Rolf Harris is out to get me

May 22, 2008 13:31

I used to love watching Animal Hospital when I was younger. Watching Rolf peering at some poor creature that had managed to do something stupid to itself, or seeing him frown when neglected animals were brought into a vets surgery overrun with cameras was something I used to do often. My mum has always said, whenever I did something to one of the various pets over the years (well, not that I set out to hurt them but there were a couple of instances that involved the fur of a cat and some scissors and the rather questionable hair styling abilities I possessed as a 9 year old), that Rolf was going to tell me off if I did something like that.

There are 3 (sometimes 4) cats that live with me. The 3rd (or 4th, depending on the day) found us, and refuses to go away, even thought I doubt very much he's actually a cat but rather some sort of gremlin-bear trap-mongoose hybrid. His name is Balthazar, but I call him The Sodlet if he’s being obnoxious. He's completely insane, and attacks anything, which is fine until I come home at 2 in the morning, sometimes slightly worse for wear, being good and quiet and conscious of the fact that I live with people who probably wouldn't appreciate being woken up by me turning all the lights on and stomping around when all of a sudden there is the unpleasant sensation of sharp claws and pointy teeth sinking into the flesh above my ankle. My dirty handbag does not stifle my screams well, and I sometimes end up waking everybody up anyway no matter how careful I am.

He'd probably be a nasty shock for an unsuspecting burglar. I’m thinking I could place and advert in the bargain pages: ‘Guard Cat. Lovely soft black and white finish. One careful owner. Selling due to- argh! No! Gerroff you horrible little...’ He’d probably take offence at my attempts to palm him off on some other poor unsuspecting victim person, and try and chew my leg off mid sales pitch. Which is more than can be said of the other cats, who throw me disparaging looks as if to say it’s all my fault whenever he picks on them.

It’s gotten to the point that one of them refuses to come into the house anymore, and instead sits outside the front door on top of the gas meter meowing very loudly and possibly upsetting everybody who passes by. I have a growing feeling that sooner or later I'm going to get a knock on the door from somebody who wants to report me to the R.S.P.C.A for neglect. I feel sorry for the poor thing, he looks like something that might wash up on a beach after a storm, but to be honest, he’s a neurotic fluffy thing that used to rip the first 2 I had to shreds. But he’s was a bit of a charity case, and I felt mean turfing him back out, so he stayed, but I suspect the time is nearing when I have to take him to the cat’s protection league. I’ll miss him, but seeing him cowering from a cat that’s physically half his size is kinda... well, he’s probably be better off with somebody else. Somebody who doesn’t have a sociopathic gremlin-bear trap that masquerades as a cat.

rolf harris

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