No! Not that Ninja, as gorgeously sexy as they are. Ooh, I do love most things Japanese I must say. I’m talking about my Ninja. As below. You’ll get to know her a little better in the coming weeks. You have been warned.
Before I begin many thanks again to each and every blogger out there who took the time to read my stuff, like it, follow me. Don’t follow me I’m lost too. Boom! Boom! In the 70s I wore such a patch on my jeans depicting a rather hairy caricature of a figure looking like Russell Brand who’s just come in from a hurricane below which said just that. “Don’t follow me I’m lost too!” It summed me up at the time. And on and off since. Anyway, my old fruit cakes, I will get round to visiting your blog maybe not this week or even month but in six months time but I will visit. What’s the big deal it only takes a couple of minutes I might hear some say, hmm? And fair point except it doesn’t take me just a couple of mins. I like to make my visit count and do it right. Properly look through your stuff in return and perhaps spend up to an hour on your site. I tried to keep up and cut corners but it didn’t sit well with me and it doesn’t work. Again, thank you.
Happiness to you and do something nice for yourself and at least one other.
And apologies for missing last week’s blog but energy took over or rather the lack of and I was completely incapacitated when I did a silly thing in pulling a muscle. You never appreciate how much you use your muscles until they are damaged. I’m talking about the muscle under my breast bone but fear not! I was fine just as long as I didn’t lie flat or sit up, cough, sneeze, talk, blow my nose or breathe too deeply. Apart from that it was fine. When I did have to sneeze or cough or blow my nose I soon discovered the only way to achieve this with the minimum amount of pain was to squat down and stick my bottom out behind me. I mean, can you imagine if I had to do that in public? Really!
Anyway, blog as below is once again about cats as they do seem to go down well. It’s all true apart from the time frame and I do not own a Prada handbag. Allow me a little artistic license.
Definition of a Ninja:
Engineering genius, pilot and a world-class feline secret agent (003½) with a Licence to Fill her stomach all prettily wrapped up in a foghorn for a voice and still as powerful albeit somewhat croaky in later years. It sounds like she’s gargling. Interfering with video recorders remains a favourite hobby of hers. She just can’t get into DVDs.
As I sit here attempting to give the impression I’m working my mind wanders back to last month. This isn’t difficult. I tend to do it a lot. What momentous occasion has popped into my mind interrupting the important decision-making of whether to take out a comma or leave it in?
Well, if it was good enough for Oscar Wilde… is it something of a romantic nature, I hear you ask? Absolutely! Allowing a cat to dribble all over your head could be considered romantic within some cultures.
But I digress.
Last week, Ninja was sick. That unmistakable retching sound only a cat can do with such aplomb and finesse woke me up. Well, perhaps finesse is too strong a word. Not to worry, I thought in my half sleep, I’ll clean it up tomorrow, and went back to my dreams. Now, where was I? Was it Rudolph Valentino this time or was I about to have my neck bitten by Bela Lugosi… Tom! I left behind a curious combination of bats and sheiks to hear Tom sounding off like he’d just trodden in something nasty and that’s because he had.
“What’s this on the carpet?”
“What’s what?” I shouted down.
How was I supposed to answer such difficult questions and so early on in the morning all before a life-affirming hot drink? I grabbed my Prada handbag (recent acquisition second-hand done my bit for recycling) and shuffled downstairs to find Tom hopping about like he was performing an excerpt from Riverdance.
He just couldn’t get that bendy Barbie doll swing thing they do from below the knee.
“This!” he cried, shoving his foot towards my face.
I moved my Prada handbag safely out of the way and stepped forward to find myself gazing down at what appeared to be a flattened hairy prune stuck to the bottom of his foot. Suddenly, I remembered the escapades of the night before.
“I think Ninja was sick,” I replied helpfully, looking at my little tortoiseshell bundle looking back at me.
Tom said nothing. He hopped over to the staircase before limping up each stair on the heel of his foot. That’s all right. I’ll clean it up, then, shall I?
“I’ll clean it up then, shall I?” I said.
“Would you? That would be a great help, thanks!”
I placed my Prada handbag safely on the couch, looked at it lovingly, and glanced down at the carpet. There on the floor was the offending stain. I was about to head for the usual assortment of hot water, sponge and disinfectant, when I spied another on the arm of the couch. Then I saw another on the edge of the rug, and another all over Tom’s Kylie Minogue CD. I had to agree with that one but what on earth? They were everywhere! Had Shingalana, her much larger son, grabbed Ninja by her tail and swung her round and round as she projected regurgitated fur balls and tuna fish?
It looked like we’d been bombed by anti-aircraft.
Tip: Do not rush to clean up cat sick. Let it dry. It’s much easier to scrape off. It comes up like a mini dried cowpat leaving you to simply clean offending stain with hot water, disinfectant and a scratchy sponge. Do remember to discard sponge straight afterwards to prevent it being used to wash the dishes in a momentary lapse of forgetfulness.
How do I know it was Ninja? Being sick, I mean. I recognise her retch. It sounds like a Lada starting on a cold day. Plus, she’s sick more often than Shingalana. What do you mean, like all supermodels she vomits! That’s how she stays so thin. Cheek! It’s simply one of those things like something else peculiar to her. Something she’s been doing since she was a kitten.
I’ve racked my brain in trying to approach this with some vestige of decency and the sad thing is, I can’t! I’m gutted. It shows a huge deficiency in my writing ability and as I sit here lamenting my lack of skill I sob into Ninja’s fur. She leaves them all over the place like calling cards. But it’s not something that’s ever caused me enough concern to have her bundled into her basket and off to seek advice from the vet.
Besides, it’s not a daily occurrence. More like once a month.
I simply remove offending object and wipe the immediate area clean with hot water, disinfectant and scratchy sponge… especially cautious not to experience mode of memory loss and wash up dishes with same sponge later on in day. As if! Yuck.
What am I talking about?
Put it this way.
How did one of those little round chocolates that are so light they float in the air all by themselves (you’d think NASA would be interested) end up on my carpet when we didn’t even buy any, hmm?
Never walk barefoot in our house is all I can say. If you’re not kicking one of Ninja’s calling cards you’ll be squelching about in one of her regurgitated meals. I think it’s because she gobbles down her food. I’ve only ever heard sounds like that before on a pig farm.
“Oh, look at that! How long has that been hiding there?” You can hear us laugh as we grab some hot water, disinfectant, kitchen roll and scratchy sponge.
“Where do they come from?”
“Honestly? Do I really have to answer that?”
It’s a Ninja thing and it’s fine by me. And Tom, too. But then I’m usually the one who stumbles upon them and consequently disposes of them like a regular bomb disposal expert.
We have a theory. She licks herself constantly. Ninja could lick for the UK. Anyway, when she visits the toilet it’s quite possible that (a chocolate that floats in the air all by itself surely would have NASA interested) her deposit gets tangled up with the hairs in her digestive system and ends up sticking to her bottom like Velcro. However, the rapid movement of her little legs causes it to disarm itself only to be discovered by someone at a later date.
And that would be me.
It’s simply one of those things. It’s dismissed with a shrug of the shoulders along with disinfectant and a sponge, still, I can’t help wishing… wait a moment! Has the central heating gone up the spout? I’m burning up and it’s not even summer. It’s autumn. Ah, yes, autumn. It’s that time of year when breath is in the air each time you speak along with heaps of russet-coloured leaves dancing at your feet.
Shingalana adores this time of year. Autumn allows him to act like his big cousins in India and Africa. Hunting and rustling about in the leaves. Not that he ever catches anything. He just likes to mimic his relatives doing what comes naturally in their natural habitat. He never misses his favourite programme on BBC2. You know the one, that wildlife show they do so well. Shingalana likes to imagine he’s one of the big cats and if his body language is anything to go by, it would appear tigers are among those he wishes most to emulate.
But then, that comes as no surprise.
The name, Billy Arjan Singh, is spoken with reverence in this household. At his home at Tiger Haven in India, Billy demonstrated care towards ‘big’ cats, to all animals, the only way a human being should: on equal terms and with respect. Most individuals would hitch up their dhoti and run for their lives when confronted by the sight of a fully-grown tiger strolling towards them, but not Billy.
According to Billy, there was only one difference between the cats that would drop in at his home and a house cat. A regular-sized plastic poop scoop simply didn’t do it. A shovel was far more in keeping. He is a man to emulate. Billy, bless you, and may your persona live on.
Sorry, have to go. I can hear that Lada starting up again. Oh, good grief! Have you thought of eating more grass, darling, just as a suggestion?