Big Ginge is on the warpath again. Last night, he terrorised Leo, Fat Lily AND me.
We were all hanging out in the kitchen, cosy-like. Leo on a chair, Fat Lily sphinx-like on the pew and me tapping away on the laptop and listening to Kurt Elling on You Tube when something crashed against the cat flap.
I was startled because at first I thought it was Lily trying to go through sideways or some other inventive new way but she was standing with her tail up like a poker and there was a blood-curdling “Yeeeeeeeeeeeooooooowwwwwwwww” from outside the flap, which fortunately is a secure cat flap which reads my cats’ microchips.
Jeez it was chilling. Pure evil. We all just stared at the flap and could just see his big ugly mug in the gloom. I thought perhaps I should do something. As I opened the door I heard the clatter of claws on a fence as Ginge made good his escape.
With visitations like that, it wasn’t surprising that Leo did a poop on the kitchen floor while we were away. My cat-sitter Ange, thought perhaps he was scared of going out. Too right.
As their owner and guardian it’s now incumbent on me to take them into the garden and so it came to pass that at 10.15pm I was standing in the dark, wet garden with a fleece over my head against the rain, waiting for my cats to have their last comfort break.
It’s ridiculous. I used to let the dog out last thing and he knew when to do when I hissed the urgent instruction (think Michelle of ze French Resistance in Allo Allo) “On the grass!”
The cats, on the other paw, have not got the faintest clue because I have severely neglected their “toilet on command” training. Now, it seems, that kind of convenient habit will be necessary.
Leo was at the vets again last Saturday because of more infected bites from Big Ginge – this time on his legs. He’s got scabbed wounds on his head too but I can only hope he’s beginning to fight back.
The trouble is Big Ginge is a predatory bruiser. No-one seems to know who he belongs to. Next step is to get Cats Protection to trap him – which shouldn’t be difficult – a big basket outside our back door should do it – and label him with something like “If the owner of this cat doesn’t get him neutered, we’ll remove his balls. Yours truly, Cats Protection” I’d do it myself if only they’d let me.
He was fighting another cat in a neighbouring garden only yesterday. They were having the usual growly whiny stand-off then a spat which the Other Cat actually won. Big Ginge slunk off. Perhaps the only cat he can bully is my Softy-Walter Leo.