Fat Tabby’s catflap days are numbered

Fat Tabby caught red-pawed

It’s just after 2am and Noel is standing barefoot in the garden, wearing only his skimpy boxers and a grimace as he throws a snowball. Badly. His target has long since scarpered, but Fat Tabby’s days of dining at our expense are over. And we know where he lives.

After the last debacle when Fat Tabby was discovered bothering Socks Akers on his own turf, Noel set up a spy camera to get hard evidence. Using his techie skills and what looked like the inside of a toilet roll and sticky-back plastic,  he rigged up a motion-capture camera, pointing it at the food.

The next day, there was all the evidence we needed. Fat Tabby strutting around like he owned the place, an immediate order was placed for a magic catflap that only lets in cats who have the password, which is handily printed on the ID chips on their necks. Unfortunately there was a day, a whole day, to wait before it arrived. Remember when it took weeks for parcels to arrive? No, me neither.

So in that one day, the unthinkable happened, though in hindsight it was totally predictable. Fat Tabby had found an easily accessible source of food and warmth, why wouldn’t he come back again and again and again? Just before 2am and there was such a howling and yowling and carrying on, it was so loud it even woke me. Noel was downstairs like a flash, definitely a PB. Not wanting to miss out on the action, I watched from the window. There was Fat Tabby legging it down the snowy path pursued by scantily-clad Noel, with a snowball. Socks was lurking in the doorway, I think Socks he laughing.

The next day we were telling our cleaners, the Lovely Laughing Ladies, about thieving Fat Tabby and the come-uppance he was going to get, except that we didn’t know where he came from.  When they saw the photo, they recognised him immediately, he was Albert from number 3. The LLLs know him as a devious feline, who hides among the teddy bears on the children’s bed and leaps out, claws swiping, paws waving, then sneaks away, snickering like Dick Dastardly’s evil sidekick, Muttley.

Albert. We know who you are. We know where you live. Be afraid, be very afraid. And stay away from Socks Akers. You have been warned.

Intruder alert! Feline fur flies!

Socks the not-so-brave

There was a sudden commotion and almighty clatter and Socks Akers’ whiny voice floated up the stairs. “Intruder alert! Intruder alert!”,  followed by an eardrum-piercing yowl that would waken the dead. Then silence, broken by the faint growling of Hidey, our other cat. Something was up.

Noel was well into his REM sleep, but sprang into full alertness, clattering down the stairs, his naked milk-white torso reflecting the moonlight. That’s scare ’em, I thought, in my semi-wakefulness. My next thought was that Noel and Socks would be able to cope with whatever he found, and that I’d leave him to it. Hey, there could have been a burglar, or more likely dismembered rodents, or worse still, catsick, ewww, Noel could definitely deal with that.

The cat flap opened and closed, Socks the Brave, as we shall not call him, was cowering behind the settee, looking like he was trying to avoid the monsters from Dr Who. Hidey was pawing the treats bag, because it was there and she assumed Noel was there to feed her. She has no problem with daleks, they can’t do stairs and she is the Queen of the Stairs.

We’d suspected catty trouble when we saw Big Fatty, a huge tabby and white cat as big as a dog, with legs as thick as my arms, he was ambling up the garden path, pawsteps echoing down the ginnel. Socks was confident Big Fatty was way too lardy to fit through the catflap, so wasn’t worried. He weighs in at six kilos is no minion himself, but he is a scaredy cat. He’s all boasts and bluster when he’s perched on the upstairs windowsill twitching his whiskers at Big Fatty below. Or maybe he’s not figured out that something that looks small from far away gets larger the nearer it is. Socks Akers is not a very bright cat.

Hidey on the other hand, had worked out that not only was Big Fatty very big, he could indeed fit through the cat flap. With ease. She wasn’t too worried as she can also run very fast and hide extremely successfully, that’s why we called her Hidey.

It seemed Fat Tabby had helped himself to food and was about to bed down on the sofa. Socks told me he’d slapped FT about a bit and showed him what for. Hidey said Socks was a big fat smelly liar and a coward to boot. She said he’d wedged himself behind the sofa, covering is eyes with his paws. Socks said that was not the case, he’d spotted something very interesting behind the sofa and had then got something in his eye, besides, he wasn’t smelly, he was manly.

Noel shrugged his shoulders and came back upstairs, relieved that there were neither burglars, rodents nor catsick. Socks followed and jumped onto the windowsill, watching what he saw as a tiny FT disappearing into the bushes and congratulating himself on seeing off the interloper. As I said, he’s not a very brave cat, but we love him to bits.


The cafe of awwws and big smiles


We’ve a lot of cafes in Leeds, but the latest to open is the only one that comes with paws and purrs. The Kitty Cafe is the new home to a dozen or so rescue and stray cats who rush to greet you as soon as the door’s opened. Well, not so much rush and greet, they are typical cats and just ignore you until it suits them. Cats, eh?

We’d visited a cat cafe in Paris, it was the first I’d heard of cafes with cats, but the idea of sipping a latte surrounded by cats, particularly French cats, was very appealing, I was excited to see whether they miaowed with a French accent.  They didn’t, it seems miaowing is a universal language.

The Kitty Cafe opened in Leeds last week, of course we had to go. The windows were already covered with smudges where humans had pressed their noses in the hope of seeing a cat or two. I confess, one of those smudges was mine and yes, I saw the occupants who, having come from not-very-nice places to somewhere they would be fed and adored, were looking rather pleased with themselves.

Our one-hour slot was early morning, the cafe is fully booked for weeks, so we took the only available time. It gave us a chance to sit down with a cuppa and continue to be ignored by cats – pretty much like at home. However, we did observe the humans, every one of them awwwed as they came in and every one smiled.

There has been debate about the rights and wrongs of cat cafes and whether it’s cruel to the cats. But as far as I could see, the cats were getting on with being cats and have they very real prospect of finding homes. The cafe charged £6 per person to cover cat care, which is cheaper than going to the cinema and certainly more interactive. And the humans are happy, if only for an hour. I’ll definitely be back!




In praise of the greenhouse


I never imagined in all my life I’d be excited by greenhouse staging. Hell, up until a couple of weeks ago, I thought it was some kind of theatre set. But today it arrived, long and shiny, slats, struts, nuts and half nuts, and it was going in my new greenhouse.

Noel, who is to DIY what I am to spreadsheets, actually excelled himself (see what I did there?) The tools had been reclaimed from the cobwebs in the cellar and built a greenhouse. Granted it was from a kit, and he did have expert guidance from his dad, but he made the base from scratch, then assembled a glorious greenhouse. I was very impressed, so was his dad, and that takes some doing.

So there we were, a greenhouse, ready for green things. Thanks to a house move, some friends told me they had staging they didn’t need. I had no idea why they were telling me that until they explained that staging was shelves for greenhouses. Just what I needed – that and something new and shiny so I could feed us with home-grown goodies all summer.

It didn’t take long to sow seeds, everything from tomatoes to celery, peas to sweet peas. I already had a conservatory full of trays and pots of soil, which the cats were eyeing up, thank goodness we have a cat flap. Soon the greenhouse started filling up, tier upon tier, then the piece de resistance, aluminium staging, light as a feather, strong as an ox. Oh my goodness, it’s glorious.

This is my place. I just slide open the door, walk in, inhale and smile. Soon, it will smell of tomatoes and warm cat. I’ll probably spend most of my summer in there, perhaps I could sleep on the staging.

The cat is in the doghouse

Socks, the destroyer of emails
Socks, the destroyer of emails

“My name is is Ozymandias, king of cats”

No, your name is Socks, you’re no king, you’re not even a minor royal, but you’re about to be crowned

“Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair”

I think we need a conversation about those so-called works of yours. We’ll ignore the scratching of the furniture and trailing mud into the house after your digging expeditions in the garden. And we won’t even mention you dragging the chicken bones from the plates in the kitchen, or swiping your smaller, younger, cuter housemate, Hidey. It involves my computer, your fat furry backside and a disappearing inbox.

“Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away”

Let’s get this straight. You’re not an Egyptian deity, you’re a very naughty cat. You may think you’re very powerful, but it’s not big and it’s certainly not clever to make a colossal wreck of my inbox. How the hell did you manage to delete ALL my emails, and then log me out, just by prancing around on the keyboard? Have you got some kind of special powers? They’re gone, all my emails, nothing remains. You are very much in the doghouse.

“See, I told you I was Ozymandias, the destroyer of all things. And I’m also very cute, so you’ll forgive me instantly and then tickle my tummy and give me some of those yummy biscuits. And while you’re at it, I like the Felix catfood pouches, the beef ones. Except when it’s a Tuesday, I don’t like them on Tuesdays, I prefer the chicken ones then, though not on Thursdays, unless there’s an ‘r’ in the month. And will you shut the door when you shower? You’re w-a-a-a-y too white, it scares me to death…!


WTF, WFT, WTF, what the f……?


Cat Akers, now a girl, they're calling me Hidey FFS.
Cat Akers, now a girl, they’re calling me Hidey FFS.

There’s been a lot of fuss about Dr Who and the whole regeneration thing. He’s young, he’s old, he’s fat, he’s thin, he eats jelly babies, he drinks Costa coffee. I know about these things, I can understand all TV except Bagpuss. But me? I was definitely in a bad way. Cancer smancer. Life one on the way out, no matter, I knew I had eight left.

They took me to the Place of Strange Smells, quite frankly I was feeling shite, and was glad to go for a change. They didn’t bother with that cage thing which smelt of my old wee. Hey, a fella’s gotta make a mark. Or two. I just remember a little prick ha ha ha, then blissful, pain-free sleep.

I was dreaming about food, scratching posts, digging in garden of the poncy house behind have having a fantastic dump in the hope that the little guy who asked her to stop me going on his property would get it all over his Gucci loafers. Then, ahhh. Dark, light, more light and….

Hello world, me-ow. I knew I was back and I was B.A.D. OMG I felt good, young again, a spring in my step, ready to go ratting and eat my own body weight in steak and chicken with a few of those crunchy, tasty biscuits followed by a good old coughing up of a fresh furrball.  All that was needed was a good old preen and to lick my bits, gotta look after those family jewels.

But WTF? OK, I know this regeneration thing brings about a few changes, and I didn’t expect to be the same black and white. OK, tabby, that’s fine. Small, I can cope with that. But a girl? A GIRL? Cat Akers, the tom’s tom, a GIRL? Oh FFS I’m never going to live this down with the lads. And do you know what they’re calling me? Hidey. Hidey, I ask you, they can’t even spell it right, saying it’s because I ran off and hid. Too bloody right I did, don’t they know it’s still me? I just look a little different. I’m still badly-behaved though and no amount of looking cute will change THAT.

But we can photograph the dawn!

One keen camper
One keen camper

“Look at it this way,” Noel said as he took the green waterproof fabric from the little bag and tied its strings to the chairs and sofa, “for the price of a night in a hotel, we can stay away as many nights away as we want, wherever we want.”

“But it’s a tent,” I said, stating the obvious, even though the dining room was too narrow to accommodate all the sticky-up bits and the offending item looked more like a collapsed sailboard. “And a small one at that.”

The tent wasn’t small, it was bijou. In fact, it would sleep three, so would fit us and the cat, if he wanted to come with us, Noel said. That was all very well, but where was the bathroom? And the kitchen? And where would I plug in the hairdryer? And where would the car poo? Noel’s been to a lot of very loud rock concerts and I don’t think he heard me.

“Here’s the plan,” he said, inflating the Thermarest and laying it out in the tent. “We drive up to the Lakes after work, hike up to a Very Pretty Place, travelling light, carrying our tent,” he emphasised the prettiness of the Lakes, as if I needed convincing.

“But they look rather good from a hotel,” I protested. “And they have jolly nice toilets and real beds. They even turn the sheet down and put a chocolate on the pillow,” Noel had another of those rock concert loss-of-hearing moments, these were becoming too frequent, maybe he needs to take up one of those hearing aid offers in the unsolicited Saga magazine he gets and immediately bins .”When we get there, we can eat and then take pictures of the sunset,” he said wistfully. The evening meal, it turned out, would be reconstituted risotto cooked on a camping stove in the Great Outdoors. What could be finer? I have a list….

Following the photography session, we get to go to sleep really early – and wake up early, possibly even before we’ve fallen asleep,  to enjoy leftover reconstituted risotto and photograph the dawn. We wouldn’t need to set an alarm, the sunlight would sear through the thin sheeting. Oh good.

I’m not made for camping, I need toilets, showers, a coffee maker (though none of that instant stuff) and somewhere I can stand up, but I promised I’d give it a go, though for a maximum of one night. And it would have to be warm and rain-free, so nothing this summer, then.  Cat on the other hand, seemed taken with the tent and wouldn’t move out even when Noel took it down. Maybe we should just put it up in the garden.