Posts Tagged ‘Mr Puddles’

Like many cats, Genghis The Cat is extremely particular about the food he eats from his bowl. But when it comes to food outside his bowl, his palate is suddenly as broad as [Australian PM] Julia Gillard’s accent.

Here are just a few of the things I’ve caught him trying to eat: soggy weet-bix, peanut butter toast, popcorn, congealed sausage fat, playdough, crayons, ‘floor rice’ and watermelon.

And then there are my toes – a delicacy he is now obviously craving every morning around 5AM. I don’t take to this kindly. I mean, that hot guy who plays Marc Antony in HBO’s series ‘Rome’ could be nibbling my feet at 5AM and I’d still feel vaguely murderous. My feet are a NO GO zone between midnight and daybreak. Take note, James Purefoy!

Anyway, turns out that my toes were on the menu the morning before our recent snow holiday and so I didn’t have a whole lotta love in my heart for my so-called pet when I left. Indeed, I might normally have instructed the designated cat feeder (in this case, the Mild Mannered Lawyer) to “avoid the non-fish sachets” in the mixed box I’d accidentally bought the day before. However, my care factor was nil, as I told The MML. Which was another way of saying that “Genghis can bite my duck liver and lamb shanks arse” and that he should just SUCK. IT. THE. FUCK. UP.

Yes, I was angry.

But even amidst the red mists of my rage, I still remembered to ask The MML to keep the bedroom doors closed during our absence, in case Genghis expressed his displeasure by splatter-crapping on our pillows.

I didn’t count on the fact, though, that even cats know revenge is a dish best served cold – in this case, as cold and as the still as the lifeless body of a guinea pig I found slayed in the backyard one day after our return from holiday. Yes, a guinea pig.

I ran inside to tell my husband. “Genghis has killed a, um, porc de Guinée!” I whispered furiously, using my bad French to shelter my children from the terrible truth – about the guinea pig, that is, and not the fact I can’t speak French to save myself.

“Are you sure it’s not a ‘large mouse’?” my husband asked, using his code word for ‘rat’.

“Well, let’s just say if that’s the size of the ‘large mice’ around here, I want to move,” I replied, adding: “Although, we might have to move anyway because that thing out there is some neighbour’s beloved pet, I tell you. A BELOVED PET.”

Indeed, I could already imagine the ‘MISSING’ posters written and posted around the neighbourhood by some six year old girl in the hope that ‘Fuzzy McFuzz’ might be returned home safely and that she didn’t have to cry herself to sleep any more.

And then it struck me: the guinea pig had more than a passing resemblance to the local Presbyterian kindergarten’s pet Mr Puddles. Could it be…?

I voiced my fears to my husband. He was disbelieving. “It’s unlikely Genghis could have carried the body that far,” he said, before adding “Although I struggle to see how he managed to get the body over our back fence. I mean, it must weigh at least two kilograms…”

Which only proved my fears. When you’ve got two kilos of meat in your mouth, there’s not much difference in being able to climb a six foot fence or walk 500 metres – especially when you’ve been graced with superfeline strength by your evil overlord (Satan).

“Oh, god! I’m going to the kindergarten committee meeting on Wednesday… What will I say?” I moaned.

“It’s not Mr Puddles,” my husband said.

“Mr Puddles! Poor Mr Puddles!” I cried.

“It’s not Mr Puddles,” my husband repeated.

“What’s done can not be undone,” I philosophised, before hissing: “Now get rid of the body. Quick! Before the kids see it and let the rest of the neighbourhood know we’re harbouring a guinea pig killer and the lapcat of Satan.”

Four days later, I found myself at the committee meeting, anxiously waiting for an agenda item about Mr Puddles having gone missing and ready to confess that he was “with God now… by way of the bottom of my Sulo bin”. But the announcement never came. In fact, I realised at the end of the meeting that Mr Puddles himself had been scurrying around in his cage behind me the entire time.

Phew, I thought. He’s safe… but for how long?

Read Full Post »