Friday, 29 August 2014

To purr is human

As you'll probably know if you've been keeping track, I've just spent a week house-sitting for my auntie and uncle and two cousins; I did this last year and I've just done it again, both setting a precedent for an annual activity and escaping my parents' house for a short time, both of which are relatively positive.

As I seem to remember, last year's escapades were something of a sexual frenzy, with lots of loud sex, doing it in the middle of the day and in various rooms, with plenty of time to spend being naked and generally taking care of each other with large amounts of skin.

None of that happened this time, and I mean none - we didn't have sex even once, even though I did spend some of the time naked (albeit largely because I was too lazy to get dressed); to be fair, I didn't foresee this being a Thing That Happens, although I could take it in my stride, just about. I certainly had plenty of dreams about sex (although no sex happened in any of them - it was on the cards, though), I just wasn't having any actual sex.

This isn't my fault, nor that of my girlfriend. The blame lies squarely on THIS:

Your soul is mine, human.

This is a kitten named after a field marshal, and she is just about as vicious. While most cats choose a diet based on meat and vegetable protein processed into kibbles, she prefers to subsist on feet and pen lids, causing several amusing hours of chasing her around the house making sure she doesn't choke to death on plastic - followed by several more hours having one's toes mauled while trying to concentrate on Doctor Who. This, of course, continued long into the night; once she had worked out how to headbutt open the door to the bedroom, her arrival would be heralded by an unmistakeable flump and a sharp pain somewhere in your southern hemisphere, be it a foot, ankle or (in one case) thigh.

She was, of course, utterly indiscriminate about when or where she did this, whether you are half-sitting, half-lying on the sofa in the lounge after having a long and crucial meeting at work followed by a long and crushing walk back through the rain, eating a dinner you have worked long and hard to prepare (or ordered from Domino's: I'm not always that brilliant), or being super-affectionate with your girlfriend in the hope of colliding skin with skin. This is her house and she will make the decisions.

This isn't a new thing, but my cat is a little more discerning. In my old house, she would time her scratches on my door to coincide perfectly with the start of my masturbation to soft porn every afternoon. She would meow loudly if I didn't open the door for her. And, sometimes, she would be sleeping on my bed and I'd forget about her, only to finish myself off and turn around to find her sitting up with her judging eyes trained on my face.

But at least she doesn't bite. So she has that advantage over this small but possibly slightly evil kitten.

Still, who was I to assume we'd be having sex? As we all know, unlike other pets, cats don't have owners - they have staff, and it was clearly the boss' decision.

I never thought I'd be saying this, but I'm very glad to be back at SH.

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