So the lastbornâs boyf bursts through the kitchen door after seeing an unseemly silhouette through the frosted glass panes.
He arrives, to find me, with the business end of a broom in the air, looking like Iâve dropped acid and have decided to brush the sky.
âWhat are you doing?â, he asks, reasonbly.
âFly-herdingâ, I say, not rocking the psilocybin at all. Fly-herding is my latest attempt to deal with the summer swarm and it is working.
I donât like killing things, not even insects or arachnids. We had a magnetised screen door last year, which was shit and almost led to numerous accidents. I think insect zappers are a bit out of order. I just want the cunts out of my house ASAP. They can do what they want thereafter.
Thus, fly-herding, and Iâd like to say itâs a new thing, but when you think about it, thereâs absolutely no way it wasnât invented before, if only out of pragmatism. Brooms have been around for centuries, after all.
Supposedly, what you need is a clear polythene bag filled with water and pennies hanging in each open doorway and window. Flies think itâs a wasps nest and steer clear.
Iâve been up since 05:45. The new kitten, He-Yet-To-Be-Named, slept on the bed last night and managed not to piss off the other pets. I had some beers last night, so as usual, the body decides that just before six is a good time to be waking up. Made the mistake of starting to play with the cat, hence my early morning start. The little bastard is asleep on a cushion now.
The pet politics have changed in this house as well. A traditional two party, two species affair, the arrival of He-Yet-To-Be-Named has created new dynamics. The big cat was initially scared of the little cat, but is now doing his best to man up and growl, etc.
The little cat is scared of the dog, even though the dog is not the racing yap-machine she was when we first got the big cat. He-Yet-To-Be-Named will make a quick dart on top or behind a sofa.
The dog still has no fucks left to give. She stumbles about the place, deaf and blind and acts like a jonesinâ prawn crackhead from District 9 whenever the kittenâs food is whipped out.
Her attitude to the whole thing is âfuck off you cunts. I will eat your kitten food, drink your kitten milk and there is fuck all anyone can do about itâ.
The kitten-bullied diaries of Paul Taylor, aged 47 and three eighths
Weâve had the new kitten in the house for just over a couple of weeks nos.
Heâs adorable, but heâs a little bastard. This is an accurate rendering of his overall attitude at present.
He hunts the bigger cat. He hunts the dog. He hunts either Gingora or me and seems to either not know, or not care, that our skin is attached to us. I suspect the latter.
My âFriday afternoon offâ has been completely ruined by his attempts to eat my fingers.
Almost outdoing @pap
So staying at Daughterâs who has a âsocial media starâ living with them these days.
An absolute bundle of 12 week old fun.
Such a happy chappie.
