I want the truth and I want it...whenever.
There's something odd happening. Roger the Cat, please reveal yourself! Confused readers should avail themselves of the comment under the previous entry, signed by said masculine feline.
Now, this is the real Roger the Cat. I prefer to call him Roger the Negative Cat because as you can see he's rather fetchingly marked but in a kind of "not quite how it should be" manner. The camouflage has gone wrong, making him probably a touch more conspicuous than he appreciates and possibly explaining why his hunting expeditions usually incorporated jumping onto my windowsill and banging on the glass for scraps. Sound judgement. Roger, you see, used to accompany me on my kindling foraging expeditions in France as he owned the house next door and likes paté. He also liked the remnants of the very spicy beef sausage casserole I threw out into the ditch opposite for the foxes and badgers. I do hope that like the very nice people he owns, he's not a vegetarian. I think that, for the time being at least, Roger the Negative Cat is my favourite cat in the whole world.
What I like about cats is that it's "OK". Bend down and stroke a cat and like Roger, it will roll around for a bit, get happy and then get up and walk away under the hedge and kill something. So no guilt on the human's part if you want to do the same (except we don't often need to indulge our blood lust quite so often). There was the odd look from Roger as you walked away indicating that he maybe hadn't quite finished being stroked, but that he'd be back later anyway. Our dog, on the other hand, is a totally different kettle of chefs. Look at her for a fleeting second and she's immediately in your face wondering whether she's going to be fed, watered, walked or petted. Go out to fetch something from the car and you get the "guilt eye, why aren't I going?" treatment and then she greets you as if you've just come back from a three month world cruise. Likewise, the postman comes every day at the same time yet never once has he killed anyone in this house, rendering her somewhat over-protective reactions a trifle unwarranted.
Whatever, I digressed as it's in my nature to do sometimes. Roger, thank you for your kind comment. Who the bloody hell are you?
Now, this is the real Roger the Cat. I prefer to call him Roger the Negative Cat because as you can see he's rather fetchingly marked but in a kind of "not quite how it should be" manner. The camouflage has gone wrong, making him probably a touch more conspicuous than he appreciates and possibly explaining why his hunting expeditions usually incorporated jumping onto my windowsill and banging on the glass for scraps. Sound judgement. Roger, you see, used to accompany me on my kindling foraging expeditions in France as he owned the house next door and likes paté. He also liked the remnants of the very spicy beef sausage casserole I threw out into the ditch opposite for the foxes and badgers. I do hope that like the very nice people he owns, he's not a vegetarian. I think that, for the time being at least, Roger the Negative Cat is my favourite cat in the whole world.
What I like about cats is that it's "OK". Bend down and stroke a cat and like Roger, it will roll around for a bit, get happy and then get up and walk away under the hedge and kill something. So no guilt on the human's part if you want to do the same (except we don't often need to indulge our blood lust quite so often). There was the odd look from Roger as you walked away indicating that he maybe hadn't quite finished being stroked, but that he'd be back later anyway. Our dog, on the other hand, is a totally different kettle of chefs. Look at her for a fleeting second and she's immediately in your face wondering whether she's going to be fed, watered, walked or petted. Go out to fetch something from the car and you get the "guilt eye, why aren't I going?" treatment and then she greets you as if you've just come back from a three month world cruise. Likewise, the postman comes every day at the same time yet never once has he killed anyone in this house, rendering her somewhat over-protective reactions a trifle unwarranted.
Whatever, I digressed as it's in my nature to do sometimes. Roger, thank you for your kind comment. Who the bloody hell are you?
posted by Richard at 12:30 pm
1 Vegetable peelings:
I reckon cats have got it sorted - no wonder they were gods in ancient Egypt. Take it or leave it - a cat is never owned - he decides what he'll be doing and you hardly figure in the equation. I lived with a cat for over a decade - he'd turned up on a neighbour's doorstep and decided that's where he lived. I took him over - but he only remained because he knew I'd give him better food. Quite often if I stroked him and he wasn't in the mood I'd get a bite or a scratch, and if I wasn't in the mood to stroke - he'd sit on the book I was reading or climb up me to block my view of the TV.
I like your blog mate
Post a Comment
<< Home