You know what I love about having a cat?
Almost everything. That’s what I love.
Until that everything stops being cute and adorable and starts being annoying and painful. Like, say, placing a paw in your eye socket at night. Or onto your nose, ear, mouth or any other body part. It’s cute to start with and then it’s just annoying. Oh, and you’re wide awake because something just shoved a paw in your face…
Peppa’s a fun cat. She loves human company. She adores it. She just won’t leave you alone. Until she does. As with most cats she is a law unto herself.
Which my job being the shift-based random fest that it is, I am often at home during the days. And, most of the time, I barely see Peppa. She only wants to know that we exist in the evenings and during the night when she is completely up for playing. During the day she might occasionally pad through the house and drag a Harry Potter scarf over her food bowl. Otherwise, not a peep.
Until, of course, you get out either a laptop or a tin of paint.
Then she’s all up in your grill. She wants to know what you’re doing, why you’re doing it and if it really prevents you from achieving your end goal if she puts her arse right in the middle of it.
I was painting one of the doors today. Well, final coat of primer before painting. And when I started I was alone. I popped off the lid of the paint can, placed it somewhere where it would be secure but – if push came to shove, I could catastrophically knock it off – and cracked on. All by myself. No sign of any feline company.
Not until I got to the bottom half of the door.
Then she’s there. Right there. A cat-shaped, living and breathing paint brush just waiting to be loaded up with a healthy dose of white primer. I am sitting on the floor. I have paint on my hands because, you know, painting. I have a painty brush in one hand, and then tin of paint sits near my other hand. There is nothing I can do that doesn’t involve covering a cat in paint.
In the end, sitting as I was, I channelled my inner Daniel Day Lewis in My Left Foot and just gently – risking angry biting – managed to steer Peppa away from the door. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to use your foot to move a cat, but it’s not like doing it with your hand. A foot is not the right shape. With a hand you can cup it around the body of the cat and persuade them. With a foot you’re just sort of pushing the cat like you’re a croupier at a casino moving chips down a table.
I am amazed, honestly, that I still have ten toes.
Let alone that no paint was spilled and that the black to white ratio of Peppa remains the same.
See how we get on tomorrow…