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Different cat this time.
I was just sitting typing, and heard an ominous crackling sound from the utility room.
(OK, it's not a real utility room. The landlord aggrandises it into a "conservatory". What it actually is is a big jerry-built lean-to on the outside of the flat, with a roof of corrugated plastic (which leaks), and which is under siege from invading ivy on six fronts. It works fine for hanging washing in, smoking in, housing the washing machine, etc.)
Being reluctant to stride out and start shouting at whatever it might be (ever since the embarrassing incident just after moving in when, hearing rattling sounds of things cascading down said plastic roof, I ran out the back and bellowed out to all and sundry surrounding yards that "Youbloodykids had better stop chucking stuff on my roof this instant", only to glance up five minutes later and realise that it was a messy and disorganised pair of magpies nesting in the gutter overhead who were actually responsible), I very calmly got up. Noticed that Sabre had run to the kitchen to investigate, but then suddenly flattened himself down in a textbook example of Feline Posture #768: I'm Submissive (For Now), But Don't Imagine For One Moment I'm Happy About It, Or That This State Of Affairs Is Necessarily Going To Continue.
Looked out. The Big Black Tom Down The Road who has spent the past couple of weeks battering my Sabre, and who is responsible for the multitude of scratches and gouges speckled liberally over his neck and stomach, not to mention a small chunk out of his left foreleg...is now, calm as you like, sitting in my cat's territory - Provvince Of Teh Uttilittie Rooom (a feline self-governing principality of the Nation Of Wolfie's Flat).
And eating my cat's food.
The bloody cheek of it!
So I snapped a few sharp words at him, and he buggered off sharpish.
Humph. I feel like going round and complaining to the parents. (Yes, I know that wouldn't do the least bit of good, and that he has every much as right to roam the streets as mine does, and that mine is no angel and will scrap, etc. etc. etc. Really, I'm annoyed that the wretched animal doesn't seem to be neutered, from his appearance and demeanour.)
Well, that puts the tin lid on leaving the back door open for the boy to run in and out when I'm home. He'll have to start doing the Simon's Cat Door Dance to be let out like all the other pets.
Poor thing. He's tucked in the bedroom looking pissed off. Never seen a cat that could get the better of him this badly.
:wistful sigh: Hate to admit it, but he's getting on a bit. He's eight. I still think he's three. (He still acts like it.)
If I catch that little bastard bullying my boy again, there will be More Sharp Words. And possibly even a saucepanful of water, to boot.
I was just sitting typing, and heard an ominous crackling sound from the utility room.
(OK, it's not a real utility room. The landlord aggrandises it into a "conservatory". What it actually is is a big jerry-built lean-to on the outside of the flat, with a roof of corrugated plastic (which leaks), and which is under siege from invading ivy on six fronts. It works fine for hanging washing in, smoking in, housing the washing machine, etc.)
Being reluctant to stride out and start shouting at whatever it might be (ever since the embarrassing incident just after moving in when, hearing rattling sounds of things cascading down said plastic roof, I ran out the back and bellowed out to all and sundry surrounding yards that "Youbloodykids had better stop chucking stuff on my roof this instant", only to glance up five minutes later and realise that it was a messy and disorganised pair of magpies nesting in the gutter overhead who were actually responsible), I very calmly got up. Noticed that Sabre had run to the kitchen to investigate, but then suddenly flattened himself down in a textbook example of Feline Posture #768: I'm Submissive (For Now), But Don't Imagine For One Moment I'm Happy About It, Or That This State Of Affairs Is Necessarily Going To Continue.
Looked out. The Big Black Tom Down The Road who has spent the past couple of weeks battering my Sabre, and who is responsible for the multitude of scratches and gouges speckled liberally over his neck and stomach, not to mention a small chunk out of his left foreleg...is now, calm as you like, sitting in my cat's territory - Provvince Of Teh Uttilittie Rooom (a feline self-governing principality of the Nation Of Wolfie's Flat).
And eating my cat's food.
The bloody cheek of it!
So I snapped a few sharp words at him, and he buggered off sharpish.
Humph. I feel like going round and complaining to the parents. (Yes, I know that wouldn't do the least bit of good, and that he has every much as right to roam the streets as mine does, and that mine is no angel and will scrap, etc. etc. etc. Really, I'm annoyed that the wretched animal doesn't seem to be neutered, from his appearance and demeanour.)
Well, that puts the tin lid on leaving the back door open for the boy to run in and out when I'm home. He'll have to start doing the Simon's Cat Door Dance to be let out like all the other pets.
Poor thing. He's tucked in the bedroom looking pissed off. Never seen a cat that could get the better of him this badly.
:wistful sigh: Hate to admit it, but he's getting on a bit. He's eight. I still think he's three. (He still acts like it.)
If I catch that little bastard bullying my boy again, there will be More Sharp Words. And possibly even a saucepanful of water, to boot.
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It's not a bad idea. I bet it would be one of those tiny fluffy cats that can nonetheless stop a big, butch, scarred feline bruiser at twenty paces with just a LOOK.
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