Hairy Potty!

Despite his little pecadillos Austin's a very convivial companion, but much to the elderly maternal relative's disgust, he does not like being picked up and cuddled. It seems to be a bit beneath his dignity to allow himself to be squidged and squashed in this way. Could also have something to do with his wonky hip, but I'm not so sure, seeing what he gets up to (and "on"). Apart from that he is a very affectionate little fellow. So when he's not attacking my ankles, he actually likes to lie on them - or better still next to them with his paws proprietorially laid across as if he's the conquering hero who's finally subjugated his foe. Of course if I try to move even a millimetre, the claws are out quicker than a politicians excuse on polling day.

And then there is the chattering! I mean I'm a woman, I like to talk, it's what we do. But he does more talking than the UN, EU and NATO put together. And he knows how to get what he wants, from the pitiful pathetic I'm-just-an-orphan-left-starving-and-injured "mew" right up to the full blown I-will-get-through-this-door "yowl" that somehow manages to have me rigid with fear and tremulous with agitation all at the same time.

He is still suffering at the paws of Ginge Secundus as we heard last night - another symphony of sound from his vocal repertoire. Consequently, for him, "going outside" in the daylight is still fraught with danger, so if he feels he absolutely must venture out he first puts in a request, in triplicate, to myself as the most loyal member of his staff, that I should accompany him on his sojourn around the exterior - well I do need the exercise, it's really for my benefit to be brutally frank. I'm a bit on the paunchy side of lissom.

So while I am struggling into my fleece and shoes, he stands at the door muttering to himself about the inadequacies of the human insulation system. I mean, surely the evolutionary process could have come up with something a bit more efficient for the individual biped human than skin without built in lagging. It was just grist to the mill for that first entrepreneur who saw the future and it was called the "retail clothing outlet". Just think of the money you could save if you didn't have to change your clothes!! There would be no need for washing machines, or dryers or worrying about colour co-ordinating, or M&S or Primark or, heaven forfend, Vivienne Westwood! In fact the term "retail therapy" would never have been coined, and there would be a queue outside the Samaritans as long as the M6. So let's just leave it shall we and count ourselves evolved. Anyway do I really want the kind of tongue that can exfoliate? Hmmmmm! But I digress.

We set off up the garden, Austin is in front just enough so he can leap to my defense should it be necessary. After an exhausting 30 second hike into the wild and untamed landscape, I pause to get my breath and perch on the stone steps by the summerhouse. He satisfies himself that I am comfortable and not likely to come to harm and then proceeds with the onerous task of stalking, trapping and subduing the resident flora, safe in the knowledge that the fauna can be left to muggins. He looks at me from time to time to check that my attention is not wandering and if it is he effects a rear guard action by employing the strategic pouncing manoeuver. If by some fluke I should turn round and catch him "in flagrante", without missing a step he executes the perfect u-turn, so the front end is retreating while, it appears, the rear end is still advancing.