Thursday, 24 April 2008


Listening to: Wolves (The Accidental)
Weather: still dry
Pigwatch: Kim's teats swelling, Molly's belly now four inches off the floor (yes, I measured it this morning)

I was in big trouble today. I've really got to start making lists when I go out to the shop. I forgot the cat food.

I have little trouble remembering to buy feed for all the other animals. We get the dog food in sacks every couple of months, the pig feed comes over every three weeks or so, the hens get through a bag every month. I haven't forgotten to order any of it so far.

Cat food is a different matter. I go to the shop with the intention of buying the ghastly mush, but 19 times out of 20 I return home with everything except.

And you know what cats are like - even a tabby moggy like our Trevor has that way of looking at you that makes you want to crawl behind the sofa clutching your favourite teddy (or is this just me?).

As I dished out some dried food into his bowl this morning he looked at me and I swear I heard the words "do you expect me to eat that?" somewhere in my sub-conscious.

Anyhow, Trev is nothing if not the pragmatist and tucked in, slurping as he lapped at the bowl of milk I gave him as a peace offering. He then took revenge by leaping across the room, landing on the computer keyboard just as I was trying to transfer some pocket money into The Youngest's account.

For a nasty moment it looked as if the 15-year-old apple of my eye was off on a £2,000 spree around Shrewsbury (£2,000 goes a long way in a town as dull as Shrewsbury), but fortunately Trevor had omitted to press Enter, so the economy drive continues.

Actually, of all of us who moved up to Westray last summer, Trev is the one who has probably benefited most. Sal and I had been seeing each other for only a few weeks ten years ago when her youngest son (then about nine-years-old) turned up on the doorstep with this pathetic little kitten.

He lived first at Sally's house in Wolverhampton, then moved over with Sal to Shrewsbury. This time last year he was at death's door, having gone missing and then being found, badly injured in the bushes at the front of the house in Shrewsbury, presumably having come second in a fight with a car.

The kids were told he was unlikely to make it, but he pulled through in spectacular style - a wonky jaw and subsequent dribbling problem being the only legacies.

I related the worries surrounding the actual getting him to Orkney - - last July, but now he's here he's a very happy boy.

He was always small and skinny, now he's small and well-fed. After sticking close to the house and the barn, he is relishing the freedom of the open spaces and regularly hangs around the pig shed or the hen house - he and the hens pretend each other don't exist.

I often see him setting off across the fields with intent in his stride. I dream that he's off to kick the bejaysus out of the rabbits - I live in hope.


mig bardsley said...

My cats could dribble for England!
And if I run out of their revolting wet stuff, they bring me vast (extra) quantities of small dead rodents - presumably to remind me that they always keep their half of the bargain.

Pete said...

can you really blame Trevor? your one job is to feed him! Well that's what he thinks

Virgin Porker said...

Trevor's fine - he's living off of the fruits that Spike leaves behind...

We're getting our own little Spike in 5 weeks time - Nell. Buddy doesn't know it yet, he's going to be mightily miffed.

You'll have to fashion some kind of cushion thing for the sows' bellies. It'll stop the chafing when they're dragging along the floor!

Hope you're well little Malc. x x x

Dave said...

Just don't accidentally shoot him when you're after rabbits.

Rol said...

Trevor is a great name for a cat. It suits him perfectly.

KAZ said...

Trevor is gorgeous - he deserves roast chicken not cat food.

Brad said...

I love the split personalities of cats. One moment all fierce and independent, the next sidling up to you for a cuddle.

I, still, ♥ the views said...

I used to buy mine a Fillet o' Fish from McD's on the way home from work when I knew I'd run out of the real food

now I use spare cans of tuna (if there are any)

I think cats enjoy looking after themselves, and just like to make us squirm with those dagger looks out of the corners of their eyes. . .

Malc said...


Trev doesn't bring any rodents, although we don't get many mice.


I've tried explaining, but he just can't get to grips with the concept of a work rota. Busy is just a four letter word starting in B and ending in Y to our Trev.


A little Spike? Don't be fooled by the cute facade. They are all hooligans.

I was thinking of a little trolley for Molly's belly.


I'm not that bad a shot!


I often wonder if names suit animals or if they grow to suit their names.


He put you up to that, didn't he? He thinks he's gorgeous too.


Or in Trev's case, sidling up to you to dribble all over your lap.


Only problem is that the nearest McDonalds is in Inverness, two ferries and a three-hour drive away.

I tried the tuna thing the other day only to find I'd bought a Mexican tuna salad by mistake. (Salad in a tin??!!) Trev wasn't interested and even Owen didn't finish it and he'll eat cement if he's allowed.

dinahmow said...

We are CAT. We are a law unto ourselves. Should the human provider fail in his duty it becomes encumbent on us to give him his come-uppance. This may be interpreted as being small/large rodents, reptiles of varying stages of decay/threat, footwear originating beyond the boundary...and anything else we deem to be suitably embarassing/frightening.
We may/may not elect to then sit in his lap and rub our chins against his.
Oh, yes...we are mastering the art of cell phone use that we might ring the forgetful sod when he goes to the shop!

elizabethm said...

Trevor is a great name. Our cats were Henry and Sidney but sadly henry had to be put down on Friday.