France and the First Catch
France was fun. The ferry was late, so we had a mad dash to Belgium, bought the fags from the highly suspicious (but legal) shed behind the cafe and then dashed back to France to to the shopping. Good day.
Harvey Cat caught his first ever bird yesterday. He came trotting in, smile all over his furry face, and left it reverently at my feet. I decided the best course of action was to get it the hell out of my house.
Naturally, Harvey had other ideas. That was his dinner. So promptly took off with his bird.
Imagine, if you will. Scarlet headed (it hasn't faded that much yet) mad woman armed with a pooper scooper and a black bag chasing a cat carrying a dead bird by the wing through the streets. Fucking scarlet hair and dead bird body flapping in the breeze as the sun beats down. The ice cream van can be heard making its approach. Puctuated by:
"Give me the bird Harvey." Mioaw. I think that means he doesn't want to.
"Give me the bird you deranged killing machine." Rwarp. My bird.
"Give me the fucking bird you little shit." Hiss. Bugger off, bitch.
Time for a change of tactics. Does reverse pyschology work on cats? Does it bollocks. No, something else will have to do. But what?
Harvey's eyes glint dangerously. He is under his favourite bush, which is in full bloom now. Think bees. Lots of bloody bumblebees dancing above my head. I hate bees.
So I get on the ground, giving any passers by a great view of my arse. Cheap thrill for someone, I'm sure.
The bird lies between us, guarded by one off white paw. Claws fully unsheathed. Now I love my cat, and I know he loves me, but since he is somewhat mentally disturbed, I know that he will happily use those claws, in love, to prevent me stealing his beloved, and mangled, birdy.
Harvey the Hunter King is still watching me intently. But something catches his eye. A bee. The dilemma is clear: should he get the bee, or guard the bird? Basking in his glory as bird catcher extraordinnaire, Harvey decides that the bee is a sufficient challenge to his neutered manhood. And out he shoots.
Almost immediately he remembers the bird. Too late. Birdy is loaded onto the pooper scooper. A sad little moan from Harvey, and the birdy is out of his reach. He cries piteously, circling my ankles, but he isn't getting it back.
Now what to do with it?
Birdy isn't going to get a full burial, although there is a ready made hole in the front garden from where the "For Sale" sign used to live.....Ellie got her head stuck in it a couple of days ago. Hole = place where cat must be. In the genes, you know. I suspect that a burial will only lead to a disinterment later in the day so burial isn't an option.
Birdy may have one final experience of flight though, as my neighbour, the owner of a formally lethal bird chaser, sadly now too overweight to hunt, recommends lobbing birdy to his final resting place in the dense bushes near the house.
I don't like that idea either. Harvey is quite good at fetch.
Birdy's final resting place? Black bag in the bin. Thank God the binmen come on Tuesday.
posted by DMouse007 @ 5/16/2004 01:51:00 PM
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