Cooking Fats
Okay, okay so I'm not really here. I am off dealing with things in the real world, resting up, clearing the decks (deck, singular; its a bungalow).
Except.
Except for two weeks of cooking fats. If they werent cooking they were creating, loudly, to establish when it might be their turn. Over the last few days our adopted trollope 'fat' and her shyly chosen beau have been regularly 'cooking' at all times of the day and night, on the front room carpet.
Across homework, school shoes and the hoover cable.
In front of the childrens' television.
In front of the stunned guinea pigs.
In front of my ten and twelve year olds who insisted on finding the camera to produce proof, thus:
Yes I've heard the rumours about the feline penis; all that stuff about backward spikes or the like. I must admit neither I nor my giggling children saw any on this particular male's conical accoutrements when he decided to stick one leg in the air and give them a quick spruce mid-courtship.
The problem is that all the toms around here seem to have impeccable manners, so that our young hussy is rolling and roiling like some hypnotised starlet until her beau gets down to business, then promptly changing her mind like a librarian with PMT and a large knife.
After every good start there is about thirty seconds of hope and heaving enthusiasm before she decides it hurts too much, twists from his grasp and takes chunks out of his face. Said tom will promptly back off, and stare at her admiringly and patiently as if she were some goddess, waiting for the next chance to be allowed to bite the back of her neck. Poor, pitiful boys, they are. After 14 days then, she is still not pregnant, ergo her body is still giving off the 'come-hither' like some sort of radar signal and the peace is still not restored.
There are, it seems, only so many days that a sensible tom can take this abuse whilst camping out without food or water, so the two best offers have departed, at last. I have no idea whether they limped home to nurse wounded pride and equally wounded flesh, or whether they have simply gone up the road to the latest siren call. I suppose that somewhere, some tom is a serial shagger who only turns up at his real home for food, before barrelling back out of the door.
Mercifully, for the moment, there is only one offer left, one that she has already steadfastly avoided by balancing precariously on the top of the compost bin for hours at an end (or anything small enough to stop him getting on a level). It seems he is very local and pops back home over the fence for his tea and then, like Monty Python's Spanish Inquisition, tries (again and again) for the element of surprise. At one point I saw him sunning himself atop the guinea pig cages, with her, wild eyed and worried, backed in under the wheelbarrow, in the wet grass.
He has a lovely singing voice and almost speaks. He reminds me of Leeloo in The Fifth Element, that moment when she first falls from the sky into Korben's taxi and learns to say "Pah-lee-azz", all teary eyed and desperate. Piercing, that's the word.
Its amazing, but somehow what's adorable at 3 in the afternoon takes on a whole different mood at 3 am.
At least he hasn't made it indoors yet, unlike the other two. At least he hasn't got to third base and suffered the physical and mental scars involved in our Milly's displeasure.
At least we don't face the twice nightly sound of cats screaming and everything being knocked off the table or window ledge.
He's just sitting there, singing.
And singing.
And..... and if anyone knows how to board up a cat flap in an external upvc door?
Anyone? *whimper*
Except.
Except for two weeks of cooking fats. If they werent cooking they were creating, loudly, to establish when it might be their turn. Over the last few days our adopted trollope 'fat' and her shyly chosen beau have been regularly 'cooking' at all times of the day and night, on the front room carpet.
Across homework, school shoes and the hoover cable.
In front of the childrens' television.
In front of the stunned guinea pigs.
In front of my ten and twelve year olds who insisted on finding the camera to produce proof, thus:
Yes I've heard the rumours about the feline penis; all that stuff about backward spikes or the like. I must admit neither I nor my giggling children saw any on this particular male's conical accoutrements when he decided to stick one leg in the air and give them a quick spruce mid-courtship.
The problem is that all the toms around here seem to have impeccable manners, so that our young hussy is rolling and roiling like some hypnotised starlet until her beau gets down to business, then promptly changing her mind like a librarian with PMT and a large knife.
After every good start there is about thirty seconds of hope and heaving enthusiasm before she decides it hurts too much, twists from his grasp and takes chunks out of his face. Said tom will promptly back off, and stare at her admiringly and patiently as if she were some goddess, waiting for the next chance to be allowed to bite the back of her neck. Poor, pitiful boys, they are. After 14 days then, she is still not pregnant, ergo her body is still giving off the 'come-hither' like some sort of radar signal and the peace is still not restored.
There are, it seems, only so many days that a sensible tom can take this abuse whilst camping out without food or water, so the two best offers have departed, at last. I have no idea whether they limped home to nurse wounded pride and equally wounded flesh, or whether they have simply gone up the road to the latest siren call. I suppose that somewhere, some tom is a serial shagger who only turns up at his real home for food, before barrelling back out of the door.
Mercifully, for the moment, there is only one offer left, one that she has already steadfastly avoided by balancing precariously on the top of the compost bin for hours at an end (or anything small enough to stop him getting on a level). It seems he is very local and pops back home over the fence for his tea and then, like Monty Python's Spanish Inquisition, tries (again and again) for the element of surprise. At one point I saw him sunning himself atop the guinea pig cages, with her, wild eyed and worried, backed in under the wheelbarrow, in the wet grass.
He has a lovely singing voice and almost speaks. He reminds me of Leeloo in The Fifth Element, that moment when she first falls from the sky into Korben's taxi and learns to say "Pah-lee-azz", all teary eyed and desperate. Piercing, that's the word.
Its amazing, but somehow what's adorable at 3 in the afternoon takes on a whole different mood at 3 am.
At least he hasn't made it indoors yet, unlike the other two. At least he hasn't got to third base and suffered the physical and mental scars involved in our Milly's displeasure.
At least we don't face the twice nightly sound of cats screaming and everything being knocked off the table or window ledge.
He's just sitting there, singing.
And singing.
And..... and if anyone knows how to board up a cat flap in an external upvc door?
Anyone? *whimper*
posted by Cheryl at 6:03 PM
6 Comments:
ROFLMAO!
I remember asking my mom two things:
1) When's the kitty going to fall apart? (I wanted to know when the kittens were coming.)
2) Do cats get married?
Answer to the first question was "when she's damned good and ready" and answer to the second question was "Nah, Dinah will do it with any Tom, Dick or Harry that comes her way."
Thus, my romantic spirit was formed at age five, and I have a horny Siamese (no pedigree, just markings) to thank.
Okay, my work here is done. Now I'm going back to look at your kitty porn :-)
I'm not sure but I think that guy on top of that feline could use a diagram.
Uh huh.
She's got it, they want it, and Milly's hanging on to it.
Heeeeeee, this was a hoot.
And yeah, there's nothing like the screach of cats (trying) to mate at three am.
this was a most pleasant alternative to those typical
holiday-type posts of today.
cat-fucking. meow and wow.
I recommend gaffer tape - sticks to pvc very well. Trust me, I've tried it :).
Earplugs?
duct tape, defintely. it will work wonders on that cat door.
I recall watching a housemante's kitten (supposedly too small to go into heat). She'd stick her little butt in the air.... meow piteously.... rub against anything she could find..... then out (neutered) male cat would wander over and stand over her (driving her to a complete frenzy) and after a moment, he would realize that he didn't quite know what to do there, and he would walk away. I always felt so sorry for the little girl.
I hope your girl is happier soon, and you are sleeping better.
Sometimes I wish I were a cat, napping all day and owning servants to do your will. But this made me change my mind. Ha!
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