The news of the day as seen from the perspective of a pensionable domestic moggy called Fluffy.

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Homeward bound

For me, living in a particular city doesn't mean much. I'm a domestic cat, and as such, I don't get out a lot. However, it's nice to have friends round, but that's only possible when the gruesome twosome are out.

But I must admit, my social network is a little stronger in London than it was ever likely to be in Nottingham, so I was quite pleased when it was announced that we were all going to be moving back down to the 'Smoke'. In truth, I had been putting out a few feelers in that direction, so to speak, so it was nice to see these come to fruition. Okay, constantly urinating on the upstairs carpet lacks subtlety, but it's difficult to get your message across when your 'owners' are dimwits.

Anyhow, this presented me with a problem. The actual process of moving is, to my mind, almost as much of a pain in the arse as having a rubber-gloved finger shoved up your most sensitive orifice by a half-trained vet (see A pain in the arse). I like travelling in a car about as much as B.A. Baracus in The A-Team enjoyed flying. They could at least knock me out when I have to travel, but no, I just get shoved into a plastic cage.

Damn fools.

When we travelled up to Nottingham, they at least allowed me to sit on a quilt while we drove along. Not this time, oh no. This time I was forced to stay in the box the whole time, despite my protests, which ranged from the aggressive to the pathetic (I've got a dramatic range which makes Judi Dench look like a clown). Instead, all he did was take little video clips of my attempts to escape.

'Oh look,' he'd laugh as yet another piece of footage was stored for posterity. 'She's trying to escape. Bless!' Well, listen Mr Steven Fatboy Bastard Spielberg - remember the thin faces pressed against the wire in Schindler's List!

Okay... a little melodramatic. I get very claustrophobic.

Anyway, I decided to keep my head down, especially once they started to feed me pieces of Marks and Sparks roast chicken. Shhlurrp! Best make the most of a bad lot, I reckon.

The weird thing was when we got to London, we were moving back into the place we left. What IS the point? I sniffed and sniffed at every nook and cranny, and it was definitely the same place.

And I'm still locked out of all the really interesting rooms. Gonna keep my bum under control under their guard drops. You aren't really at home till you've pooed on the bed.