The daffodils are blooming. The hedges are beginning to turn green at the edges. The man who cuts our lawn has put the first stripes down for the year. Birds are nesting in the eves. It is light when the alarm goes off. And, it's not always dark when I get home from work. Birmingham City seem intent to throw away their automatic promotion spot. The car park has not resembled a swimming pool for at least a week. And, they are forecasting snow and an "Artic Blast" for next week. So it is official: spring is in the air!
Spring is in the air and Maslow, the furball baby, our cat, is acting up. He keeps catching mice. He keeps catching mice and bringing them home. Presents for mom and dad. He keeps catching mice, bringing them home and playing with them on the laminate floor of the dining room, under the dining room table. He doesn't kill them. OK he chews them a bit, but he rarely punctures them. Occasionally a weak-hearted one might die of fright, but that is just nature's way of weeding out the runts. Very Darwinian.
Actually, the fact that Maslow doesn't kill the mice he catches is kind of the problem. They escape. He has a poor attention span. He loses them. He forgets where he puts them. Or they run away and hide. That is why, in the past, we have awoken in the middle of the night with a mouse climbing up the curtains of our bedroom. That is why we find mouse droppings behind the wine rack in the dining room. Once, we even found mouse droppings in the spare bed. That is why, when we had stripped the old kitchen out, we found evidence of a mouse nesting in the silver insulation of the boiler! And, that is why C and I are not content to let Maslow bring his presents without taking action. Action means catching the little critters and attempting to liberate them. Or giving the weak-hearted ones a decent burial. In the corporation dust bin.
Maslow brought one in last night. We had just finished dinner. C was stacking the dishwasher and I was in the lounge when C shouted. I rushed into the dining room and closed the door to the lounge behind me. C had already closed the kitchen door so that the mouse could not get at her. Maslow was whirling around the room in pursuit of his quarry.
This mouse was slightly bigger, older than the others that Maslow had brought in recently. It was slightly wiser and a lot, lot quicker. So, quick I couldn't grab it. At one point I was lying on my front under the table, my head between chair legs, with Maslow flitting about before my very eyes. I grabbed for the mouse. I missed. I lost sight of the mouse. Maslow lost sight of the mouse. I thought that I felt the mouse run across my outstretched leg. And, then it was gone. Vanished. I looked everywhere for it. Maslow looked everywhere for it. I moved the bookcases. I moved the wine rack. I checked the pockets of my jacket that was hung on the back of a chair. I checked behind the radiator. Vanished. I checked behind and in the wellies by the cat flap. I checked under the draft excluder and under Maslow's litter tray. Nothing. Mouse gone. Vanished.
C told me it couldn't have escaped so we opened the back door (a path to freedom) and she and I retreated to the lounge, being careful to shut Maslow and the mouse behind us. We left it for a while. Until we got a bit cold in the draft. Then we both went to close the back door and to survey the scene. It was at this point that I felt something in my trousers. Ooh, er, missus. I felt something in my trouser leg. I shook my trouser leg. And, mouse dropped out. Mouse fell to the laminate. Mouse was not well. Mouse was slightly flattened. Mouse was dead. It had not been a weak heart or the shock that had killed mouse. It was me. Obviously, when I thought I had felt mouse run over my leg, it had actually run up my trouser leg. Obviously when I had taken refuge in the lounge, on the sofa, I had sat on him. And, killed him. Sorry mouse.
This is quite scary. This seems to be further evidence that I am turning into my dad. I had nightmares all night about mice, and rats, and small dogs, and Maslow. This has reminded me of an earlier instance described in my post - My Family & Other Animals - when my dad sat on my pet gerbil, Tom. Serial-killing seems to be genetic...........
Showing posts with label Hierarchy of Needs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hierarchy of Needs. Show all posts
Thursday, 15 March 2007
Wednesday, 31 January 2007
My Family And Other Animals Part 4
Maslow and the "Killer" Instinct
On one occasion, Maslow, our pet cat and furball baby, was having to go to the vet for a general anaesthetic in order to have his teeth cleaned. Consequently he was not allowed food or the liberty of the great outdoors that night. Being the soft parents that we are, with concerns over anaesthetic risks, Maslow was allowed to sleep upstairs....never the best tactic for a restful night, but eventually we all settled down and managed to get some sleep despite the "boy" fidgeting at our feet and the sound of his gentle snoring. It could have been C but I don’t think so. It certainly wasn't me.......
At 5am in the morning I was awoken by this strange scratching noise. At first I thought it must be Maslow seeking attention but then realised he was still fast asleep at the foot of the bed. I listened again to locate the sound and opened my eyes to see a dark shadow climbing up the bedroom curtains. I leapt (yes, even at my age) out of the bed and switched the light on, which prompted mutterings of complaint from both Maslow and C alike. I went to the curtains and there, sat on the curtain pole, and looking down at me, was a field mouse. When I made a grab for it, it leapt to the floor and took refuge behind the wardrobe. The big, heavy, immovable wardrobe.
Maslow is a flawed mouser! There then followed a couple of hours of Maslow and I running from corner to corner of the bedroom, in a Benny-hill-like pursuit, trying to catch the blessed rodent....to no avail. Maslow eventually got bored and went in search of food and liberty......in vain. He couldn’t be fed until after the vet. C and I eventually got bored and decided to shut all other doors except the bedroom and leave a clear path for the mouse to he front door, which we left open. It was very cold........Fortunately, Maslow survived the anaesthetic and came home with pearly white gnashers. He has been given some toothpaste to help keep them that way, which he absolutely adores. Also, fortunately, the mouse has not been seen again…..unless he sprouted wings.
One summer morning I was awoken with a start. C had leapt out of bed and ran out of the room to the sanctuary of the spare room, shutting the door firmly behind her, shouting “F*ck, f*ck, f*ck!”. I came around quite quickly. I soon located the source of C’s distress. A bat! A furry little vampire mouse on wings, circling our bedroom.
I opened the curtains. I opened the two windows, but to no avail. The bat, being blind, could not see it's way to freedom. Unlike birds, bats do not fly towards the light.The bat also seemed unable of smelling (do they have a sense of smell?) the fresh air of freedom, nor could his sonar detect the open windows. The bat continued to circle, swooping ever so closely to my head. I don’t like bats. Not when they are so close you can see their teeth. Clearly, this winged rodent was not going to find its own way out. So, I retrieved a towel from the washing basket, climbed onto the bed, and proceeded to twirl the towel around my head in an attempt to drive the bat towards the open windows, without attempting to hit it of course.
Thank goodness, it was not later. If this had been 9 am on a Sunday morning instead of 5, the pony club that passes the house at that time, may have had a bit of a shock if they had looked up to see a 40 year old beardie, fully naked, jumping up and down on the bed, twirling a bath towel around his head……..
Fortunately, after about 20 minutes or so, it worked. I managed to drive the little critter to the right height and eventually, it found the hole, the great outdoors, and, freedom!
On one occasion, Maslow, our pet cat and furball baby, was having to go to the vet for a general anaesthetic in order to have his teeth cleaned. Consequently he was not allowed food or the liberty of the great outdoors that night. Being the soft parents that we are, with concerns over anaesthetic risks, Maslow was allowed to sleep upstairs....never the best tactic for a restful night, but eventually we all settled down and managed to get some sleep despite the "boy" fidgeting at our feet and the sound of his gentle snoring. It could have been C but I don’t think so. It certainly wasn't me.......
At 5am in the morning I was awoken by this strange scratching noise. At first I thought it must be Maslow seeking attention but then realised he was still fast asleep at the foot of the bed. I listened again to locate the sound and opened my eyes to see a dark shadow climbing up the bedroom curtains. I leapt (yes, even at my age) out of the bed and switched the light on, which prompted mutterings of complaint from both Maslow and C alike. I went to the curtains and there, sat on the curtain pole, and looking down at me, was a field mouse. When I made a grab for it, it leapt to the floor and took refuge behind the wardrobe. The big, heavy, immovable wardrobe.
Maslow is a flawed mouser! There then followed a couple of hours of Maslow and I running from corner to corner of the bedroom, in a Benny-hill-like pursuit, trying to catch the blessed rodent....to no avail. Maslow eventually got bored and went in search of food and liberty......in vain. He couldn’t be fed until after the vet. C and I eventually got bored and decided to shut all other doors except the bedroom and leave a clear path for the mouse to he front door, which we left open. It was very cold........Fortunately, Maslow survived the anaesthetic and came home with pearly white gnashers. He has been given some toothpaste to help keep them that way, which he absolutely adores. Also, fortunately, the mouse has not been seen again…..unless he sprouted wings.
One summer morning I was awoken with a start. C had leapt out of bed and ran out of the room to the sanctuary of the spare room, shutting the door firmly behind her, shouting “F*ck, f*ck, f*ck!”. I came around quite quickly. I soon located the source of C’s distress. A bat! A furry little vampire mouse on wings, circling our bedroom.
I opened the curtains. I opened the two windows, but to no avail. The bat, being blind, could not see it's way to freedom. Unlike birds, bats do not fly towards the light.The bat also seemed unable of smelling (do they have a sense of smell?) the fresh air of freedom, nor could his sonar detect the open windows. The bat continued to circle, swooping ever so closely to my head. I don’t like bats. Not when they are so close you can see their teeth. Clearly, this winged rodent was not going to find its own way out. So, I retrieved a towel from the washing basket, climbed onto the bed, and proceeded to twirl the towel around my head in an attempt to drive the bat towards the open windows, without attempting to hit it of course.
Thank goodness, it was not later. If this had been 9 am on a Sunday morning instead of 5, the pony club that passes the house at that time, may have had a bit of a shock if they had looked up to see a 40 year old beardie, fully naked, jumping up and down on the bed, twirling a bath towel around his head……..
Fortunately, after about 20 minutes or so, it worked. I managed to drive the little critter to the right height and eventually, it found the hole, the great outdoors, and, freedom!
Monday, 29 January 2007
My Family and Other Animals Part 2
Maslow's Arrival
Now my wife, "C", and I have our own special addition to the family. We have three Godchildren – my two nephews and the daughter of one of my best mates from university. More importantly though (though I am sure that they would disagree), there is our own child substitute – the furball baby, Maslow our cat. I can remember the day he arrived almost as vividly as I expect any father does the birth of his child………….
The weekend of Maslow’s arrival was supposed to be an easy, hassle-free one - a quick dive into the Trafford Centre in Manchester to collect C's new glasses (they are Gucci don't you know, darling). While I don't know how much they cost, I do know they are probably one of the first things I will save in the event of a house fire. And, you would have thought that something so expensive and made by Gucci deserved a better name than "glasses". The shopping trip was to be followed by a Sunday of stripping yet more woodchip from our ancient walls at home in preparation for the visit from a plasterer on Wednesday (fingers crossed, and a fair wind that is – they are so bloody unreliable). I hate all forms of decorating and DIY.
Hassle-free? It didn’t quite work out that way. Why? Well the weekend began pretty much according to plan with a lie-in followed by the drive to the Trafford Centre, the recovery of the Guccis and a couple of hours following my beloved around very similar shops selling very similar things. C would circle around in some apparently random way before selecting armfuls of the said similar things and disappearing into the changing rooms for hours on end only to return empty handed as nothing had taken her fancy. And then onto the next shop for more of the same……
After a while she noticed that I had taken to not accompanying her into the similar shops and had taken refuge outside with all of the other bored husbands. She found me there sobbing ever so slightly and chewing my arm. She took pity on me and we were allowed to return home with nothing more than her Guccis and the two CDs which I had managed to acquire in about 30 seconds while her back had been turned. Men are so much more efficient at shopping than women!
Once home I had to rush to the local iron mongers (yes, we still have iron mongers....this is Cheshire!) to purchase a wallpaper steamer for the following day's task of woodchip removal and just had time enough to get showered and changed before going round for an evening of alcoholic jollity at one of the neighbours. Another of our neighbours, M, the 3 times, undisputed heavy-weight kick boxing champion of the world, (and, consequently, one of my very best buddies) was on the TV quiz show ‘Dog Eat Dog’ hosted by Ulrika Johnsson (the lucky bast*rd!). While he had been forced to go to his parents to watch it (much to the chagrin of his girlfriend, J), the rest of us neighbours gathered together to watch his five minutes of fame. And so, as M was being (unfairly) described as "all brawn and no brains" by his fellow contestants, being voted off second without the chance to take a “physical challenge”, and nailing his own coffin by getting his general knowledge question wrong and hence losing all the money, we were well into the first few of several bottles of wine. The girls were chattering on about how Ulrika's neck and breasts were looking so much better these days. The blokes were wondering when they had ever been anything other than perfect. Shopping, and judging the quality of female TV presenters breasts are clearly two thing best left to the male of the species.
Following a ridiculously large amount of a Chinese take-away banquet and far too much wine we made our weary way next-door-but-one to home at around 1 am.
At 1.10 am there was a knock at the door. It was our neighbour, clutching a tiny, pitiful, whining ball of fluff. It was a little, tiny kitten, complete with cat flu. It must have been dumped by its owner (it happens quite a lot in the countryside). It was all skin and bones, with its eyes and nose all glued up as a result of the flu. We had been nominated as foster parents - our neighbour has a dog.
So, a cat bed was hastily constructed out of a PC Monitor box, torn up newspaper - the Guardian of course - and one of C's old dressing gowns. The kitten wouldn't take milk or water but liked being held - it could sit on the palm of my hand with room to spare - and soon began to relax. But, we were not too hopeful of it getting through the night. And so, with the prospect of wallpaper stripping just a few hours away I did the decent thing and went to bed, leaving C to stay downstairs to administer to our new guest.
And there she stayed all night, without sleep, tending to the poor little mite, bathing its nose and eyes, listening to its ragged breathing, and doing deals with God in the hope that the little furball would be still with us in the morning. At 7 am she began telephoning the emergency vets and at 9.15 she came and woke me.....................
The kitten had survived the night and the kitten had acquired a name - Maslow. This is what happens when you have a Counsellor and Psychotherapist in the house - your foster child gets named after a guy who came up with the "Hierarchy of Needs". C thought it was appropriate as the little furball was clearly right at the bottom of that hierarchy, being totally dependent upon us........well that is the plastic credit card side of "us" it would seem.
And so the day began with a trip to the vet. Maslow was declared a boy, about 5 weeks old, with cat flu. He was given a couple of jabs and we were given ointment for his eyes, anorexia cat food for his belly, a couple of syringes for administering food and water, antibiotics for the flu, and another appointment with the vet for Tuesday evening. In return for this, huge mounts of dosh were now owed. And so we were packed back off home with Maslow, medical supplies and our cardboard box.
And then the search for the essentials of life began - cat litter. None of the neighbours had any so I was dispatched to Crewe to the pet supply shop. I have never been in one before. How gullible are these pet owners that they get so easily ripped off in these huge pet superstores? And so a little while later, and financially lighter, I returned home with litter tray, 20 kilos of cat litter (urine absorbing stuff – the type that clumps), matching food and water bowls, a book about how to look after your kitten (which we should, perhaps, read sometime. Much to my wife’s annoyance I am not a huge fan of instruction manuals to say the least. I hold the same view as one of our friends who recently described such things as “the last refuge of the incompetent”), and two special mats for Maslow to snuggle up on.............
Mother and child were bonding when I got back. C was sticking to her task of cleaning and cuddling and administering said medicines. I made soup for us humans and rushed around in the afternoon stripping woodchip from the bedroom walls. At least I did get the job done.
Showered and refreshed I returned downstairs to discover that not only were we the proud owners of Maslow but also of a colony of fleas! You would have thought the bloody vet would have noticed! The little horrors were getting into Maslow's icky eyes and were presumably the reason why he had worn the fur away on his front legs, trying to clean his eyes. Where on earth do you find flea stuff for kittens (it has to be less than napalm strength otherwise it can make them poorly) at 6pm on a Sunday evening in downtown Bradwall? Well the Late Shops let me down although they did furnish us with more cotton wool balls to replace our much-diminished stocks for cleaning Maslow’s eyes and nose. But, I did manage to get some anti-flea stuff that was not too harsh for such a young kitten from one of the neighbours.
Maslow perked up a lot in the evening. His cat bed had been furnished with a hot water bottle and one of C's t-shirts. We had managed to syringe a whole can of anorexia cat food into his now swollen belly. His fur had been combed and the worst bits of hedge that were stuck in it had been cut out. His fleas had diminished. His breathing had improved a little as we had bathed eyes and nose and he was now accompanied by the scent of Karvol wherever he went. He had made himself at home. Home seemed to be on the settee - he would not stay on the floor - or, his favourite, he would sit on C 's or my shoulder, purring and rubbing his head against your cheek....presumably to get rid of some of the fleas.
It did and still does feel like being a parent. In those early days, the house was a mess as various kitten accoutrements filled the space (a myriad toy mice and “jingle balls” still pervade today). Someone had to be with the little thing all day long. And he ate better than we did - he would not leave us to eat our dinner in peace. But we were strong in the evening and locked him downstairs on his own with his hot water bottle and as yet untested litter tray as we went to bed. He cried a bit. I stood the other side of the door for a while until his cries gave way to a slight sob and I went to seek some sleep.
And so Maslow arrived. He is now a permanent fixture. A fully signed up member of the family. An amusing, furry, lovable, loving, entertaining and much-spoilt fixture at that.
Now my wife, "C", and I have our own special addition to the family. We have three Godchildren – my two nephews and the daughter of one of my best mates from university. More importantly though (though I am sure that they would disagree), there is our own child substitute – the furball baby, Maslow our cat. I can remember the day he arrived almost as vividly as I expect any father does the birth of his child………….
The weekend of Maslow’s arrival was supposed to be an easy, hassle-free one - a quick dive into the Trafford Centre in Manchester to collect C's new glasses (they are Gucci don't you know, darling). While I don't know how much they cost, I do know they are probably one of the first things I will save in the event of a house fire. And, you would have thought that something so expensive and made by Gucci deserved a better name than "glasses". The shopping trip was to be followed by a Sunday of stripping yet more woodchip from our ancient walls at home in preparation for the visit from a plasterer on Wednesday (fingers crossed, and a fair wind that is – they are so bloody unreliable). I hate all forms of decorating and DIY.
Hassle-free? It didn’t quite work out that way. Why? Well the weekend began pretty much according to plan with a lie-in followed by the drive to the Trafford Centre, the recovery of the Guccis and a couple of hours following my beloved around very similar shops selling very similar things. C would circle around in some apparently random way before selecting armfuls of the said similar things and disappearing into the changing rooms for hours on end only to return empty handed as nothing had taken her fancy. And then onto the next shop for more of the same……
After a while she noticed that I had taken to not accompanying her into the similar shops and had taken refuge outside with all of the other bored husbands. She found me there sobbing ever so slightly and chewing my arm. She took pity on me and we were allowed to return home with nothing more than her Guccis and the two CDs which I had managed to acquire in about 30 seconds while her back had been turned. Men are so much more efficient at shopping than women!
Once home I had to rush to the local iron mongers (yes, we still have iron mongers....this is Cheshire!) to purchase a wallpaper steamer for the following day's task of woodchip removal and just had time enough to get showered and changed before going round for an evening of alcoholic jollity at one of the neighbours. Another of our neighbours, M, the 3 times, undisputed heavy-weight kick boxing champion of the world, (and, consequently, one of my very best buddies) was on the TV quiz show ‘Dog Eat Dog’ hosted by Ulrika Johnsson (the lucky bast*rd!). While he had been forced to go to his parents to watch it (much to the chagrin of his girlfriend, J), the rest of us neighbours gathered together to watch his five minutes of fame. And so, as M was being (unfairly) described as "all brawn and no brains" by his fellow contestants, being voted off second without the chance to take a “physical challenge”, and nailing his own coffin by getting his general knowledge question wrong and hence losing all the money, we were well into the first few of several bottles of wine. The girls were chattering on about how Ulrika's neck and breasts were looking so much better these days. The blokes were wondering when they had ever been anything other than perfect. Shopping, and judging the quality of female TV presenters breasts are clearly two thing best left to the male of the species.
Following a ridiculously large amount of a Chinese take-away banquet and far too much wine we made our weary way next-door-but-one to home at around 1 am.
At 1.10 am there was a knock at the door. It was our neighbour, clutching a tiny, pitiful, whining ball of fluff. It was a little, tiny kitten, complete with cat flu. It must have been dumped by its owner (it happens quite a lot in the countryside). It was all skin and bones, with its eyes and nose all glued up as a result of the flu. We had been nominated as foster parents - our neighbour has a dog.
So, a cat bed was hastily constructed out of a PC Monitor box, torn up newspaper - the Guardian of course - and one of C's old dressing gowns. The kitten wouldn't take milk or water but liked being held - it could sit on the palm of my hand with room to spare - and soon began to relax. But, we were not too hopeful of it getting through the night. And so, with the prospect of wallpaper stripping just a few hours away I did the decent thing and went to bed, leaving C to stay downstairs to administer to our new guest.
And there she stayed all night, without sleep, tending to the poor little mite, bathing its nose and eyes, listening to its ragged breathing, and doing deals with God in the hope that the little furball would be still with us in the morning. At 7 am she began telephoning the emergency vets and at 9.15 she came and woke me.....................
The kitten had survived the night and the kitten had acquired a name - Maslow. This is what happens when you have a Counsellor and Psychotherapist in the house - your foster child gets named after a guy who came up with the "Hierarchy of Needs". C thought it was appropriate as the little furball was clearly right at the bottom of that hierarchy, being totally dependent upon us........well that is the plastic credit card side of "us" it would seem.
And so the day began with a trip to the vet. Maslow was declared a boy, about 5 weeks old, with cat flu. He was given a couple of jabs and we were given ointment for his eyes, anorexia cat food for his belly, a couple of syringes for administering food and water, antibiotics for the flu, and another appointment with the vet for Tuesday evening. In return for this, huge mounts of dosh were now owed. And so we were packed back off home with Maslow, medical supplies and our cardboard box.
And then the search for the essentials of life began - cat litter. None of the neighbours had any so I was dispatched to Crewe to the pet supply shop. I have never been in one before. How gullible are these pet owners that they get so easily ripped off in these huge pet superstores? And so a little while later, and financially lighter, I returned home with litter tray, 20 kilos of cat litter (urine absorbing stuff – the type that clumps), matching food and water bowls, a book about how to look after your kitten (which we should, perhaps, read sometime. Much to my wife’s annoyance I am not a huge fan of instruction manuals to say the least. I hold the same view as one of our friends who recently described such things as “the last refuge of the incompetent”), and two special mats for Maslow to snuggle up on.............
Mother and child were bonding when I got back. C was sticking to her task of cleaning and cuddling and administering said medicines. I made soup for us humans and rushed around in the afternoon stripping woodchip from the bedroom walls. At least I did get the job done.
Showered and refreshed I returned downstairs to discover that not only were we the proud owners of Maslow but also of a colony of fleas! You would have thought the bloody vet would have noticed! The little horrors were getting into Maslow's icky eyes and were presumably the reason why he had worn the fur away on his front legs, trying to clean his eyes. Where on earth do you find flea stuff for kittens (it has to be less than napalm strength otherwise it can make them poorly) at 6pm on a Sunday evening in downtown Bradwall? Well the Late Shops let me down although they did furnish us with more cotton wool balls to replace our much-diminished stocks for cleaning Maslow’s eyes and nose. But, I did manage to get some anti-flea stuff that was not too harsh for such a young kitten from one of the neighbours.
Maslow perked up a lot in the evening. His cat bed had been furnished with a hot water bottle and one of C's t-shirts. We had managed to syringe a whole can of anorexia cat food into his now swollen belly. His fur had been combed and the worst bits of hedge that were stuck in it had been cut out. His fleas had diminished. His breathing had improved a little as we had bathed eyes and nose and he was now accompanied by the scent of Karvol wherever he went. He had made himself at home. Home seemed to be on the settee - he would not stay on the floor - or, his favourite, he would sit on C 's or my shoulder, purring and rubbing his head against your cheek....presumably to get rid of some of the fleas.
It did and still does feel like being a parent. In those early days, the house was a mess as various kitten accoutrements filled the space (a myriad toy mice and “jingle balls” still pervade today). Someone had to be with the little thing all day long. And he ate better than we did - he would not leave us to eat our dinner in peace. But we were strong in the evening and locked him downstairs on his own with his hot water bottle and as yet untested litter tray as we went to bed. He cried a bit. I stood the other side of the door for a while until his cries gave way to a slight sob and I went to seek some sleep.
And so Maslow arrived. He is now a permanent fixture. A fully signed up member of the family. An amusing, furry, lovable, loving, entertaining and much-spoilt fixture at that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
