Fun on the Farm
It’s a strange one. At night, my routine doesn’t alter much – being a woman of a certain age, I climb into bed and take my watch off and take the hair band off my wrist that I’d put there earlier from my ponytail. Yet something happens between the hours of going to bed and getting dressed in the morning – my hair band disappears.
Now it’s an old house – at least 150 years old and probably more. Nobody actually knows it’s definitive age as there aren’t any records. Old houses often have strange happenings and it doesn’t really bother me too much, it’s just a bit inconvenient trying to find a new hair band, when I’m running late (always) , that still works. It also costs money, but not a huge amount so I let it go. It’s just a mystery. It’s just strange how the poltergeist has a penchant for used and probably (guaranteed) slightly smelly rubber that has my hair entangled in it. Oh well, that’s life.
The odd thing is that I often discover chewed and slightly fishy hair bands in the cats food bowl. I confess that in desperate times I have fished them out and bunged them in my hair thinking that as my locks are so thick anyway, and probably (definitely) full of new and interesting life forms that belong in the stable yard rather than in a head of hair, nobody will actually notice a soggy, bedraggled rubber band that smells of fish.
So the question is, who is the culprit? There’s a choice of two. Two innocent purr machines. Two ‘Lady and the Tramp’ Siamese. Two highly intelligent, full of character, hilarious and loving vocal pussy cats. But only one kleptomaniac.
One is hyperactive, vocal, has a fetish for aluminium, but generally brings back the screwed up tin foil balls in order to play fetch. However, has a secret love of Nerf bullets and would move heaven and earth to pinch one. But again, the best game in the world is fetch. He just can’t help himself. Lightening quick, attention seeking paws and meows alert me to his antics. It just can’t be Kiki, he just isn’t subtle enough.
So that leaves one. One called Khufu – the kleptomaniac cat. One autistic pussy with a penchant for rubber. And plastic bags. One little fellow that has been back and forth to the vets for months due to sickness. Teeth have been removed in case they were the culprit. Sickness pills given. Antiobiotics dished out. Still no abating the howls and vomit that periodically filled the house.
The last visit to the vet was filmed for the ‘Yorkshire Vet’. It felt like old times with Dave Terry there filming. This time Peter was on the case though. X-rays were taken of practically the whole of Khufu. And the truth was out. Surgery was booked, the film crew were brought in, vets and nurses were on hand for ‘Operation Khufu, the kleptomaniac cat’ . 15 hair bands were extracted from Khufu’s tummy. 15 soggy, fishy, slimy hair bands will be on national television any time soon. And one sore and sorrowful sheepish moggy.
Oh Khufu, we love you. You muppet.