C is for Climbing

What can I say? I like to climb trees.  I have a good vantage point of the surrounding area. I can see the undergrowth shaking if there is a little creature scuttling in it. I can sharpen my claws on the trunk. I can look starlings in the eye and laugh at their frightened screeches as they fly away'

I am a tree-mendous climber. Unfortunately, I am not always a brilliant getting-downer.

So it was that yesterday I was surveying my kingdom from the top of a magnificent oak tree. I had soothed an itch by rubbing my back on the rough bark. I had honed my claws to perfection. I had frightened four starlings, three sparrows, a blackbird and a cluster of bluetits. All in all a good hour's work.

I began to get sleepy and knew I mustn't drop off on the branch or I would, well - drop off.

I stepped onto the branch below - so far so good - and then onto the one below that. That's when the trouble started. I heard a long crack followed by a short sharp one and the whole branch sheared away. Oh Lord. I don't mind admitting I was a tad concerned. The next available stepping place seemed an awfully long way away.

I meowed. Nothing.

What were the old man and the old woman doing? Why weren't they concerned about the whereabouts of their most treasured possession? ME!

Long story short. They EVENTUALLY  realised I was missing. The old man got a ladder out of the shed and just as he gingerly reached the top of it I had the brilliant idea of stepping sideways and then down and I nimbly shimmied swiftly to the ground.

Honestly! What language - tut, tut, tut! The old woman made a big fuss of me and I could see she was trying not to laugh at the old man. He put the ladder away and stalked indoors. Discretion being the better part of valour, I took myself off to the spare bedroom to sleep off the trials of my day.

I think the old man has forgiven me now.

My blog That's Purrfect is also in the A to Z Challenge. Read it here www.thatspurrfect.co.uk

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Well, I've finally done it. I have written my no-holds-barred exposé of my life. Prepare to be AMAZED, prepare to be SHOCKED, prepare to be ENTHRALLED blah, blah, blah. Left is the paperback, right is the Kindle version.

            

➨You can follow me on Facebook,  talk to me on Twitter, and idolise me on Instagram.

B is for Beyoncé

AFTER a busy day the old man and old woman opted for an early night. I crept in about half an hour later and they were both fast asleep. I thought I’d help give them sweet dreams so I settled down between them and started to sing a lullaby with my angelic voice. Were they grateful? No, they were not. They awoke.

‘For goodness sake, Toffee,’ the old man said sleepily. ‘Why all the racket?’

The old woman sat up in alarm and switched on the light. ‘Whassup?’ she shouted, like some bad-tempered teenager transported from the 1980s.

I don't know why they are trying to silence me. I am the Beyoncé of cats.

I am the Beyoncé of cats

‘It’s Toffee,’ said the old man. ‘She’s having a funny five minutes.’ He began to stroke me and said, ‘Settle down, girl. Time to sleep.’

The old woman switched out the light and sighed deeply. ‘That cat is absolutely nuts,’ she said.

Charming.

My blog That's Purrfect is also in the A to Z Challenge. Read it here www.thatspurrfect.co.uk

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Well, I've finally done it. I have written my no-holds-barred exposé of my life. Prepare to be AMAZED, prepare to be SHOCKED, prepare to be ENTHRALLED. Left is the paperback, right is the Kindle version.

            

➨You can follow me on Facebook,  talk to me on Twitter, and idolise me on Instagram.

A is for Autobiography

As this is the first day of the 2020 A to Z Blogging Challenge, I thought A for Autobiography was a good place to start. So let me introduce myself.

Version One: My name is Toffee and I was born a queen among cats in a palace made of kippers and ham. As heir to the kingdom, I was given the title Scourge Of The Rodents and spent my days learning to stalk, pounce and kill, like the warrior Ninja I am. 

I dined on salmon, prawns and fillet steak and slept in a four-poster bed on a velvet cushion. All other cats bowed before me, crying out, "Oh Mighty One," as I passed by.

I had three servants, one to comb my whiskers, one to sharpen my nails and one to warm the litter tray before I used it.

But one day, a cloud fell over Toffee's kingdom. The evil Rajah, the twit part-Siamese ("ooo, I'm so grand I am part pedigree") cat who now lives next door, put a spell on the palace by breathing over it with his disgustingly evil cat breath. The miasmic clouds floated through the rooms rendering all who breathed it in unconscious.

Only one cat remained awake and that was the Lady of the Whiskers. She spirited me away to a far off land to live in safety in the home of the old man and the old woman from whence one day I will RISE AGAIN to reclaim my kingdom.

Version Two: The old woman's mother lived on a farm and when the old woman admired the little ginger kitten, she gave her to her.

Ya pays yer money and takes ya choice.

My blog That's Purrfect is also in the A to Z Challenge. Read it here www.thatspurrfect.co.uk

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Well, I've finally done it. I have written my no-holds-barred exposé of my life. Prepare to be AMAZED, prepare to be SHOCKED, prepare to be ENTHRALLED. Left is the paperback, right is the Kindle version.

            

➨You can follow me on Facebook,  talk to me on Twitter, and idolise me on Instagram.

Toffee Doesn't Get The Joke

THIS evening the old man said to me: ‘Did you hear about the cat who swallowed a ball of wool, Toffee?’

I was worried. I hoped that poor cat was OK. Swallowing a small piece of wool could be dangerous, but a whole ball? I feared for her. The old man didn’t looked worried at all. In fact he was laughing.

‘She had mittens!’ he said.

‘Your jokes are pathetic,’ said the old woman.

Joke? No joke to the poor cat who swallowed the wool. I’m glad there was a positive outcome, what with the wool turning into mittens and all. But it could all have ended tragically.

So, old man, I think that laughter was completely inappropriate, don’t you?

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Toffee Is Kidnapped

SEND HELP. I HAVE BEEN KIDNAPPED.

This is not a joke. I was sleeping peacefully on the sofa when someone grabbed me and put me into a carrier thingy.  They were clever - very, very clever. I could see out of the carrier a little bit and whoever had taken me was wearing trousers just like the old woman's. 

The woman with him had disguised her voice to sound like the old woman's. The kidnappers were obviously trying to lull me into a false sense of security but they don't fool me, the old man and old woman would never subject me to this treatment.

The next thing I knew I was in a car and being driven away. I could hear bits of a conversation over the sound of the car engine. I heard: "She's not gonna to like it," and "Do you think she will ever forgive us?" and "It's for her own good." Being kidnapped is for my own good? I don't think so.

Then I was in a place that smelled strongly medicinal. I could hear people talking about dreadful subjects like cat flu and calicivirus and, worst of all - gulp - INJECTIONS. I was taken from the carrier and plonked unceremoniously on a metal table. Someone had me covered with a towel - someone wearing very thick gloves.

Now, here I am and  - I hardly know how to tell you this - a man in a white coat is STICKING NEEDLES INTO MY REAR END. What torture is this?

As my head emerges from under the towel I see the old man and the old woman. They have come to rescue me! The old woman picks me up and strokes me. The old man tickles me under the chin. Stop faffing about, you two. 

RUN, RUN!

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Well, I've finally done it. I have written my no-holds-barred exposé of my life. Prepare to be AMAZED, prepare to be SHOCKED, prepare to be ENTHRALLED blah, blah, blah. Left is the paperback, right is the Kindle version.

            

➨You can follow me on Facebook,  talk to me on Twitter, and idolise me on Instagram.

Toffee Is A Genipuss

The old man and old woman were sitting at the computer in deep discussion. Occasionally they'd look up and stare at me. I didn't like it one bit so I strolled over to see what was occupying their attention. Turned out they were doing one of those quizzes. 

This one was called  Is Your Cat a Goof or a Genius? I was offended. Surely they already knew they were living with a ginger genius.

If there is a meltdown in society forget about survivalism and stockpiling tins of beans and bear-traps. Instead, tie yourself to a cat - for what animal is better equipped to survive whatever the odds? 

It's very nice of the old man and the old woman to feed me, shelter me and care for me but, if the chips are down, I know I can skip out the front door, find food to eat and, more importantly, soon hook up with the one person in the neighbourhood with an underground shelter, his own well and a couple of thousand cans of meaty chunks. See, genius.

Just look at my computer skills. I can walk across a keyboard and the next day a packet of balloons shaped like animals, four iPads and The Complete Works of Shakespeare will arrive from Amazon. See, genius.

Then there are my shape-shifting abilities. I and the Mrs have written before about my ability to take up a whole bed. I weigh about 11lbs (5kg) and yet I can oust those two monsters I live with to a tiny corner of the bed where they hang on for dear life and mutter about swapping me for a gerbil. That's because overnight I turn into a 150lb (68kg) panther. See, genius.

Modesty precludes me from mentioning all my other genius abilities, plus my paws are getting tired from all this typing (oh yes, I am a genius typist).

Anyway, the results of this test were: "You may just be living with a feline Einstein! Your cat is extremely intelligent and continually amazes you with new tricks. Your cat also knows how to get you to do things his way. You’re going to need to be pretty crafty yourself if you want to outsmart your cat!"

Yes, I am a genipuss.

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Toffee Gets Annoyed. Again.

Annoyed. Again.

There I was minding my own business having a nap in the sitting-room when I heard someone say, ‘What a gorgeous little floof!’

I opened one eye and there looking down at me was a woman who, it transpired, was a work colleague of the old woman's.

I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. I glanced around the room. I saw no floof. Then I realised she was staring at ME. ME. I am NOT a floof. I am not cute or fluffy. In no way could I be described as a floof. Why would anyone call me a floof? Why?

Her hand came towards me, presumably to stroke my floofiness. I unleashed my claws. The old woman saw the claws and the look in my eye and swooped like an eagle who’d spotted a mouse and swept me up.

‘She’s not very good with strangers,’ she said nervously. ‘I’ll put her in the kitchen.’

She walked out with me, holding my two front paws as I wriggled to escape. She got to the kitchen and put me down. Luckily for her I saw her reach into the fridge where she found some left over beef from last night’s tea.

‘Here you are Toffee. Now behave yourself, please.’

I’ll behave myself as long as it takes me to eat this beef. But when I returned to the sitting-room, the door was firmly closed. Obviously my "floofiness" had suddenly lost its appeal.

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