Hearing Things

September 18, 2009

All the humans in the house have a cold, and my lordy, are some of them making a big deal about it. It’s just a cold. Not even flu. Certainly not cat flu, which is very serious. It’s not even like the time I got poisoned or, as my dad likes to refer to it, the time I ‘pretended to have cancer’. For the record, I did not pretend to have cancer. At no point did I a) say that’s what I had or b) pretend to have the symptoms. A vet thought that’s what I had. What had actually happened is that my Dad, in a hungover stupor, had dropped one of his arthritis tablets on the floor. The tablet looked an awful lot like a Whiskas Dentabit. I ate it. I then lost all movement in my legs, stopped eating and had terrible stomach cramps, and was taken to any number of specialists who poked and prodded and – and this bit I’m still recovering from, even though it was about three years ago now – stuck a thermometer up my bottom, an orifice that should, in my opinion, remain an out only valve. I was neutered as a kitten. I am an entirely a-sexual creature. Please do not stick things up my bottom. Anyway, the moral of the tale is, cats should never eat Sulfasalazine, even when it looks like a Whiskas Dentabit. And the other moral is that humans should not leave drugs toxic to cats on the floor, especially when they look like Whiskas Dentabits.

The interesting things about all the humans having a cold is that the difference between male humans and female humans is dizzyingly apparent. The Hippy is pretending there is nothing wrong. The Cave Troll is behaving as if he has The Plague. Interestingly, The Mushroom is somewhere in between; she’s carrying on doing what she’s doing (which, to my feline eyes, is VERY LITTLE. She holds The Baby. She eats with The Baby. She plays with The Baby. She dresses The Baby. She baths The Baby. Hardly a day’s work, is it? It’s hardly, like, going out to chase mice and finches and playing mind games with That Black Dog. That’s a day’s work. ), but stopping at thirty minute intervals to announce that she ‘feels like shite’, and then carries on. The Baby just seems frustrated by the fact that she’s got a cold, and keeps trying to carry on as normal then stopping and wiping her nose in annoyance.

I have discovered a newly found respect for The Baby. Firstly, she has stopped pulling my tail. She now tries to pat me. In actual fact what she ends up doing is lightly hitting me, but I quite like that. Secondly, she has developed a habit of pulling That Black Dog’s tail and squealing with delight. This is a girl after my own heart. If I had opposable thumbs I’d be totally joining in that game. And thirdly, I think she’s missing my Dad as much as I am, which is fair enough, as he’s her Dad too. She keeps looking at his photo and pointing, shouting ‘Dadadadada’. Whilst this isn’t an actual word, I’m guessing it means ‘Dad’ and, to be fair, it’s better than I can do, so well done.

The Mushroom, being ill, still follows The Baby around and plays with The Baby, but isn’t reacting like The Baby has just learnt Hebrew and is, actually, the Messiah whenever she picks up her stacking bricks.Which means today I was spared conversations such as these:

“Da!”, says The Baby, pointing at the dog.

“Did you hear that?”, The Mushroom will cry to whoever is in hearing range, ‘She said ‘dog’!”

Later that same day…

“Da!”, says The Baby, pointing at the door.

“Oh my goodness!”, cries The Mushroom, “She said ‘door’! She clearly said ‘door’!”

Even later that same day…

“Da!”, says The Baby, pointing at The Cave Troll.

“Wow!”, exclaims The Mushroom, “She said Granddad!”

No, she didn’t. Using the same word for three separate things doesn’t count just because you point at them. A dog, a door and a Cave Troll don’t suddenly all become a ‘da’ just by virtue of pointing. If they did, there would be no need for nouns. We could just have one. For example, ‘Beaver’. Conversations would go like this: ‘Could you put the beaver on the beaver?”, and ‘Pass me the beaver’. They don’t go like that. Different things have different names.

In any case, The Baby could have very eloquently explained the process of photosynthesis today, but The Mushroom would have been far too enveloped in her world of snot to hear. She didn’t, then, notice when The Baby pointed at me, said, ‘Cat!’, pointed at herself, said ‘Mah!”, smiled, and crawled off. “My Cat’. She called me ‘My Cat’. I can almost feel myself welling up. Clever Baby.


4 Responses to “Hearing Things”

  1. me said

    clever baby xxx

  2. Anne-Marie said

    *sigger*…you said ‘beaver’ heheheheheheheh. x

  3. Anne-Marie said

    …i meant ‘snigger’…which is probably why i don’t write a blog of any kind. Apart from living a very boring life and lacking the neccesary wit, i also cannot spell for shit. x

  4. […] eaten one of my Dad’s arthritis pills which looked almost exactly like a Whiskas Dentabit(https://zeebling.wordpress.com/2009/09/18/hearing-things/), so I would be grateful if any ‘edgy’ readers could enlighten me on to what might have […]

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