FW: Why we should not get an office cat

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  Cats are obscenely violent little animals.

  Your idea of gentle harmless fun may be a game of Monopoly, or perhaps
  Nintendo. Or maybe even nude 'Twister' with your local firemen and their
  hose greasing machine. But your fluffy buddy is plotting other things
  while he purrs in your ear. He is banking on a night of singing, outdoor
  sex, killing things after toying with them for half an hour, then coming
  home and nudging you away from the fire. Even Josef Mengele didn't have
  the arrogance to come home from his butchery and lie on the oriental rug
  with his legs in the air.

  Anyone who has had a cat that has access to the Outside, will have
  suffered from what I am about to describe. Coming downstairs in the
  morning to find your living room looking like the bloody climax to a
  Martin Scorcese movie where one Italian has said to another "Your mamma
  -- she smella like a dog log."

  There is very little else worse than greedily tucking into your bowl of
  cornflakes, then spotting mouse entrails smeared up your collection of
  horse brasses, half an ear on your TV remote, and a rat's ballbag on the
  pouffe. I have woken up to find all manner of God's creatures in my house
  following my installation of a cat flap.

  Mice, bats, shrews, small birds, frogs, toads and a very pugnacious
  squirrel have all shat in terror on my Berber carpet. But it was the
  magpie that caused the most spectacular incident. And it chose to happen
  on one of the worst possible days of the month. My wife wasn't in the best
  of moods that morning. She was suffering from one of the deeper
  switchbacks in the bizarre rollercoaster of woman's lunar cycle.

  It was one of those few days in the month when she could have terrified
  even the mighty Ghengis Khan into picking up his underpants and putting
  them in the dirty washing basket. I had already been threatened with
  having my plums seen to with a cheese grater for the grievous offence of
  starting a new tube of toothpaste whilst there was still some left in the
  old one.  After I had painstakingly explained that the other toothpaste
  caused my tongue to swell up -- making every word I said sound like "Wob"
  -- I was answered with "You're a bastard and so are all your friends."

  It's worth digressing for a moment to consider this phenomenon. It is
  only just for that short window in the month that Man can participate
  in dialogues like:

    "What's the matter?"
    "NOTHING."
    "Oh, what is it,darling?"
    "Nothing.  It's just that boo hoo sob sob sob."
    "Hey -- don't cry... come here."
    "FUCK OFF.  Leave me alone."
    "Tell me what's the matter, please."
    "You don't understand. You never understand -- just GET OUT and leave me
  alone."
    "Ok, ok, I'll go for a beer with Anthony.  Can you pass me the 'pho-..."
    "You would as well, wouldn't you, you bastard? My mother was right....."

  Following that would be the long conversation to the mother, who would
  inevitably come round and look at me over the top of her glasses,
  obviously thinking "I know what you do to my daughter. Her father did it
  to me once.  There was a funny smell and a lot of washing."

  The first I heard of the magpie incident was when I was in the shower.
  Being a British shower, it was dribbling a woeful trickle of tepid water
  slower than an infected nostril, and I had to wriggle about a bit to get
  the flow to cover my body. I was currently concentrating on warming my
  back, having budgeted for my nipples temporarily turning into hat pegs,
  and my once proud set of parts shrivelling to those of an aging bulldog.

  I heard a noise from downstairs.

  "Matthew! Matthew!"

  Thinking it was only that another bottle of my home-brew had exploded
  because of cheerfully over-confident sugar usage, I didn't rush.

  "Matthew!  Help!"

  Now that sounded urgent. I recognised that voice. It was the voice
  normally reserved for a muffled "Oh God I swear I put toilet paper on that
  shopping list and this magazine hurts." I turned off the shower, and put
  on my bath robe. As I ran downstairs, I was surprised to see my two cats
  come hurtling into the hallway, terror written across their faces. My
  wife's voice was coming from the kitchen, so I opened the door and went
  in.

  Oh dear, oh dear. The kitchen looked like it had played host to an
  energetic Rolling Stones party where each member of the band had brought
  along their pet Tasmanian Devil. The room was destroyed. Upturned plant
  pots, bin on its side, pans everywhere and a stack of clean, ironed
  washing strewn over the floor making friends with the plant pot compost.

  And standing on the fridge-freezer, head cockily on one side, was the most
  impressive magpie that has ever lived. Magpie is, by his very nature, an
  arrogant bird, and this fellow was no exception. From the vicious curve
  of his beak to the jaunty angle of his black & white tail feathers, this
  chap meant business. All of a sudden I understood the whole situation.
  Working as a pair, the cats had thought they'd have him. Temporarily
  stunned by a double furry onslaught, the bird had allowed himself to be
  dragged into the kitchen via the cat flap. But then he'd woken up with a
  headache, in a bad mood and bursting to go to the toilet (If he'd had a
  proud but useless erection as well, then I would have accepted that human
  males share 90% of bird DNA).

  And so the fight had begun. The cats really had no chance. The damn thing
  looked like a nasty from a "Sinbad" movie. The only difference being that
  Ray Harryhausen never had the guts to animate the things that this monster
  did. Unless I'm mistaken, the line "Unsheath your sabre, Jason -- he's
  shitting on the microwave!" was not in any "Sinbad" film.

  Now, I had a problem. How could I tackle him? It was 8am, I was tired, and
  the last thing I wanted was a magpie having an energetic squawk in my
  bathrobe. I decided to go into the front room for a moment to think about
  it. My wife was already there. But magpie had been there before her. I
  looked at the state of the room, and was horrified when I saw the
  disruption on the table. "Look at the sofa" my wife sobbed, pointing at
  spots of magpie lime. "Never mind the fucking sofa," I shouted, pointing
at
  the table, "I was a cockhair away from finishing that jigsaw!"

  "Those stains on that fabric will never come out even with those banned
  cleaning chemicals I had to buy for your athletic support!"

  "Two thousand pieces and all I needed was that postman's foot!"

  We looked at each other decided to take our anger out on the magpie
  instead. I strode manfully into the kitchen, and opened the back door.
  Then I picked up the mop and swung it at the bird.  "Get...out...you...
  black & white BUGGER!"

  This seemed to have the desired effect. He didn't like that at all. He
gave
  me a look that said "I've had your cats, matey, and you're next". A very
  violent two minutes followed with a lot of flapping and swearing. Whilst
  this was going on, my wife, normally a quiet demure woman, donned one
  solitary boot so she could hoof our bemused tabby around the hall.

  At last I got the bird near the back door. I was a wreck. My hair had been
  flapped up so much I looked like a chicken. I was unshaven, my bathrobe
was
  hanging open, I had a violent gleam in my eye, and a mop in my hands. The
  bird saw he was beaten. With a defiant squawk and a flap, he swooped out
of
  the back door. Riding the victory I chased him out, whooping and shouting,
  "Get off my property you feathery fucker oh shit no sorry not you oh it's
  dangling out isn't it?"

  Mormons choose ridiculous times to call.


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