Hi Tweets

This was just too good not to pass on. I've put a suitable disclaimer on it.
Enjoy.

Michael Price
Vancouver BC Canada
mprice at mindlink.net



***CAUTION*** ***CAUTION***

This repost of a domestic/nature comedy (which *is* about birds and perhaps
based on a true-life adventure) contains profane language and parts of it
are in unabashedly broad humor which some may interpret as bad or poor taste
(the Brits tend to be more relaxed about this sort of stuff; then again,
they didn't offer the world 'Baywatch' and 'Married...With Children'). If
you are offended by coarse humor or vulgar colloquial language, please
delete now.

***CAUTION*** ***CAUTION***



At 5:52 PM 2/5/96, Matthew Gaunt (Matthew_Gaunt at VOS.STRATUS.COM)
wrote:

I have posted a couple of stories recently highlighting the dangers of cat
ownership. If I may take up yet a little more of your time, I should like
to offer my final warning - What Cats Bring Home.

I have "owned" cats for the bulk of my life - as a child, and then
subsequently as a husband, and there must be only one overriding impression
of their fluffy little species: Cats are obscenely violent little animals.

Your idea of gentle harmless fun may be a game of Monopoly, or perhaps
Nintendo. Or maybe even nude 'Twister' with your local firemen and their
hose greasing machine. But your fluffy buddy is plotting other things while
he purrs in your ear. He is banking on a night of singing, outdoor sex,
killing things after toying with them for half an hour, then coming home and
nudging you away from the fire. Even Josef Mengele didn't have the
arrogance to come home from his butchery and lie on the oriental rug with
his legs in the air.

Anyone who has had a cat that has access to the Outside, will have suffered
from what I am about to describe. Coming downstairs in the morning to find
your living room looking like the bloody climax to a Martin Scorcese movie
where one Italian has said to another "Your mamma - she smella like a dog
log". There is very little else worse than greedily tucking into your bowl
of cornflakes, then spotting mouse entrails smeared up your collection of
horse brasses, half an ear on your TV remote, and a rat's ballbag on the
pouffe. I have woken up
to find all manner of God's creatures in my house following my installation
of a cat flap (see previous post).

Mice, bats, shrews, small birds, frogs, toads and a very pugnacious squirrel
have all shat in terror on my Berber carpet. But it was the magpie that
caused the most spectacular incident. And it chose to happen on one of the
worst possible days of the month. My wife wasn't in the best of moods that
morning. She was suffering from one of the deeper switchbacks in the
bizarre rollercoaster of woman's lunar cycle.
>It was one of those few days in the month when she could have terrified
even the mighty Ghengis Khan into picking up his underpants and putting them
in the dirty washing basket. I had already been threatened with having my
plums seen to with a cheese grater for the grievous offence of starting a
new tube of toothpaste whilst there was still some left in the old one.
After I had painstakingly explained that the other toothpaste caused my
tongue to swell up - making every word I said sound like "Wob" - I was
answered with "You're a bastard and so are all your friends".

It's worth digressing for a moment to consider this phenomenon. It is only
just for that short window in the month that Man can participate in
dialogues like:
"What's the matter?"
"NOTHING."
"Oh, what is it,darling?"
"Nothing. It's just that boo hoo sob sob sob"
"Hey - don't cry...come here"
"FUCK OFF. Leave me alone"
"Tell me what's the matter, please"
"You don't understand. You never understand - just GET OUT and
leave me
alone."
"Ok, ok, I'll go for a beer with Anthony. Can you pass me the 'pho-"
"You would as well, wouldn't you, you bastard? My mother was
right....."

Following that would be the long conversation to the mother, who would
inevitably come round and look at me over the top of her glasses, obviously
thinking "I know what you do to my daughter. Her father did it to me once.
There was a funny smell and a lot of washing."

The first I heard of the magpie incident was when I was in the shower. Being
a British shower, it was dribbling a woeful trickle of tepid water slower
than an infected nostril, and I had to wriggle about a bit to get the flow
to cover my body. I was currently concentrating on warming my back, having
budgeted for my nipples temporarily turning into hat pegs, and my once proud
set of parts shrivelling to those of an aging bulldog. I heard a noise from
downstairs.

"Matthew! Matthew!"

Thinking it was only that another bottle of my home-brew had exploded
because of cheerfully over-confident sugar usage, I didn't rush.

"Matthew! Help!"

Now that sounded urgent. I recognised that voice. It was the voice
normally reserved for a muffled "Oh God I swear I put toilet paper on that
shopping list and this magazine hurts." I turned off the shower, and put on
my bath robe. As I ran downstairs, I was surprised to see my two cats come
hurtling into the hallway, terror written across their faces. My wife's
voice was coming from the kitchen, so I opened the door and went in.

Oh dear, oh dear. The kitchen looked like it had played host to an
energetic Rolling Stones party where each member of the band had brought
along their pet Tasmanian Devil. The room was destroyed. Upturned plant
pots, bin on its side, pans everywhere and a stack of clean, ironed washing
strewn over the floor making friends with the plant pot compost.

And standing on the fridge-freezer, head cockily on one side, was the most
impressive magpie that has ever lived. Magpie is, by his very nature, an
arrogant bird, and this fellow was no exception. From the vicious curve of
his beak to the jaunty angle of his black & white tail feathers, this chap
meant business. All of a sudden I understood the whole situation. Working
as a pair, the cats had thought they'd have him. Temporarily stunned by a
double furry onslaught, the bird had allowed himself to be dragged into the
kitchen via the cat flap. But then he'd woken up with a headache, in a bad
mood and bursting to go to the toilet. (If he'd had a proud but useless
erection as well, then I would have accepted that human males share 90% of
bird DNA).

And so the fight had begun. The cats really had no chance. The damn thing
looked like a nasty from a "Sinbad" movie. The only difference being that
Ray Harryhausen never had the guts to animate the things that this monster
did. Unless I'm mistaken, the line "Unsheath your sabre, Jason - he's
shitting on the microwave" was not in any "Sinbad" film.

Now, I had a problem. How could I tackle him? It was 8am, I was tired, and
the last thing I wanted was a magpie having an energetic squawk in my
bathrobe. I decided to go into the front room for a moment to think
about it. My wife was already there. But magpie had been there before her.
I looked at the state of the room, and was horrified when I saw the
disruption on the table.

"Look at the sofa" my wife sobbed, pointing at spots of magpie lime.
"Never mind the fucking sofa", I shouted, pointing at the table, "I was a
cockhair away from finishing that jigsaw"
"Those stains on that fabric will never come out even with those banned
cleaning chemicals I had to buy for your athletic support"
"Two thousand pieces and all I needed was that postman's foot".

We looked at each other decided to take our anger out on the magpie instead.
I strode manfully into the kitchen, and opened the back door. Then I picked
up the mop and swung it at the bird.
"Get...out...you...black & white BUGGER!"
This seemed to have the desired effect. He didn't like that at all. He gave
me a look that said "I've had your cats, matey, and you're next".

A very violent two minutes followed with a lot of flapping and swearing.
Whilst this was going on, my wife, normally a quiet demure woman, donned one
solitary boot so she could hoof our bemused tabby around the
hall. At last I got the bird near the back door. I was a wreck. My hair
had been flapped up so much I looked like a chicken. I was unshaven, my
bathrobe was hanging open, I had a violent gleam in my eye, and a mop. The
bird saw he was beaten. With a defiant squawk and a flap, he swooped out of
the back door. Riding the victory I chased him out, whooping and shouting:

"Get off my property you feathery fucker oh shit no sorry not you oh it's
dangling out isn't it?"

Mormons choose ridiculous times to call.


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