Category: Scotty

What a cute pussy.

…Sorry.

Scotty the Cat, episode 4 – the final chapter

Scotty is now terrified of our house.

The number of empty rooms and cardboard boxes left lying around the place has made him freak out a little bit, and he can’t stand the sound or even the threat of cardboard boxes being moved around. I think it might be because he loves climbing in and out of them, which he was doing with unstoppable zeal earlier today. (We were in fact quite lucky he didn’t climb into a box inhabited by about two dozen hibernating wasps in our barn.) Think about it – would you be a little concerned for your well-being if the very thing you enjoyed living peacefully in started floating ominously towards you, while appearing to be pulled along by some kind of giant bipedal monstrosity ten times bigger than you?

…And you happened to be a rather stupid cat? Okay, now the metaphor makes sense.

This is unfortunately the final installment of the Scotty the Cat series as we will be leaving him behind when we buzz off to Oz. He is after all, not our animal.

“If I fits, I sits.” …You don’t fit. “Screw you I’m a cat.”

But he is probably the best thing that happened to us while we’ve been here in Norfolk… even if he did puke on my bed that one time. But apart from that, he’s clearly well-trained because he has not left his leavings throughout the house or deliberately tried to damage our furnishings – with the possible exception of clawing at the carpet occasionally – which he always does for about 4 seconds at the very top of the stairs… for some unknown reason.

We’ll miss you, Scotty boy. Hopefully the new house owners will look after you and your stray buddy Smoky, and you’ll get along with their cats, too. In honor of your endless capability for entertaining us with your mindless tom-foolery (forgive the pun), here are some videos of you that I thought were worthy of sharing. They’re not particularly flattering, but they are still some of the better memories we have of you. Cheers, Scott.

Scotty the Cat, episode 3

Just a quick one this time, but it’s pretty significant. We finally know about Scotty’s actual owners.

He was lifted from his regular hour-or-seven morning nap on my bed and taken to the vet this morning by my parents, on account of a swollen foot. We’d not seen how it had happened so we had no idea where the injury had come from, but it didn’t look too good.

At the vet it was unveiled that he had a microchip that could be used to contact his owners. They were phoned up by the vet and probably very much relieved to hear that their cat was safe and in good hands – apparently they’d booked an appointment with the vet the same day and had been frantically looking for him.

They’ve politely asked us to stop feeding him, which is understandable. He’s gotten pretty demanding since we started and is probably a tad overweight. He’ll probably keep coming just for attention and the off-chance that he’ll be fed a scrap of roast beef or something. Apparently the other cat that comes to visit us (Smoky) will continue to be fed, and Scotty usually lets him feed in peace anyway – Smoky’s pretty dominant.

Anyway, we have a house party tonight, so back to the preparations. 😛

Scotty the Cat, episode 2

Currently Scotty is crouched on my bed, frightened out of his tiny mind.

It is of course Bonfire Night/Guy Fawkes Night, and everyone who’s anyone (else) in the neighbourhood is currently setting off fireworks to celebrate the arrest of a man who 406 years ago today didn’t blow up the Houses of Parliament.

I never really understood this premise. The today equivalent would probably be something along the lines of the failed terrorist attack on Glasgow Airport a few years ago, when a burning truck was driven into a wall, igniting the explosives planted within it and the driver, who ran screaming from the wrecked vehicle, burning to death, before being punched in the face by an irate Scottish baggage handler. It’s a story in equal parts hilarious and epic. Now, clearly, it would’ve ended in disaster if it weren’t for heroic John Smeaton, a man who was not disinclined to punch a man in the face even while he’s on fire. Even so, it happened, John is hailed as a kind of national hero, and it’s not really spoken of anymore. It’s over with. The day is definitely not celebrated on a yearly basis by purchasing high-explosive rockets and firing them into the sky, producing bright flashes and loud bangs that frighten children (and cats).

Oh wait, yeah. That’s what I was talking about.

Scotty is in one of his “weird phases” at the moment. That is, any phase in which he behaves a bit strangely. I’m not sure why we feel the need to attach a label to the periods in which he acts a bit peculiar because, come on, he’s Scotty. He pretty much has no concept of normal. Let’s just say he’s acting weird compared to how he usually is.

It can be hard to pinpoint just what sets these spells of weirdness off, but of course this time around, we’re pretty certain he’s thoroughly terrified of the bombs going off outside. But all the classic signs are there: his pupils have gotten massive, he’s on maximum sound alert and he’s avoiding as much human contact as he can.

My parents had just gone out and he was not in a good mood – he came in and crouched under a table. I moved the table and he went into the darkest possible corner under the stairs and there he stayed. He didn’t seem eager to play with any of the bric-a-brac we had lying about the place (and he usually plays with anything – including a telephone cord connected to a receiver positioned high above his head – you can imagine how that went down), and he didn’t seem to be comforted by me stroking his head.

He was, however, hungry. Which I could easily infer, just because he’s always hungry.

I decided to exploit his aural alertness – I went to the kitchen and tapped his food bowl on the floor a couple of times.

Out he came.

I gave him about a quarter of a sachet’s worth of pukeworthy cat gourmet (not much) – he tries to get as much of it as possible by finding each family member in turn and then leading them to the food bowl (do you know, it works). After he finished eating, I took him upstairs. He struggled a bit as I was carrying him up to my room so he could rest a little easy on my bed (though that may be due in part to my inability to hold him in a way that doesn’t suggest I’m about to garrotte him). I set him down on my bed, and closed the curtains in case the visuals of the numerous firework displays, on top of the sounds, traumatised him further.

With only a few weeks left until we leave the country, we’re having to come to terms with leaving him behind. He’s not our cat, and even if he was, getting him into Australia would require having him kept in quarantine for a matter of months (more than it would take to put all of our earthly possessions into a container and have it brought to Aus). That’s how seriously they take the transit of animals from overseas. Sorry, Australia, but I think if someone wanted to exterminate the entire population of your continent, they’d use a means more potent than the diseases of a household cat.

Something that could actually kill a person. Like a big bunch of fireworks, say.

Scotty the Cat, episode 1

Look at him. Look at that adorable little furry bastard.

Pictured: Pure evil

He’s the most lovable, friendliest, ginger-blonde pussy cat with a tendency to roll down stairs and obsession with being a ninja I’ve ever laid eyes upon. But right now I think I have a justifiable excuse to hate him with every fibre of my being.

This will blow over, obviously, because quite frankly he is impossible to hate for any great length of time.

First, some background information. This is Scotty, a young cat who lives in the neighborhood that has adopted us as his second (or perhaps third – we really don’t know at this point) family. We feed him and shelter him from the rain. We let him be when he jumps onto one of the beds and dozes off for 10 hours.

At 5:30am last night he woke me up. I had no idea he was even in the house, but there he was, behind my bedroom door, making a bit of a racket. He obviously wanted attention, so I opened the door and he led me downstairs to his food bowl.

Under normal circumstances I would’ve flatly refused to feed anything or indeed anyone at such an hour, but Scotty gave me a look of pity and despair that would’ve make Puss in Boots melt. I fed him the last of our cat food (about half a sachet’s worth of that disgusting jellied cat meat) and gave him some milk and had a bit of a play with him, all the while trying my best not to topple over sideways due to my brain still not having fully awoken yet. He likes playing with plastic jugs, tiny balls and cardboard boxes, but I felt like I didn’t need to supervise him, so I stuck him in a box with a jug and a ball and went to bed, leaving him to his own devices.

15 minutes later I was awoken again by further incessant meowing outside my bedroom door.

I thought “right, that’s it, I’d better put him to sleep”.

As in, get a blanket or something and stick him on it. Not euthanize him. Sadists.

Unfortunately, at the time, I didn’t consider the possibility that Scotty was operating on a different sleep schedule to me. Granted, my own body’s sleep schedule is so irregular and abnormal that it’s probably dictated by some incredibly complicated quantum mechanics. But I was sure that if I just procured a blanket and set him down on it, that would be enough.

Not so. I had to chase him around trying to get him either settle down somewhere, or leave the house (which he wouldn’t because it was cold and rainy outside) – an exercise which involved luring him into rooms with his own toys, picking him up in awkward arrangements that probably didn’t do his engorged digestive system any favors, and closing doors behind him in an ill-conceived effort to deter him from running away again. It felt a bit like I was playing Chip’s Challenge, arranging blocks and opening/closing doors to try and lure that annoying paramecium into an enclosure from which he couldn’t escape. In fact, it was exactly like that… only with a cat instead of a paramecium.

This whole ordeal, from the point at which he first woke me up, lasted roughly an hour. In the end he managed to pry the previously-closed kitchen door open again, and stood once more by his food bowl. It was starting to get light outside, there was no food left for him, and he’d had a massive helping merely half an hour ago. I began to think that he was starting to take the piss.

There was some milk left, however, and I think this satiated him, at least partially. I unleashed a veritable torrent of milk into his bowl, and having drunk it, he then perched onto one of the chairs in our conservatory and sat, for the time being immobilized. I bade him goodnight and shut the kitchen door behind him. There he remained for the rest of the night, effectively trapped in one part of the house.

Now – if my own sleep schedule is thrown into any sort of disarray due to interruptions in the night, I will of course wake up later in the day. Much later. Obscenely later. Disproportionately later. I’d gone to bed at about 1:30am, and my body, being the potato sack of laziness that it is, slept until 11:00am – at which time I managed to haul myself out of bed because some visitors came round to the house to look at my room – but I had to fall unconscious again (nearly as soon as they’d left) until… wait for it… 2:30pm. I’ve spent the rest of the day still feeling absolutely knackered.

Aaaaaand that is how a cat cost me half of an entire day in less than an hour.

You can read more of Scotty’s escapades on my brother’s blog.