I’ve had a spot of bother. Recently I discovered a dead cat in my garden. Painful as it may seem to cat lovers everywhere, I really do dislike all cats and that’s when my troubles began.
As a rule, I am an animal lover, not literally of course, bestiality is a sin. Although, a friend of mine did once watch a DVD called 'Animal Farm', he said he only watched the first few minutes. I’m not sure if he actually turned it off or was simply 'sorted' by then, but he told me all about it. I couldn’t look a racehorse in the face for almost a year. Anyway, much as I dislike the Felis catus, I really wouldn’t wish death on any cat. A surgical operation to remove its anus maybe and attach a colostomy bag yes, but not death and that brings me nicely on to why I hate cats so much.
Catshit, crap, anal snakes, fungal faeces, butt mud or toxic turds, whatever you like to call them, you will always find some in my back garden of all shapes and sizes, deposited almost daily by one or more of the sixteen cats that live near to my house.
My back garden is a poo party playground for every one of the blighters. Do they shit in their own backyard? Every morning they take it in turns to get together after a slap up fried breakfast and with the Daily Star under one arm, they proceed to my garden and back the big brown Bentley out of the garage and on to my lawn.
Now back to the dead cat. My wife knows I hate cats and so do my neighbours, and if I see one in my back garden, I would happily challenge a fully doped Carl Lewis to beat me in a 100m sprint to it. Therefore, I felt sure I would be blamed for the abrupt demise of pussy.
The most annoying mog of all is a scruffy, smarmy ginger thing, no doubt imaginatively named, Ginger. After creating a suitable intestine sculpture, he waits at the bottom of my garden and smiles Cheshire style until I get about six feet away.
When I approach calmly but deadly, Kung Fu style, he looks at me, rolls his eyes in despair and jumps effortlessly over the fence. To make matters worse, as I retreat defeated, he has a habit of popping back up on the top of the fence again and laughing, I can’t hear it, but I know he is. Bastard!
The deceased feline had been impaled on a metal spike left upright in my garden. Dangerous I know. I was dismantling my old shed and the offending scrap metal was chucked safely or so I thought, over to the edge of my garden near some rotten fence panels.
Now, my guess is that Mr Shitcake was coming over for his daily dump, the fence panel gave way, and his sphincter squeezing days were over. I’d say he’d been there a couple of days. He was starting to smell a bit nasty. It was unpleasant.
I wondered how I was going to remove him from the spike, which incidentally, was attached to a 4ft piece of wood? I had to slide him off somehow. It might be a tad embarrassing walking around to my neighbours with a dead cat swinging from side to side while impaled on a metal spike, attached halfway up a plank of wood and asking, "Hi, don’t suppose this is yours?"
At that moment, I heard my wife walking up the garden, obviously wondering what was going on. Although I was completely innocent of any calamitous cat crime, I nervously kicked the wooden plank that was attached to the spike that was attached to the cat, into the bushes. I turned my back to it, and smiled.
I knew she would immediately suspect wrongdoing. Unfortunately, it was a poor effort. The wood was indeed now hidden but the cat's head was poking lifelessly and I dare to say, amusingly, out of the side of a conifer tree. "What is going on", she demanded. I screwed up my face for a moment.
After convincing her that I had not in fact, chased the deceased around our garden with a rusty 2ft spike attached to a large plank of wood shouting, "Come here you little shit", I explained what I thought had happened to the unfortunate moggy. Even though the mistrustful way she looked at me made me feel like I was lying, I could tell she believed I wasn't intelligent enough to make it up and she accepted my story.
She recognized the cat and we bagged it up. She made me take it around to our neighbours to explain all. It was a sorrowful affair and they said they would break the news to their ten year old daughter later that day.
Soon after, my neighbour turned up at my house to thank me for bringing the cat over and said his daughter had taken it well and he would make it up to her. "How", I asked. He smiled, "We’re getting her two".