My retiring habits are rather erratic.  I am usually the last to go to bed, by far.  Sometimes by very far indeed, especially when I get deeply involved in writing or composing.  Thus I am accustomed to creeping up the passage and preparing for bed all in the dark so as not to disturb anyone.


 Last night and in the early morning I got hooked on tinkering, but not with a caravan and pot-and-pan repairs or thievery.   I have felt that the third movement of my Second Symphony needed a bar to link one change which arrived too abruptly, and in the final movement I decided that I should reintroduce the first theme with icing and decorations after its first appearance, and not only in the grand finale.  I completed these exercises at past one o’clock, and started my creep off to bed.

 However, Ginger Macgregor, who had been sleeping in the lounge, decided it was a bedroom night, so he ‘Ack-acked’ at me to take him with me.  Thus my progress down the passage was accompanied by me hissing, ‘Shhh!  Don’t get underfoot!   Shhh!  Shhh!’ at him, while he continued to ‘Ack’ happily.  In the bedroom, he announced loudly, ‘I’m hungry!’  Telling him again to ‘Shush!’, I traced his box of cat pellets in the dark (yes, in the bedroom; don’t ask!), took out a handful, and popped them by feel into a handy bowl kept there for the purpose.

My undressing went ahead accompanied by the sounds of crunching guzzle.  Before I had even finished getting my clothes off, the noises ceased – he’d polished off the lot.  In fact, he’d polished them off far too fast.  Some loud sounds of kitty-retching suddenly commenced.

Now nude, I made a grab in the direction of the awful noises, clutched the furball, and dived with him to the en-suite toilet.  There I held him with head poised over the bowl.

Mackie objected to this treatment.   Kicking-hind-legs-with-needles-attached only just missed a certain tender midsection portion of my anatomy, which I moved out of the way hastily.  The cat then changed tactics, and directed said hind legs at the hands holding him.  He got in a really good slash at my wrist. 

 Not surprisingly, I decided that holding him was no longer a good idea, and that whatever more of his supper he wished to return could go wherever it wanted.  I had better things to do – like holding a wound under the cold tap, while giving my opinion of cats in general and Mack in particular under my breath.

 I had thought I’d managed to stop the bleeding by the time I finally crawled into bed, but the state of the sheets when I woke up proved otherwise – much cold-water washing became necessary…

 ‘That was rude, but I forgive you!’ Macgregor purred as he snuggled into me.

“I nearly scratched you WHERE?”


 © July 2010 Colonialist (Letterdash/WordPress)



About colonialist

Active septic geranium who plays with words writing fantasy novels and professionally editing, with notes writing classical music, and with riding a mountain bike, horses and dinghies. Recently Indie Publishing has been added to this list.
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  1. Tokeloshe says:


    Look at those teeth and nails.


  2. Jingle says:

    awards are fun, u win the celebrate blogger of June in short stories honorable mention award, plus 4 friendship awards, the only cin voted for you.
    viola lost her husband,
    I lost a general friend,
    all together,
    please visit and give love to them…


  3. Jingle says:

    cute cat…


  4. Adeeyoyo says:

    From housecat to wildcat in an instant – wow! Watch that scratch, Col. I itch for days from a scratch.


  5. cindy says:

    tee hee, better the wrist than the other w.
    *Cin apologises for laughing at Col’s misfortune*


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