Cat-sitting, Wednesday

Wednesday: The cats are now used to the setup. No one feels the need to throw any kitty tantrums, or be overly affectionate (just in case Sophie and Scott feel the need to sail into the sunset, and I'm the only feeding option left). I've had a bitch of a day, the victim of mild cyber-bullying by a stupid academic who hates repetition but won't take no for an answer. After several e-mails in which I slowly lose the will to live, he finally gets the point. I don't have the information he needs, but I'm the only one daft enough to have put my name on an e-mail. I think vicious thoughts and blame the migraine medication, which normally would have worked by now. Wish I'd never thought of a sickie, now I am feeling really ill. Between the headache and this joker I feel vile. I wonder if I cover him in tuna, will the cats kill him off and dispose of the evidence? I put this idea to mate Anna, as a purr-fect murder. After the groans stop, she points out that all the cats are fussy eaters bar Elvis; he really can't be expected to do this alone.

Back at the ranch, the Reservoir Mogs Southern Chapter are being little angels. Back home, I wake at 3am with a temperature and the most awful stomach pains. Just before I pass out near the bathroom, I wonder if that academic is studying some bizarre voodoo cult... come round to the reception committee of scared cats, daft dog and Mum with the fix-everything cup of tea. Finally see the bright side of her moving back to my house for a bit :)

Thursday: 9am, feel ok and go to work to fix the pesky voodoo academic once and for all, tuna or no tuna! 11am, sent home by boss. She doesn't say if it is the pallor or the murder plot which disturbs her most. So I spend time with the cats. Sophie and Scott have a house full of crime novels, but I feel sick and lazy. We enjoy a pleasant evening with an end-of-term feel about it. They appear to understand the phrase "your mum and dad are back tomorrow", and Boyfriend Cat shows up for a final spot of supper with me. And no, I can't take him home.

Friday: spend the morning in my GP's surgery and in the local outpatients! Doc H decides that heavy-duty medication and a bloodtest is necessary. Don't dare do the Tony Hancock joke about nearly an armful, as everyone in the room is way younger than me, and classic comedy may not be their thing. Sophie and Scott are back and I'm delighted the cats have not killed each other or trashed the house - result! My cats are puzzled at the amount of time I've spent with them today, but not really complaining. They just don't know about the significance behind the fresh tuna steaks...

cat-sitting continued.

Tuesday: Went into work to find everyone had been ill over the weekend. Like brave little soldiers we all trooped in and spent a day comparing symptoms, sad bunch of hypochondriacs and drama queens that we are. Glad to escape to Catsville. Holly makes a fashionably late entrance for supper, Boyfriend Cat turns up bang on time. Rumpole has rediscovered the joys of silver-ball chasing, and is very nimble for a fat cat. Elvis is staging his own version of BBC Springwatch, gazing contentedly into mid-distance at nothing in particular. They all turn up as I'm leaving, to show a bit of affection. No plaintive meowing as I abandon them, just a 'Bye, then!' and they all trot off to their preferred cosy places. Back home, Eric (Chief Reservoir Mog) gives me a gentle head-butt in greeting. The others just mooch about and sniff distainfully at me.

Cat-sitting

Sophie and Scott have trusted me to look after their furry little darlings for a week. They are off to lose their landlubber status, learning to sail in far-off exotic Dunoon. Rather than add this to their blogs, I use the opportunity to start posting.

So I am looking after Holly, Rumpole and Elvis. My psycho-kitties are being cared for by my mother (Pesky Critter par excellence).

Saturday, visit 1: Holly decides she hates my guts, hides under bed. Does a very good impression of implacable hatred mixed with heartbroken dismay. Elvis comes in for a scoff, then back to the garden. He is determined to get every frog in the garden, and can't be distracted by pleasantries. Rumpole is fat, friendly and easily won over with a smart bit of ear-rubbing. Back home, my lot pick up the scent of strangers. I am shunned.

Saturday, visit 2: Holly changes her sulking venue, choosing the garage roof instead. Very Strangeways-here-we-come, but Scott is a Morrisey fan and she can't help being influenced. Elvis assures me there are several hundred frog corpses in the garden. I strongly suggest they stay there. Rumpole becomes fascinated by the invisible mouse in the kitchen. I consider exploring with a torch but my nerve fails me. If I find a real one, I'll have to do something. With three cats in the house, that seems like unnecessary work. Back home, my lot are still having hissy-fits, at least the dog is still my pal.

Sunday: Holly returns to underbed sulking for a while. At some point she considers that I sound suitably forlorn and broken, and becomes my bezzie mate. It might have something to do with the frantic game of 'chase the silver paper ball' - I'm horribly unfit, and I think she enjoys my pain. Rumpole joins me on the sofa to watch 'Dr Who' as I recover. Another cat turns up. It is the stray Boyfriend Cat, all bootfaced and hopeful. Easily fed and easily pleased. I like him.

Monday: Fight off migraine and head for the daily visit. Elvis is the king of the sofa, Rumpole is all cosy in a box near the dining table. Holly comes downstairs to greet me, but makes it clear I am not worthy. She just wanted to be quick off the mark when the food goes down. Elvis is a greedy little so-and-so. But I get a little feline sympathy, and am tempted to throw a sickie and stay with them tomorrow.

Well, it's taken a while...

Back in April 2005, I wanted to post something on a friend's blog. I sort-of started to create this blog, and did bugger all with it.

I still check his blog regularly, and other friends have gone to the dark side, so I'm joining in.

The Reservoir Mogs of the title are my cats. Other people get nice fluffy-purry-cutesy cats. Mine are paid-up feline sociopaths (hence the nickname, they make Tarantino look like Thora Hird when they get going) and I'm jealous. I also share my home with a dog whose nickname is the Yorkshire Terrorist. He is the ringleader of the pesky critters, which also includes family, friends, work colleagues and anyone else who may get a mention

And right now, I'm cat-sitting for the Reservoir Mogs (Southern Chapter).

Jeez... is there enough tequila in the world for this?