I like animals.
As with every rule, there is an exception [though I never quite understood that rule – does it have an exception too?].
I refer of course to Cat.
That little fucker is really getting under my skin, and I know full well that he is doing it deliberately.
Cat technically is Herself’s cat and he knows it. He climbs on her lap and lies there purring as if butter wouldn’t melt. She loves him. She couldn’t possibly see any harm in him. He is sweet and loving and cuddly. She thinks the sun shines out of his arse.
She doesn’t see the other side of him.
Well, actually she did on one occasion. He loves climbing onto my keyboard and fucking up the entire system. I swear he has learned every fatal combination of function keys and is working up to formatting my hard disk. Anyhows, one day he got carried away and climbed onto Herself’s laptop. She was of course on Farcebook [Herself thinks the Interweb is Farcebook] and before she could stop him, Cat had entered a huge string of garbage and had posted it to one of her Messenger contacts. It at least gave her a glimpse of Cat’s Dark Side.
His latest trick is the hotpress.
The hotpress is in the bathroom [naturally] and apart from containing clothing and a load of strange things, it also contains the central heating system of tank, pressure gauges, taps, valves, pumps and loads of piping. This piping vanishes down to the space under the floorboards which is a hell of a large space. It’s only a few inches deep at one end but at the other end there is about three feet of headroom. In other words it is ideal territory for an exploring cat. And if he goes down there and can’t climb out again there is fuck all I can do except look forward to the stench of a putrefying cat corpse.
From the first day he arrived he showed a keen interest in the hotpress which was made all the keener by my refusal to let him in. Now the little fucker has discovered how to open the hotpress doors. He lies on his back and scrabbles at the base of the door like a coal miner picking at a rich seam, until the door opens. And here is the strange bit – as soon as the door opens, he fucks off. I know for a fact that he is doing it just to piss me off.
It is now part of life here. I pass through the lobby, look into the bathroom and there is the hotpress door wide open again. I close it [otherwise it blocks entry to the bathroom] and sure enough – two minutes later it’s open again. I have even seen him in action when he thought I wasn’t looking. A quick glance around, a scrabble on the back and as soon as the door opens he fucks off with a grin on his face. Do I need any further proof that he is the devil personified?
I am mulling through my alternatives.
I could put a stiffer latch on the door [at the moment it’s one of those magnetic things], but I don’t have one handy.
I could put grease on the floor where he lies down.
I think my preference though is for a strip of metal along the bottom of the door. There is a handy power socket nearby for the heating pumps.
It would be no problem to connect the two?