A Bit Of A Pickle

Do you recall, gentle reader, about two years ago, when I wrote about the annoying habit that the lummox had begun by calling me 'Picky'? I wasn't at all happy about this but over time it subsided and he began to refer to me more often as just simply 'Pix', which I allowed as it seemed quite cool in a way having an abbreviation. However, it saddens me to report that things recently have taken a turn for the worse. You'll not believe what the f***ing idiot has started calling me now. He's calling me... drum roll please...

'PICKLE!'

For crying out loud what on earth is wrong with the man? He's 53 years old for Gods' sake. Not old enough for dementia but old enough to not use such childish language in reference to me. Pickle? I ask you. What the bloody hell is that nonsense all about? And the awful, gurning face he has when he says it and the vile, hairball inducing, babyish tone of voice that makes my fur stand on end. Well, two can play at that game. I can think of plenty of words beginning with the letter P that I could use to describe him. For example: Prat! Pillock! Ponce! Popinjay! Prick! The list could (and should) go on but I simply don't have the time to waste on the pansy (there's another one).

Hopefully it'll stop at some point soon. If not I may have to leave a mouse on the bed or shit in one of his slippers. Yes, yes, that'll teach him. I just wonder what nonsense is going to come spewing out of his odious mouth next.

Pickle? FFS!

PPP x

What Does He Think I Am? An Armchair?

I'm incensed gentle reader. I'm outraged, offended and affronted.

By whom? I hear you ask. The lummox perhaps?

No! Not on this occasion. This time it's that Terry fellow who calls himself a vet. And I used to like the guy, I really did. He helped me over an eye infection last year and kept me looking beautiful. He knows how to get a cat into a carrier with the minimum of fuss. And, he allows me to walk all over his surgery and laptop without question. But now, he's overstepped the mark. Well overstepped it.

You see, it was time for my annual check up and flea control (and don't take that high-pawed stance with me, we all get them) and so, today, I was whisked away to the vets post haste as they wanted to check my weight as well. No problem there, I thought, no problem at all. Imagine then, to my surprise and horror, that he told Ange and the lummox that I was now classed as a 'big' cat and, get this, that I was 'well upholstered'. What is that supposed to mean? Well upholstered? He makes me sound like a piece of furniture! I tell you what, I almost felt like treating him like a piece of furniture and giving him a good clawing. The truth is, I was too shocked at the time to do anything about it.

I ask you, seriously, I ask you. Look at my photograph, and tell me that that isn't the sveltest example of feline form you've ever seen. Ok, ok, so that picture is 6 years old but so what. Nothing much has changed. I'm as petite and as lissome as I've always been. Well upholstered my pencil sharpener! The man wants striking off. Vets, pfft!

PPP x

Meow-sical Chairs

Oh I'm having such fun at the moment gentle reader. And I'm driving the lummox to distraction with it too, which is a bonus. On wet days, when I'm bored and can't sleep, I watch what the lummox is doing or rather, where he is sitting. He doesn't know I'm watching of course, being such a dullard, but I am. He'll either be sat at his laptop attempting to convince himself that he's a writer (pfft!) or sitting on his fat arse reading some archaic old Edwardian literature that no-one gives a hoot about anymore or listening to that God-awful twiddly-diddly-dee progressive rock that he insists on playing and I watch and bide my time. I know that before too much longer either his gluttonous appetite or his weak, over-soused bladder is going to make him get up in order to gratify himself. And the moment he does I'm in there like a shot. I steal his chair from right under his bulbous, bloody great nose. Yes, I lie there on the chair he's just vacated with a contented countenance, knowing that there's not a single damn thing he's going to do about it (scared you see) and look on as he sadly retires to another chair, groaning and moaning like an aged orangutan with a hernia. Then, and this is the best bit, I give it ten minutes before getting up and going upstairs to lie on the bed for a few hours, ignoring his cries of 'Oh Pixie!'. You may say this is cruel to do something like this to a dumb animal but let's not forget that this is the man who has thwarted so many of my attempts at mousing, purchased unbelievably shite cat food for me and filled my house with methane gas to the point where I don't think we'll ever clear the effluvium no matter how many windows Ange opens or how many incense sticks she lights. So I say 'balls to it, let's have some fun at his expense!' And it is, so very, very much, fun!

PPP x

Duck And Dive

It's not my fault that someone put a pond just over the wall from the back of my house. Likewise, it's no more my fault if ducklings lose their way and end up on the wrong side of the wall. And it's not my fault that I am a naturally kind and generous cat who enjoys bestowing gifts on people. So why oh why did Ange have a dicky fit when I brought a pair of ducklings home for the two of them this morning? Prattling on about how naughty I am and that ducks are our friends. Erm... I've got some news for you lady. Ducks are food. Check out the cat aisle in Pets At Home.

Anyway, I ignored her lambasting, thinking that at least the lummox would be pleased, given that the man will eat pretty much anything. But no! I had to watch whilst he gave in to his wife's whims and tenderly put the brace of ducklings in a paper bag and place them in the bin outside. Pathetic or what? All he had to do was rustle up a batch of orange sauce and he could have had a gourmet breakfast for himself. I tell you, I simply just won't bother in future. They can blasted well feed themselves from now on.

PPP x

A New Beast

There I was minding my own business, reading the latest copy of Good Mouse-keeping magazine. A couple of good articles this month too. One on combatting the effects the Meni-paws and another on soft fur-nishings and the best way to scratch them. I was enjoying myself, just relaxing and cat-ching up (see what I did there) with my reading. When all of a sudden I heard the most awful bloody commotion coming from downstairs. A sort of high pitched 'yipping' sound is probably the best way I can describe it. At first I tried to ignore it thinking that the lummox had got himself trapped in his flies or something, but it went on and on to the point of distraction until finally I could stand it no longer and I went to investigate what on earth was going on.

I padded down the stairs as silently as possible and stopped just before the bottom. My nose instantly alerting me to the presence of the blonde berk and his over-active tail. But there was something else abroad in the air and I couldn't quite work out what that smell was. It was similar to the berk but not quite. 'Sod it' I thought, 'I'm going in' and I nimbly leaped into the living room. Imagine my surprise when I came face-to-face with an unknown creature that I'd never seen before. At first I thought it was some kind of monster or perhaps a demon from the bowels of Hades or maybe the local zoo was missing something. It was brown and furry and had ears like an elephant despite being quite small in stature. I wasn't going to take any chances though and I turned and scampered back upstairs.

Since then, I have discovered that this unknown thing is, in fact, a spaniel puppy. A yipping, biting, cavorting spaniel puppy that belongs to Erin, of all people. Huh! I'm surprised at her, bringing that beast into my house. It's bad enough having one dog about the place without a puppy tearing around like a whirling Dervish. Honestly, you'd think people would have more respect for me than that. I mean, I wouldn't mind so much but it evacuates itself on the floor and that's plain unhygienic, especially in areas where my food is prepared. As you can guess, I'm not best pleased and Ange and blubberboy had best watch their step after allowing this to happen.

Stay tuned for further developments.

PPP x

Chick, Chick, Chick, Chick, Chicken!!!

You'll no doubt be alarmed, gentle reader, to learn that I have of late been a little poorly. Relieved also to know that I am now feeling much better, thank you. I'm not sure what the problem was, I've been listless, liverish and off my food. And fair play to the humans, they have tried plenty of different comestibles for me to attempt but I just wasn't eating and I actually lost a little bit of weight. Not that I needed to of course, as you can tell from my photo, but I suppose it all helps to keep me svelte. They tried tuna, salmon (fillet), ham (finest Wiltshire naturally), topside of beef and a wide and extensive variety of sachet cat food. And I turned my nose up at pretty much all of it. That's how poorly I felt. Of course, being a stoic individual I refused to visit that vet chappie though.

Then one night, the lummox decided he was going to make one of those curry things with which he stinks the whole house down with (and I'm talking about after he's eaten it) for him and Ange. Well, it turned out that he bought one too many chicken breasts and between them they managed to reach the conclusion that perhaps they should bake it for me. Well duh! Obviously! And so baked it was and once allowed to cool Ange cut it into bite sized pieces and presented it to me.

My word! I wolfed it down. Every single mouthful and licked my lips for a long while after. They both seemed very pleased with themselves and I was also a little grateful and showed this by waking Ange up at four in the morning for a stroking session. Anyway, the next day the lummox was dispatched to the local butcher shop to procure me another chicken breast which was likewise baked and presented. I gathered from their conversation though that this one was in fact what's known as free-range and corn fed. I'm not sure what all that meant but it tasted absolutely delicious and you can probably guess where I'm going with this. That's right, I now insist on all my chicken dinners to be free-range and corn fed. Apparently it's more expensive than the other sort but it tastes better, I deserve it and that's the end of the matter as far as I'm concerned.

PPP x

The Importance Of Being Pixie

Buggered off they have! Gone off for a jolly along the canal in that little toy boat of theirs and left me behind. But do you know what? Sod the pair of them. Do I care? Not one jot! They can stay out for as long as they want for all I bloody well mind. You see, I am Pixie! A determined, capable and self-caring cat. I don't need them to fuss and fret over me constantly. I'm aloof when I want to be and sociable when I want to be. It's all on my terms. And any cat worth his or her salt knows that. And it's an important thing for cats to learn, at an early age.

Besides which they've left a servant for me to cater for my mealtimes That Steve fellow who was here last October when they cleared off to Ireland. Nice enough chap although he's forever got a camera in my face (understandable) but he knows his place in the pecking order and that's what it's all about at the end of the day. He knows that I am Pixie Poo Poo - internet sensation, with a horde of devoted followers and he respects that. Plus, he is in the habit of buying me ham so that gets the old seal of approval from me.

As for those other two, well I just hope Ange can survive a week in a 9' by 6' space with Captain Flatulence constantly letting off minute-by-minute. My God, the mere thought of it is making me feel dirty to the point where I might actually have a wash. So no, I'm not bothered. I am Pixie and I'll do my own thing. And that gentle reader is important to me.

PPP x