A History of Violence

August 28, 2009

I am, it would appear, in the doghouse. I wish That Black Dog had a doghouse, and would go in it. It doesn’t appear to matter what he does, the worst that ever happens to him is that he’s sent outside for a nanosecond and then let straight back in. It’s an absolute farce. It goes like this:

1. Everybody sits down to eat.

2. Dog appears and starts to breathe his fishy breath on everyone

3. Dog is told an average of seven times to ‘Sit’.

4. Dog sits.

5. Dog gets up again and breathes fishy breath on everyone again.

6. Dog sent outside where he whines.

7. Dog let back in again.

And repeat.

Why is he always so hungry? The Hippy feeds him. He gets his doggy Iams and pasta and rice and meat and all sorts of stuff. Every day – every, single, day – he eats my Iams. Admittedly, my Dad or The Mushroom then puts more Iams in my bowl, but it means my cat food money is being spent on That Black Dog and, and this bit really sticks in my claw, he leaves that fishy smell in my bowl which tarnishes the Iams quite considerably. I work hard for that cat food. Kinda. And do you know what happens to That Black Dog when he does this? Nothing. Nada. Bastard.

Anyhoo, I appear to be in trouble with both my Dad and The Mushroom and I would like to point out that I have done nothing wrong. The Mushroom and The Baby were lying on the bed. Now, the bed is strictly speaking mine during the day, but I have no objections to sharing it. The Mushroom and The Baby were minding their own business, The Mushroom reading and The Baby napping, when The Baby woke up, spun round, crawled towards me, said her version of my name and then yanked my tail. Hard. Three times. All I did was hiss at her. What was I supposed to do, purr? It frigging hurt. And do you know what? The Mushroom saw her do it. She watched her crawl up to me, got all proud when she said ‘Eeebie’ (my name is ‘Zeebling’. Why is this so hard? )and then, to all extents and purposes, let her yank my tail. Five years I’ve known that woman. Five years we’ve lived together, happily. Surely I’m owed enough respect for her to stop The Baby actually hurting me?

Apparently not. And apparently, hissing at The Baby is very much not the done thing. Crumbs, I haven’t seen The Mushroom react like that since the time I accidentally weed in her very expensive new handbag (in my defence; we were living in a flat with no garden at the time, and my litter tray was on the balcony, and it had rained, and it was all soggy. I didn’t want to go to the toilet in a soggy, water-logged litter tray. It would have got my paws wet. And she had left the bag open, on the floor by the balcony door. I assumed she’d left it there for me. I clearly was mistaken). Worse than hissing at The Baby, it would appear, is putting ones claws anywhere near The Baby.

I would like to make absolutely clear here that I DID NOT TOUCH HER. My claws did not – I repeat – DID NOT – make contact with The Baby. And that wasn’t just luck, I absolutely did not intend to scratch her, just to let her know that yanking a sleeping cat’s tail is not on. Despite this, do you know what The Mushroom did? She frigging well hit me on the nose. Cow.

“You did what?”, asked my Dad when The Mushroom told him this. Hooray, I thought. He’ll whack her on the nose and then all will be fair.

“I whacked him on the nose. I didn’t hit him hard.”

“Hang on, you let The Baby yank his tail, and then you whack Zeebs on the nose for reacting? He’s a cat! You can’t teach a cat not to do that by whacking him on the nose!” (Bit annoyed with that, actually. Like being a cat means I can’t understand cause and effect. No evidence for that sweeping statement at all, in my opinion).

Despite his defence of me, my Dad was clearly in a mood for me for not, I don’t know, sitting stoically like some kind of Egyptian statue whilst The Baby went through her litany of games, namely, 1) Pull my tail, 2) Pull my ears and 3) Scream with delight whilst thumping my rib cage. I tried to sulk by sitting in the kitchen but that frigging Black Dog kept appearing, thinking every bit of movement was a cue for more food.

The day ended with a fitting moment of justice, though. The Mushroom was tickling The Baby who ‘accidentally’ then kicked The Mushroom in the mouth, giving her a split lip. Nice one, Baby, I thought to myself. Perhaps she’s on my side after all.


One Response to “A History of Violence”

  1. annablagona said

    long suffering zeebling 😦

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