While the cat’s away…

August 13, 2009

One of the worst plans I have ever had was to urinate whenever The Mushroom showed signs of hippiedom. I simply didn’t think it through. There were two major flaws in this plan. Firstly, the signs of hippiedom are now manifold and I simply do not have enough wee in me to do an effective job. Secondly, I only had to wee somewhere that wasn’t my litter tray once for my Dad and The Mushroom to think that all of a sudden I’m incontinent and whoosh me down to my litter tray and point at it for a ridiculous amount of time, as if introducing me to it and its purpose. I am eleven. I have done a lot of toilet trips in those years. Yes, Dad, I know what it’s for. Sheesh. If only he knew that I only weed on the book to save him from a life of being married to a hippy – albeit a non-smoking, non-stoned hippy, but a hippy nonetheless. Well, I tried. This time next week The Mushroom will have him eating tofu burgers, and we’ll see how he likes that. The smell will not be disimiliar to that of the tray I was made to sniff this afternoon.

The Hippy was away today, visiting friends. Her absence resulted in both my Dad and The Mushroom, at different times, standing at the row of recycling bins, tin or bottle in hand, with a look of bemusement and confusion.

“Bottles!”, shouts my Dad, “Which one do bottles go into?”

The Mushroom, with The Baby attached to hip, emerges from the kitchen, “Shit, I don’t know. What kind of bottle?”

“What kind of bottle?”, repeats my Dad, “It’s a bottle! It’s just a bottle! Where does it go?”

“There are different bins for different types of bottles. What number does it have on the back?”

My Dad looks, for a moment, terrified. “There are different bins for different bottles depending on the number it has written on it?”

“Yes.”, she replies.

“It was ‘7’. Which bin do bottles with the number ‘7’ go in?”

My Dad and The Mushroom pause and share a look of panic.

“Just hide it, love, till she gets back.”


The Cave Troll has also been out every day for about a week. Apparently, he is somewhere doing more things with the Polish man, Man With Missing Hair. He does not like the Polish man. Or, more to the point, he does not like the sound the Polish man makes when he is trying to make ‘music’. In fact, The Cave Troll appears to not like ‘rap’, which, I have since gathered, is the genre of music the Polish man is making. I am thus utterly stupified as to why The Cave Troll is going out every day to help him if he is hating every aspect of what the Polish man is doing.

“How was today? How many tracks did you finish?”, asks The Mushroom over dinner.

[Tracks? What the frig are ‘tracks’? Up to now, I’ve been very proud of my vocabularly, especially considering I’m a cat and all, but I now am looking up stuff on frigging Wikipedia every day.]

“He’s shit. His stuff is shit. We’ve done five. They’re all shit.”

“Oh.”, says The Mushroom. “How many more have you left to do?”


“Are they shit too?”

“Yes. They’re even shitter.”


 I can sympathize, however; Man With Missing Hair did seem terribly angry and shouty. I am almost beginning to feel sorry for The Cave Troll who, incidentally, is still calling me ‘Zee’.

So, my Dad and The Mushroom have had the house to themselves. And what did they do with this luxury? Walk about naked eating grapes? Cook a five course meal and eat it lit by candles? Build a bonfire and toast marshmellows? No, they did none of these things. They crawled about on the floor following The Baby and watched ‘Dog the Bounty Hunter’ on TV. Humans are odd.


One Response to “While the cat’s away…”

  1. Lorie said

    oh, god. and is zeebs truely wetting on books now?? sheesh. that is horrible if he is. yikes.

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