves flat against my head in alarm and then I heard........frogs........croaking. I cast my mind back to what I had done that day - nope, I definitely have not been on the catnip so I double check that I am not dreaming. I look down. The frill was shaking, all the fur moving and rippling like a field of wheat caught in the wind. The Chief Minion pranced down the stairs and groped beneath my frill - how rude!! Her hand grasped the small plastic box, she jabs at it with her pointy digit and lifted it to her ear.

I heard her say 'hello?'...

Cheeky mare

I am dozing in a comfy nest of weeds by the myriad of recycling containers (why so many are needed is quite unfathomable to me) as the Chief Minion returns home. Her eyes light up as she sees me lolling in the grass and she bends to stroke my head and give my ears a ruffle. I follow her into the house and watch with interest as she unpacks her shopping. Things are put away in the cold cupboard and then she holds aloft a packet or sachet of food. It's new she tells me, marketed as "cheeky chunks in gravy". The contents are decanted into my special bowl and served. I creep towards it, uncertain. The aroma is meaty, i sniff the air, breathing in the piquant scent of....now, let me think....yes.... It is pterodactyl in some sort of sauce. I edge closer to the bowl, my neck extended about three inches longer than usual as I approach this diversion from the standard menu with caution. I look at the offering - the chunks are in uniform cubes, obviously formed by a machine, not like the usual food I have which is presented in delicious meaty strips, coated in a broth mixed with wild rice. I sit and look at the Chief Minion. She's got to be joking - I can't eat this inferior slop. I stalk away in disgust and vent my displeasure on the corner of the sofa, my claws rasping through the pile on the fabric, so satisfying.

Later, when she is putting the pterodactyls to bed I slope into the kitchen hoping that something else has materialised from the cupboard of delights. No such luck. I watch as she coaxes Marni and Esther into the run - I quickly lick all the gravy from the chunks of meat and dash back to the pouffe to lie down. I hope for the posh nosh in the morning.

Rise of the pterodactyls

I hate pigeons. Everything about them annoys me; the way their heads bob as they walk, their beady eyes and the fact that two of them have the cheek to come into my territory and eat the pterodactyls food. Morning and evening, come rain or shine there they are. Scoffing. Greedy blighters. It really gets on my frill and I curse out loud to vent my displeasure through the patio doors. My language is not pretty as I swear and curse, my whiskers twitching rapidly and my claws unsheath involuntarily.

There are only two pterodactyls now, one black and one brown known as Marni and Esther. They hate the pigeons too and often chase them away from the food trough, their large ungainly bodies wobbling on spindly legs with gigantic talons churning up the earth as they move. The pigeons are always one step ahead and take flight to the safety of the trees behind the garden. They wait patiently until the pterodactyls are otherwise occupied pecking and scratching in part of their enclosure away from the food before returning to the free feast.

I am lounging on the pouffe having a well deserved 40 winks when, out of the corner of my eye I see a fast moving black object in the garden. It's Marni, she is galloping towards the food trough where the two greedy pigeons are filling their beaks, scattering the grain onto the floor to make it easier to peck. One pigeon looks up and takes flight, sounding the alarm to the other, more gormless one of the pair. As it turns it must only be able to see the formidable form of Marni bearing down on her prey, wings flapping and beak open emitting hostile clucks. There is suddenly a cacophony of shrieking pigeon and triumphant pterodactyl cries as Marni seizes the small grey body; feathers fly into the air as both beak and talons engage with the target. After what seems like an age but was perhaps only five seconds the pigeon manages to take to the air, a few small feathers floating down, its tail all ragged and it flies to the safety of the tree and its waiting mate.

Oh how I laughed...

Nap time

After our Ginger studies session I return home for a well deserved siesta. I hoover up a few delicious meaty biscuits on my way to choose the best spot for an afternoon nap. I have several favourites based on the following criteria:

Sun

If there is a sliver of sun coming through the window I will lie in it… until I get too hot. I will then lie outstretched on the cool laminate floor with the frill fully exposed in all its glory. This allows the air to circulate freely, ruffle my fur and reach the optimum amount of skin allowing me to reduce my temperature to a comfortable level.

Fire

This is as unpredictable as the sun. Sometimes it’s there, sometimes not. Again, I will lie on the pouffe in front of the toasty flames until I get too hot. I then repeat the cooling technique as described above.

On or at top of the stairs

I have found that the width of a stair is the same as my girth and accommodates my body very comfortably. I often lie snoozing on the 3^rd or 4^th stair down; a large ginger trip hazard for the Chief Minion to have to suddenly negotiate whilst carrying a pile of her temporary ‘fur’ to put in the noisy cleaning machine in the kitchen.

If I lie at the top the Chief Minion has to take a large step over me thus allowing me easy access to “play” with her ankle as it hovers temptingly above my head. This usually elicits a shriek as my unsheathed claws hook into any fur she is wearing, (or an even louder protest if she is furless).

In the wardrobe

I scratch at the antique wardrobe door until it opens and then slink in between the hanging fur belonging to the Chief Minion. It smells of her and I find it oddly comforting and soothing even though I have to sleep on top of her many, many shoe boxes.

On the chaise lounge

This is a prime position to keep one eye out for intruders that may enter my territory. Especially pigeons… I hate them.

Under the bed

This is my cat cave. I do all my important musing here.

In the garden trough

In the summer the Chief Minion makes me a lovely, soft bed of colourful flowers in a stone trough. It is at the back near the fence and is an excellent sun trap. I trample all the pretty plants so they are flat and comfortable to lie on and can easily while away a whole afternoon snoozing here.

I like napping don’t I.