Thursday, November 11, 2010

It's because of you that we can't have nice things. A while ago we got the handyman to come around and chisel free the front bedroom windows, which had been painted shut. I have spent five miserably hot summers in this room thinking the window just didn't open, and I had been looking forward to finally getting some cool breeze.

And of course Graham has to fuck everything up.

Because I don't want to be stuck with thousands of dollars in vet fees if Graham gets into a cat fight, I don't let him outside after dark. This means that I can't keep the house open at night in summer, when the temperature drops and I desperately want to let the hot air out.

I asked the real estate agent if we could get screen doors. She said we could on the back door, but not on the front as it would "ruin the period facade". We are also about the only house in the street without bars on the windows. Instead we have flywire screens that don't fit the windows and are attached to the frame solely by a little clip on each side.

So the little bastard has spent the last few hours sitting in my bedroom window, scratching at the ill-fitting flywire and trying to burrow out underneath it while I was trying to finish off my marking. He just wouldn't leave the damn window alone, so I have had to close it just to get some motherfucking peace and quiet.

You can tell from my language that I am what my mother used to call 'overtired'.

Other nice things I can't have because of Graham:


Flowers! He burrows his head into the bouquet and knocks it over, bruising the flowers and drenching and ruining any nearby books, magazines or newspapers.

Porcelain and glass vases! Because he is always knocking the vase over and has already broken one, I had to invest in some metal vases.

Apartments! Graham needs outdoor space because sometimes he refuses to use his litter tray for mysterious reasons.

Houses on main roads! Because he is an idiot who likes to crawl under parked cars and lie in the middle of the road. This is all right in my cul-de-sac. But basically I don't trust him not to kill himself anywhere else.

Holidays! I guess I could put him in a cattery, which is basically like cat jail. But at least it's secure. Any other catsitting option leaves me sick with worry and unable to enjoy my time away.

Christmas decorations! I got my own tree for the first time last year, but basically I ended up decorating it with a selection of cat toys. Balls. Shiny things. String things. Bird things.

Every time I left the house I would come home and there would be decorations strewn across the floor.

He was onto the damn thing the second I started to put it up. Look at the little bastard. He knows he's doing something bad.

My mother says, "When he does something bad, just spray him with a spray bottle!" She says this as if I am some kind of godlike creature who can be everywhere at once, like Vishnu with a spray bottle in all four hands.

Yes, sigh, but think of all the love those furballs, vomit & trashed furniture represent.
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