It would be nice to think that peace had broken out amongst the felines at Casa MacBride. In fact, it'd be bloody wonderful. But also deluded. We do seem to have achieved an uneasy stalemate though. Grendel now spends 40% of her time outside catching mice and eating their brains (I was going to post a picture of one of these lucky rodents, but then I remembered some of you out there are squeamish*); 30% of her time in the study with me -- mostly asleep; and the remaining 20% on top of the fridge freezer in the kitchen.
The Interlopers are confined to barracks at bedtime, and other than that they have the run of most of the house. They seem to spend 60% of their time asleep, and every waking moment either shouting, hissing, eating, or making vast stinky jobbies.
Honestly, it's like something out of a horror film; these cats are like TARDISes they produce about four times their own body mass in poop every day. That must be why they sleep so much -- shagged out from all that crapping. Every morning I go upstairs to let them out, put down some more food (poop doesn't grow on trees after all) and then turn to the litter tray... By the curly beard of Anne Widdicombe... It's like being confronted by a pair of vast brown pythons. Smelly pythons. Big, smelly pythons.
I recon that by the time they finally go back to their real family, they'll have produced enough bottom lumps to fill the Grand Canyon (or Paris Hilton). Grendel, on the other hand, barely poops at all. Not in the house anyway. She's like the Queen that way, only with better taste in hats.
And me? I spend 20% of my time trying to sleep, 50% of my time on the line edit, 5% cooking meals of loveliness for She Who Must Vanish Whenever There's A Litter Tray To Be Emptied; and the rest of my time shovelling Interloper poop.
God, it's a glamorous life...
* But I am prepared to bow to popular pressure, if the sick weirdoes out there fancy a bit of photographic mouse snuff.
Labels: Cat, Trauma