A field guide to the cats.

As I promised, herein lies some things to help with the identification of the triumvirate of evil that rules our house with a paw of iron. < A cat with iron paws would be awesome in a paff* fight > Also included is a glossary of terms used in the household, to describe the actions that are undertaken in the war for soft furnishing supremacy.


Madame Mim:
A.K.A The queen of pain, Princess trousers*, Long toe, Mimlet, The Mimsicle, Ninja leg,  Mimulator.
Appearance: A small Calico cat, with one black front leg, precious little white paws <with unusually long toes>, a bandit mask, half and half coloured ears, and a tail like a toilet brush. She is has little white fangs, and more spikey clawed bits than is considered appropriate in polite society.
Demeanor: Generally self possessed and moderately affectionate around humans. Suffers bouts of rage when turned upside down, and boops* noses  as a show of displeasure. Around other cats, she feigns an attitude of indifference, until they get within striking range.
Territory: Fairly much anywhere she wishes, as most of the local cats are scared witless of her. Prefers the bedroom, but will settle without notice on any surface, especially if said surface is needed for something.

Then BLAM! She eats your face.

Mystery:
A.K.A The boy, Lord Heebington, Mystery T. Cat, The do, Mr nose for a nose, The heebus*, The plimper*

Appearance: Large, black, and shiny. He is a sleek mass of rippling muscle, with a saggy belly. Looks dignified, even though his pinky tongue sticks out quite often. Heavily scarred from a life of combat, putting his face into things he shouldn't and maybe even squirrel related wounds. Has fangs a sabre toothed cat would be proud of, and has kitchen devil blades for claws. Slightly greying around the ruff, and walks with a limp, a result of stopping a speeding car with his pelvis.
Demeanor: Lovey and a bit skittish with humans. Keeps to himself, and is quite quiet around other cats, unless they get too close, or sniff him. Is prone to outbursts of mad running about chasing stuff, is a ferocious killer, and wanted by the court of mice for genocide. Catnip addict.
Territory: The spare room, all boxes within the house, the bean bag, and any shopping bags or paper left on the floor.

The warrior in repose.

Tiger:
A.K.A The belly, Pider, Mr Pie, The apricot nightmare, The orange horror, Fuzzbag, "that bloody cat", Old man, Fatty fat fat fat .

Appearance: The real life Bagpuss. Old, limps as his front right foot is a bit arthritic, is a mass of ginger and white teddy bear fur that sticks out in all directions <and randomly litters the floor with pielets*> has one squinchy* eye from a possibly Mystery inflicted battle wound. Is mostly made of ribs, and has a cannon ball for a belly. Sneezes in faces, farts a lot, and is followed by a slightly eggy smell. Does have fangs and claws but is not very keen or able to use either, unless food is involved.
Demeanor: Quite shy and timid with people until he gets to know them, unless you have food, then you are automatically in his good books. Will sit on any part of any food giving human, covering them in fluff. Is mean and antagonistic to other cats when the food fork comes out, and is quite capable of eating his own bodyweight in anything, including other cats sick.  Masterful scrounger, giving the thin eye* to people just to get extra food. He would be a confidence trickster if he had thumbs. At other times, he has been known to be very sweet and friendly to the other cats, including peeping* conversations with Mim.
Territory: Laps, chairs, my chin, my pillow, anywhere the others have just vacated, the kitchen.

Do I hear food?

* See glossary.


Glossary.

Boop: when inverted by a human, the act of reaching one paw out and pressing it firmly on the humans nose, as if to say " NO!  No further!" See also hush catting.

Chickeny in the leg: When upside down and stretched out, this is what happens to ones back legs, looking like chicken drumsticks, but hairy.

Fat eyes: See thin  eyes.
Heebus/Heebing: Standing one ones back legs, mainly to get a toy on a string, or a just out of reach treat. A full heeb involves waving of front legs, like one is praying.
Hush Catting: Sort of like booping, but with the other front paw on the humans mouth.
Mimlish: Being mimlish means a cat is behaving in a cute but agressive manner.

Mimple: The art of doing something despicable, whilst looking perfect and pure.
Mimping: Prancing along on ones tippy toes, with ones tail held in a hooky manner.
Paff: Smacking someone in the face without using claws, also known as jazz handing.
Peeping: Getting your face close to another cats face, and exchanging greetings with little miow sounds
Pielets: Small balls of chest fluff deposited on any surface that one feels like. They may or may not be proto cats.
Plimping/Plimper: Plimping is a bit like mimping, but done in a more purposeful manner.
Squinching: The art of having one eye slighly closed to give a lopsided expression.
Teapotting: Neatly sitting upright with ones neck extended to full length, to see whats going on.
Trousers: Proud and super fluffy haunches.
Thin eyes: Making ones eyes look sorrowful, like a waif who has never been fed "Please sir, can I have some more?" When this act is done immediately post feeding, it is know as giving someone the fat eye.

Evil furry donuts and a migratory wall.

It has been overly long since I last posted. I've been continually low, so have not felt up to doing anything much. Sorry about that.
The first violets of spring  were spotted when we went out litter picking last week, so that was a little cheer making at least.

Now I just wait for an insect to sit on my face.

Also, the wall on the path into town has started its spring migration. Or that is at least what I presume is happening. It was fine during the winter, but now half of it is on the other side of the path from where it usually is. I'm sure, come the autumn, the wall will be back, maybe even with some wall-lets. I can watch them frolic on the golf course.

migratory path is from right to left.

The cats have been odd....Well odd by our standards, but by cat standards they are probably quite sane. Ruth decided that the house needed consolidating, so now we have a library/office room < not popular with cats, but great for wi-fi>, and a living room where the sofa and the tv are in the same room<popular with humans and our cat overlords>. The beanbag is also there. after some initial border disputes, involving Mim, sitting on the back of the sofa and jumping gleefully on anything/one who passed, things have settled a wee bit. Mystery has taken to lurking on my beanbag, as it is both near the radiator, and is dark brown, so he can hide in plain sight, like the ninja he is. He did try sitting on the back of the sofa, but kept either falling off, or having his butt sniffed by the Apricot nightmare, which hurt his kitty dignity. He sleeps in the middle of my bean bag, like the evil hairy filling in a doom donut.

Dignity? I am positively made of it, dear chap!

On several occasions we have encountered the queen of pain, and the orange horror cohabiting on the sofa. I believe it to have been declared neutral ground, where they can meet and discuss the division of territory.

Negotiations in progress. 

Mim: I require, nay DEMAND, the dining room table top.
Pie: But it is very uncomfortable. * gently farts*
Mim: None the less, disgusting one, I wish it. It takes my fancy to watch the birds through the window. The unsuspecting foooooools! * rubs her precious paws together, evilly*
Pie: Fine, but I get to sleep on the male humans pillow. * burps smellily*
Mim: Agreed, as long as you do not stray onto the female humans fuzzy fleece, or so help me I will cut you, cut you HARD.
Pie: As you wish Mi'Lady.
Mystery: Quiet morsels! I must sleep, for tonight I plan to poop most mightily.

Touch my belly, I dare you.

Tomorrow I shall post something about the  various names of the cats, and household names for things they do.

The belly black hole,

How the hell does one cat manage to eat so much? Yes Mr Pie, I'm looking at you, you orange tubber.
Now then..... Pie is an old cat, we think 13/14 years> he is a bit  <well quite a lot> smelly, skinny of haunch, ribby and thin. He is also quite a small cat. Yes, he is wormed <which is good due to the fact worms are  spew inducingly gross>.
I have never, however, seen a cat who will eat so much stuff, and such a varied diet. I've even seen him eat Mystery's sick, one of the grimmest things ever.
Anyhow......Today he ate his food, and then made a dash for the black avengers bowl. Not normally a wise move, as Mystery is twice his size and made of muscles and sharp things. Mystery was sadly being discombobulated by me putting the recycling out, so  Pie single mindedly ate his food in a most loud and disgusting manner, before running to the queen of pains bowl, and polishing that off too. He then came back and miowed at me to feed him, the furry chancer.

So full....can't....move.

He reminds me of the tale of Utgard-Loki, Yes, I think my fat ginger catten may be the Midgaard serpent, in disguise.

Time share roof, and night time terror.

First off. Yes. I am painting still, but its a super secret project for someone *Looks askance*, so you will have to wait to hear about it.

The Queen of pain is expanding her sphere of influence. No longer content with owning the realm of bed, and controlling Bathroomvia, she has stepped outside. Thats right, she has colonized the roof.
We were sitting watching telly the other night, when there was a thunderous rumble. Was it the rumble of thunder? No! It was the rumble of tiny white paws charging up and down the roof. She has annexed the slates, or so she thinks.

I can survey my realm from here....Also I want that bacon I can smell.

However there is a  rival who takes over when she sleeps. Mim doesn't know this though, and unless she figures how to use my laptop she never will.
Let me tell you how I stumbled upon this dark knowledge:
After a restless night I awoke, only to find it still dark-ish..... but not so dark as I couldn't see the orange horrors posterior aimed squarely at my face, as he whiffily slept on my chest. I knew he was loaded and ready to fire <cos he always is> so I wiggled slightly to get him to move over, and that is when I heard it.
Ker-chunk! 
"What in the name of the gods was that?"

Crunkle-shuffle-shuffle
I gulped nervously, wondering what manner of night demon was clawing through the roof.

I wiggled down nder the duvet a bit, as we all know the duvet is guard against all forms of night horror.
"TwiIt TWoOoOoo-Hooo"
I jumped so hard I launched Mr Pie from my chest merely with the power of my shoulder blades contracting. It was a real "brown duvet" moment.
< Coincidentally, the duvet cover is actually brown, so no one would have known.....>

Yes, Mouse-render the tawny owl has stolen Mim's crown as king/queen of the castle, but only between the hours of midnight to seven A.M.

I am nemesis of the voooooooole.

Spring has definitely hit with a vengeance, Mystery is getting into practice, by trying to hunt the Collard doves, who out wit him, whilst looking like emo pigeons. The slaughter season, where the cats wade through a see of small crunchy things is nigh.

Going to listen to some My Chemical Romance, then get brutally eaten alive....awesome.

Crouching Tiger, hidden Mystery.

We have some new furniture, a very nice wooden bookcase that we are using to replace the CD storage unit, where the CD s would fall in a beautiful cascade of broken cases and fluttering inserts, every we time we did anything near them. I do mean anything.... like blink. I swear a voles heart beat would set them tumbling <Mim would help us with this, if it was vole season>  The case has a section with doors on at the bottom and.......two cat sized shelves.  Ruth took the handles off to clean them, after she polished the unit, and left the doors slightly open.

Yes its a crappy pic, but you get the idea.

This could only end with some devious feline shennanigans. I watched and waited. Eventually Mystery <stealth beast, usurper of soft furnishings> came zooming out of the garden, past the Mr Pie <orange horror, maker of smells>, who was standing by the kitchen door, hit Pie in the head... and then vanished.

Predator? .... Pah! Rank ameteur.

Pie launched  <I say launched, he sort of jumped shook his poor paw and scooched into the living room in a nervous, indignant way > into the living room and clawed to a halt looking round in bemusement. Where was his nemesis? In the bathroom? No. Under the table? No. That meant he must be in the other living room.

Where in the name of ceiling cat, is he?

As he passed the new unit, I espied a baleful yellow eye glinting with malevolence from within. Mere moments later the black spear of lethality  exploded from his lair, smashing into Pie like a hairy sledge hammer. Pie fell over.
Mystery scampered away into the other room, where I heard yowling as he ran face first into the queen of pain, who had been waiting round the corner the whole time.

When the rodent revolution comes.....Actually, I don't think there will be enough of them left to start a revolution.

Truly, she is a patient force of evil.

The ongoing turf conflict is going to see one of them up for war crimes soon. I hope there are no mouse jurors.

sharpened swans and sleeplesness.

It is now 4.42 A.M. I have had a bout ten hours sleep since Monday, and am getting a bit odd. I was just laying in bed, listening to the wind outside, and Mim making wind at the foot of the bed, whilst Ruth muttered sleep nonsense, trying to switch my mind of and sleep, when a dainty thump heralded the arrival of the Apricot horror, in the snoozy domain. Pie hurtled up the bed, and vigorously greeted me by repeatedly head butting me as hard as he could, then trying to fit his head in my mouth. I lay there trying not to A. open my mouth, and B. giggle. Eventually all I could do was get up, looking disheveled and smelling of cat drool.
I am a charming sight now, in monocle, camoflaged cap, baggy wooly jumper, workmans boots, and no trousers.
To polish matters off, Mr Pie has just  used his litter tray, leaving a smell that I could bottle and sell to middle eastern despots, to torture their subjects with. That cats backside breaches the Geneva convention.

I shall hang this from his tail.

In my last missive I promised the joys of sharpened swans.
This came about as follows: Last weekend, Ruth and I were kindly invited to go to a FANTASTIC local restaurant in Beaumaris, for an old friends 40th birthday. The food was awesome, delicious and beautifully presented <not a chip -or French fry, to my American readers- in sight > and the wine and conversation flowed well, especially when we got a complimentary bottle, after poor Ruth took a tumble on the wonky floor. Then my mind took a turn for the odd, when one friend mentioned something to do with food. My mind cross linked the food with combat, for some reason, and my mouth said "wouldn't raw chickens make good boxing gloves?" to no one in particular. There were raised eyebrows, but my friends are used to me going off on a tangent. The topic of conversation briefly turned to what animals would make the best hand held fighting implements. A live swan was generally agreed to be good, on account of superior reach to a goose, and more aggression than a duck < especially as you would have your hand up its derrière, which would upset most creatures> . I then said "Especially if you sharpened it". The reply came back "You means its beak?" After a moments thought I replied "No, its entire head"
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you a wonder of modern science : The mark one combat swan <Black edition>

Swifter than a murder duck, stealthier than agony coot.

I think the robins shot all the otters.

Topsy turvy time for me of late. Been sort of down and not feeling so good, so haven't posted for a bit. Stuff has been going on though. We went for a lovely walk in Cegin woods last week, and searched in vain for badgers and otter signs.

A shady river dell, complete with ghastly troll.

We didn't find any, but  did espy a tree stump full of pebbles, indicating the water had come way up recently. The flooded bits around me should have been a clue.

The yearly pebble migration began.

The walk was lovely and peaceful. The Robins  < who are natures thugs - their chests are red to hide the blood of their foes, and they shout abuse and rascism at other birds- probably> were pretending to be charming in the small branches, and to be fair to them, doing a pretty good job.

YOU GREY FEATHERY BASTA....Um, I mean "tweet tweet warble"

Maybe these feathered gangsters were the reason there were no signs of Badgers, Crabadgers, or Otters. They had either killed and feasted on them, or had run them out of their 'hood.
These woods are along the old slate railway line from Bethesda to port Penrhyn, and are a credit to those who look after them.

No otters here, move along.

Cat related issues: The orange horror, marmalade fiend that he is, has decided that the spot on the rug in front of our log fire is his, all his. Noone else can have it, and he is making sure that all fires built are quality controlled by him applying one flank, then the other, towards the fire. If he approves, he curls into a tiny ball, and starts to make an odd rumbling noise. He hasn't been up to sneeze in my ear as a greeting in days.
The Mim beast has got a dose of "spring fever" and is charging around everywhere looking for things to subjugate, eat, violate, and/or torture. She is in her blood stained element, and is all fuzzy tail and crazy eyes.
Mystery is playing the waiting game, and seeing what the others are up to, from atop a heap of shopping bags.



More tomorrow.....I must tell you about swan sharpening.

Annexing new territory.

Cat politics are weird. They make our human wranglings seem simple by comparison. I can only wonder at the results if Iran went to sleep on Iraq's favourite chair, or China sat scratching their ear with a back foot, whilst staring intently at America. And woe betide the day that South Korea noisily licked its bottom in front of its northern Neighbours.

In soviet Russia, cat own you.

                This weeks political feline fuss seems to involve territory. We have had non nuclear skirmishes <although the Queen of pain looked tempted to go atomic on the Apricot horror >, Covert op's, and full on field battles.
                 Tensions started when The grand dictator Mystery decided to annex the dining chair Ruth sits on, formerly a dominion of The Mimlish protectorate. This resulted in some exploratory sniffing on the part of Mim, and some bad natured grumbling, and  several whacks to Mysteries nose. In an escalation, Mystery hid the flashing toy ball, and attacked her on the way to breakfast. Mr Pie watched with interest.

I shall rise once more.... after I have cleaned these toes.

This carried on for several days, until one evening, I couldn't find  Pie anywhere. Eventually Ruth found him, disguising himself as curtains, and draped Across the back of the sofa. His covert takeover of this piece of prime territory has  passed the other two by. They don't seem to find snoring haberdashery strange.

It will be curtains for the others.

Mystery has since retaken the laundry basket, located primely next to the bathroom radiator, and is asleep on my dirty jeans. In a shock move he also, earlier, went to sleep in the Apricot horrors bed. Mystery is clearly an aggressive expansionist. I think he needs the room for his saggy belly.
Mim was not giving her next move away, but earlier she did stalk Mystery, and they hissed at each other, so it's not over yet, not by a long stretch. She is pretending to be asleep on the bed, biding her time, and  plotting her rise.

Shrimps and sea snot.

We went to Penrhos park yesterday. Here is a   link  to their site, as I am very tired and also don't want to bore the bejeezus out of you with windy explanations. Suffice to say it a lovely spot for a stroll at any time of the year.  Both armed with cameras,we endeavored to get some half way decent pictures as we wandered about, enjoying the unseasonably clement weather.

You think they're cuddly, I think they're sinister.

perambulating like a sir.

Having watched ducks being inscrutable, and many small birds reacting in irritation to our being in their woods, we carried on out of the woods and down to the beach. It is one of the few places I have been where you can literally step from mixed woodland straight onto a beach without dunes. I love it, it's like skipping from one world into another. There were some loud girls on the headland, but it was easy enough to pretend they were seagulls.

Prettyness.

I tried my hand a photographing mini beasts, but my camera isn't up to the task. Mind you, did get some evidence of wading birds pillaging the worm population.

Worm CSI had no problem with this case.

Meh, never mind, one day I will have a nice one. Whilst  observing the mini shrimps that fled from me in their rock pools <I felt like I was their god. Hmm..... we have Cthulhu, I wonder if there is a shrimp author somewhere that tells tales of a giant tentacle-less pink otherworldly god, who wears a terrible hat>  I happened upon a strange object. A green ball about the size of a large grape bobbing beneath the surface, so I retrieved it. It was slimy, cold and flopped flat in my palm. Ladies and gentlemen, I can proudly announce .... I found some sea snot! I can only conclude that a mermaid with sinusitis had been in the area recently.

What in the name of the old ones is it?

We asked a local dog walker, a sweet man with a really hairy nose, if he knew what it might be. He replied "David Cameron's brain". Topical but not especially helpful. I set the aquatic nose goblin free in a rock pool, and we wandered back into the woods, passing through some small narrow arches in these random  big stone walls that litter the area, like the walls of some stately home, but in splendid decay, and growing out of the  woods, like some beautiful, corrupt, Narnia.
The fresh air was quite knackering and we spent most of the evening clapped out, me on my bean bag with the orange nightmare asleep and farting on my chest.
good times.

Securing the digital domain, and the furry doom spear.

First of all....Dydd Dewi Sant hapus pawb <Happy Saint David's day to all>. There that is about thirty percent of my Welsh vocabulary expended.
Today I have not been painting, I have been learning all about the wonderful world of digital copyrighting, and also  figuring out how to use layers in photoshop, so I can do the clever and professional "putting your name over the picture, discreetly, to stop people nicking your stuff" effect. Win! I was going to ask my friends nine year old daughter about such matters, as she is a wiz with digital art, although I have no idea about her knowledge of copyright law.

Me, as a judge. Or a bat in a wig.
Would a bat in a wig bite the head off of Ozzy Osbourne?

 Whilst taking a break earlier, I happened to espy the big  mackerel tabby, who I have named "Gargantua", sitting on the retaining wall in the garden. I crept out to the kitchen to admire this massive stripy wonder of the natural world, who was sunning himself, and looking round the garden in a vaguely proprietary manner.
        With the odd telepathic abilities of cats, he sensed my presence and slowly swung his head round <cue a grating noise, like two slabs of granite grinding against each other> to look at me. His eyes opened slightly wider, as he registered that I was 1. A stranger, and 2. Watching him. His eyes opened even wider, when, from below, Mystery exploded vertically towards him, like a sleek black rocket from hell, and speared him clean off the wall and several feet into the garden.
Mystery looked very smug.

The last thing many have seen.