I am sitting in bed. Insomnia has kicked back into my life routine, I can't get any sleep. I am tired. But not falling asleep. I can't sleep. I can't sleep. Try and sleep, it's not happening. Am I asleep? I am not dreaming. I love dreams. No, I am awake. I look down, my Cat is asleep and Cats are always asleep. I envy you Cats.
This got my thinking, about the significance of Cats in Mankind, and also the significance of Cats in my life. Whilst I will go on to speak about the significance of Cats on my life, telling about my many story's and cat affiliations, I pose to you, the reader, this. Have you ever heard of a heroic cat story? Ever heard of a cat story of saving anyone else's life for the sacrifice of their own contemptuous smugness? Or that time a cat dragged someone else out of a burning building, or generally anything of any loyalty to mankind. Not really, it rarely happens.
At this point Cats are quite worthless, but adorable. But I am sure I would not be the person I am today had it not been for the subtle directions cats have had on my life, impacting on the subtle emotions and characteristics I possess that you would find in a grainy wankity wank Wes Anderson film. ( I really like you Wes, I'm just jealous I will never be retro cool). Therefore, I will try to write the rest of this blog piece as a Wes Anderson film.
Chapter one : The worst Cat that ever lived.
The start of Jack and the Beanstalk, is weak at beast. Obviously Jack had never played pokemon in the playground, it was not a great trade, at first. I can imagine his Mothers rage when she found out their Cow was traded in for magic beans. Magic Beans, or Magic Legumes are terrible. Now there was a local drug dealer who had legged it in the area beside us. She, supposedly owned this cat. Rodger. I don't know how she came into possession of him, but I can only think that he was used as a payment for an 1/8th of weed.
We took in Rodger, he was annoying, needy, border line retarded. He grew an infatuation with my Sister. He knew the power of manipulation.
But to everyone else, he was terrible. On coming home one night I was walking up to my room in the attic. As I opened the door, he appeared. He looked at me, but not in a usual way, I could tell he had done something, he just had that look. As I reached the top of my stairs, before me, was a massive warm fresh pile of shit. In a fit of rage I went to get him, but he had managed to get into bed with my sister. As I went to grab him, she held onto him protecting him from my rage. As I left the room, he looked at me, he knew, that I knew, he had won. Anyway, we had him put down.
Chapter two : The Brawler.
My good friend Saul had, a cat named Weetabix. Saul was adamant that Weetabix was half Scottish Wild Cat, half tamed cat.(The only Cat known not to have ever been tamed by Man, Even Big Cats in Africa have been tamed, but Scotland knows how to be like Mel Gibson)
Weetabix was the Cat of all Cats. He had a reputation. He once fought a German Shepard and won by digging its claws into its head. He once took on three cats, and won. He literally took on every cat in the area and won. He was the dominant cat with a massive territory. I once saw him in a Garden two miles from his home taking a shit. I looked at him, he looked at me. He had that look, to say 'What the fuck you looking at cunt? I own fucking everything, and there is nothing you can do to stop that you prick'.
He was such a bruiser. One time on returning home he had a literally one inch chunk bitten out the top of his head. Upon getting into his home, he shook his head spraying the walls with blood. But he didn't care, it was merely a flesh wound...He had better things to worry about, like killing seagulls, fighting, and impregnating every other feline in the area, neutered or not.
Once Saul moved into the countryside with Weetabix, He sensed country cat pussy and abundance of food, and promptly left. He was later found in a town 8 miles away. He was returned for an emotional fight with Saul, and promptly left to live his life foraging, fighting and fucking. The day he left, he was to never be seen again, he knew he was writing his immortality.
Chapter three : The Russian.
I was five, our first cat, the one eyed pirate, Boris, had died. I was quite sad at the time. My parents acquired two new cats from the cattery. Harry was his name. A Russian blue. A real gentleman. This is the cat I was brought up with. He was a sincere type of guy who was a real Gentleman. Armed with his white tuft on his chest, he stood proud. He never demanded food by meowing obsessively like the other four lady's who live in my life. He would wait, patiently, for hours by the food bowl. He appreciated us. He would return home to the cat flap with sticks to pay thanks for our efforts of keeping him lazy. He liked to sleep. One time, and I am certain, he slept for 48 hours straight. Because it was the right thing to do.
He later caught Cancer, but refused to die. Everyday he would eat two chicken raw chicken legs and half a can of condensed milk. This kept him going for a year. Until Cancer took him out. He was a fighter. Eat, sleep, throw up, repeat. I really loved that Cat. He was a real good one.
These three chapters only describe some of my many cat moments on my life. One thing I enjoy about Cats, is there is one universal Cat language in the world. I have been to a few country's, and Cats always speak the same to me. I get on well with Cats from many continents. Rodger, and the French neighbors Cat Mimi understood each other, they would spend time together in the garden. Sometimes looking at the UN and the many interpreters it is required for meetings, it would be simpler to send delegations of Cats representatives. The War on Cat-Nip could finally be over otherwise.
Callum
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