L’alpha et l’oméga (Partie 2)

Not long ago, I picked up Louis Catorze’s bowl to wash it and found two pills underneath it. The little bastard had eaten off the Pill Pocket casing, then somehow hidden the pill. Twice.

And remember when he liked his Omega 3 vol-au-vents? Yeah, well, now he doesn’t. And, as per his usual méthode de travail, he decided this right after I bought further supplies of Pill Pockets.

This meant that I had to find another way of getting the Omega 3 into him. It’s too big a capsule to Greco, and I didn’t dare squeeze it onto his food for fear of giving him another excuse to go on hunger strike.

I then had the idea of, erm, squeezing it onto his body and letting him groom it off. The only problem was that, should he fail to groom and just let it air-dry on himself, I would be left with a greasy, fishy, screaming furbag pitter-pattering around and rubbing disgusting oil everywhere. But it had to be worth a go since the Omega 3 made a huge difference to the little sod’s yucky fur after just a week of use.

Anyway, this was the sequence of events that followed:

1. Pierce hole in capsule and sit on sofa with holey capsule just within reach.

2. Target sits on my lap.

3. Squeeze contents of holey capsule onto my finger, ready to rub onto Target’s body.

4. Target scarpers, leaving me with gross, fishy gel on finger.

5. Wait for Target to return and, as I do so, fishy gel starts to melt on my finger. There are no non-porous items within reach onto which I can temporarily scrape fishy gel, other than my pot of lip balm (SORRY to Cocoa the babysit cat’s folks, who gave me said lip balm).

Nothing sweet about this.

6. Target appears to realise that something is up and doesn’t return to my lap.

7. I pick up lip balm, casually walk towards him then pounce, rubbing the pot against his arm and transferring the fishy gel onto him in one smooth movement. Am probably prouder of this than is normal/appropriate.

8. Target is perturbed by what’s just happened and doesn’t know what to do. He remains frozen for a few seconds.

9. Target scarpers.

10. Target returns and grooms off the fishy gel. I HAVE SUCCEEDED IN MY MISSION. (Well, it was about time. My missions can’t just go on failing forever, right?)

Anyway, since we now have 639 packets of Pill Pockets, the little sod has been able to send some to his buddy Dexter (below) in India, who is being a bit of a shite about taking his medication.

“Nah … not gonna eat that.”

And Cat Daddy was highly amused to discover where the most recent Pill Pocket shipment had passed through before coming here:

Never been but it sounds dodgy as hell.

La beauté gagne quelquefois à être regardée de loin

If a cat were to, erm, accidentally get hair-removing wax and baby oil on their fur, they would be ok, wouldn’t they? I’m asking on behalf of a friend.

I don’t suppose I need to explain what happened during the beautician’s visit, so I will let your imagination paint that picture on its own. And it turns out that the only way to painlessly remove salon wax is to dab the affected area with baby oil.

As you can imagine, Sa Maj wasn’t a fan of that. The little sod took off and dived under the bed with the wax only part-removed, refusing to come out. And, when I caught sight of him trying to groom it off much later, he had somehow managed to form the remaining wax and the stuck fur into a sort of pointy, greasy dreadlock on his leg.

Cat Daddy said it was my fault and that I should never have let him come in during the treatment although, had I shut him out of the room, his screaming outside the door would have sent me over the edge. In the meantime, as I write this, he is in his igloo and I daren’t attempt to check him in case the wax has made him stick to the inside. I have horrible (yet also a bit funny) visions of hearing a ripping sound as I shake him out and having him tumble undignifiedly at my feet with one bald leg.

I guess that, once the greasy leg-dreadlock has hardened, I will have to cut it off. Wrestling an oily animal who is freakishly strong when angry, with a pair of scissors in my hand: what could possibly go wrong?