The Whiskas Chronicles – Missing in Inaction

That chuffing cat will be the end of me.

Whiskas, it has to be said, is a pathetically delicate soul. He might look like a stocky big git who could hold his own in an alley fight and even though he can stare at you with in a Lee Van Cleef snake-eyed sort of way, he’s as sensitive as a pampered prince.
If another cat so much as makes contact with his personage, the affected spot swells up, poisoned at being touched by a commoner.

Normal procedure is that the cut/scratch whatever swells and swells; he gets grumpier and grumpier…and then it erupts like Mount Teide sending rivers of blood and puss over his white fur. Not pretty, but the cat’s relief when this happens is obvious. He doesn’t seem to mind that he’s left with a hole like a bullet wound in his leg/head/back.

And so the week before last a cat, or a dog, must have landed a glancing blow just above Whiskas’ eye. For the rest of the week his eyebrow slowly swelled up, his eye began to seep and he started to make more of a fuss about leaving the premises at night when we went to bed.

By the Saturday night his right eye was almost completely shut, but of course there was no way he would let us bathe it or anything like that.  Even worse, he hardly touched his dinner; a sure sign that he was feeling seriously under the weather.

It was the Mueca Festival in Puerto de la Cruz and we had planned on going into town to see what was happening. Whiskas had been in recovery position on his cushion all day (i.e. curled into a ball) and had no desire to go anywhere. So when we turfed him out of the house as we were leaving at around 21.30 there was a right old palaver involving a great deal of growling and hissing and a few swipes (luckily because one eye was shut, his aim was off).

However as we walked down the passage leaving the wounded one-eyed soldier looking after as with an expression which said ‘heartless traitors’ I was consumed with guilt. We had abandoned him in his hour of need.

We weren’t surprised that he wasn’t about when we got home a few hours later. He’d have gone to ground; he always does when he’s feeling at a low ebb. But next morning he didn’t turn up for breakfast. Then lunchtime came and went and no sign. This was serious and we were starting to get worried. By the time darkness fell and he still hadn’t appeared for his dinner we were really fretting. 24 hours without food is unthinkable. We knew that he must have been in a bad way to miss out on food, but we didn’t know where he was. He wasn’t in any of his usual spots.

Images of him being ambushed by a gang of cats hell bent on revenge filled my thoughts, that and worries that with his vision impaired, he might inadvertently have wandered into the path of a speeding 4×4. We spent the night with one eye watching the terrace, hoping that the white wizard would appear. That night I dreamt that Wayne Rooney was confined to the subs bench because of an eye injury and the side of his face was such a mess that Sir Alex Ferguson was crying. Freud wouldn’t have had his work cut out with that one.

By Monday morning when there was another no-show for breakfast and Whiskas had been M.I.I. (missing in inaction) for 36 hours, I feared the worse and wished I could rewind time and have tried a bit harder to clean his eye, or not have cast him into the wild night on Saturday (okay it was 20 degrees and calm, but you get the picture).

Then about 10.30 as I was typing away, I noticed a white shape out of the corner of my eye. Whiskas strolled through the front door and into the kitchen with barely a glance in our direction. His eye still looked as though he’d been whacked by a feline Rocky Balboa, but it was clearer and he purred happily when we ran to welcome home our furry prodigal son.

God knows where he was, we were just thankful that he was back and seemed okay.

If going missing for 36 hours was his way of punishing us for abandoning him on Saturday night, it worked.

The Whiskas Chronicles: Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting

Have you ever seen a cat fight? I mean a real cat fight, not one of those handbags at dawn affairs where there’s a lot of caterwauling and swinging of paws, but little if any contact. Well if you haven’t, you don’t want to.

Whiskas, or should that be Rocky Balboa, had a Robert Vaughn ‘Magnificent Seven’ moment on Saturday and it’s all my fault…or more accurately, cause I’m not taking all the blame here, mine and Andy’s fault.

There have been a few stray cats looking for new territory of late; appearing just as we’ve put Whiskas bowl down etc. You know the thing; moggies mooching for food. The annoying thing has been that when they slinked closer to his bowl, Whiskas has backed off and we had to step in and chase the intruder cats off, otherwise Whiskas would have gone without dinner.

Clearly we gave him a lot of stick about this, especially as he’s about twice the size of these intruders. So for days it was “You’re nothing but a big coward” “I bet if these cats were the size of a mouse you wouldn’t back off” “So what exactly is your role here if we’ve even got to defend your territory for you? What do we get out of this relationship?”

All the taunting must have gone deep, because when a particularly persistent tabby sauntered nonchalantly across the terrace, as if Whiskas didn’t exist, something must have snapped in Whiskas’ head. Before we knew it he was on the tabby and the two of them were locked together, biting and screaming and spinning around the garden like a pair of Tasmanian Devils. It was horrendous; fur was flying everywhere and even though we tried desperately to break them up they were oblivious to us; it looked like a fight to the death.

I’d heard how vicious cats could be, but I’d never witnessed it. I remember reading tales of Scottish crofters encountering wild cats in the highlands where life or death fights ensued which, more often than not, ended with the crofter running for his life back to his cottage with a demented cat on his tail.

Seeing it in reality was a shock. They flung each other into trees, oblivious to self inflicted injuries, and tumbled around the garden, neither willing to relinquish their hold on the other until finally they slammed into a wall. Whiskas must have loosened his grip at the impact as the other cat broke free and took off like a bat out of hell.

It was only after the fight was over that we saw the extent of the damage to Whiskas. He was bleeding from a small puncture wound in his head and another in his cheek; he had scratches down one ear and was limping badly – he was a mess.

We’ve been treating his wounds daily with tea tree oil (a fraught business as he has made it clear he’s not keen), but his limp has gone and he seems okay. It was frightening to see such a vicious battle and we really don’t want to see a rematch. Thankfully the other cat seems to be have learnt a bit of humility and is paying Whiskas due respect now, so I’m sure he sees that as a result.

For our part we’ve learnt our lesson. No more taunts about him being a coward; the price is just too much – remember what happened to Robert Vaughn.

Carnaval Tenerife: The Morning After the Night Before

Last night I must have bumped into someone dressed as Sylvester Stallone, cos I feel as though I’ve been pummelled by Rocky Balboa for 15 rounds. Mind you, it isn’t all down to over indulgence at Carnaval’s opening party.

It was one of those days when everything seemed to be happening. A deadline for a regular walking feature was looming close and calima and high clouds on Tenerife for the last couple of weeks had ruled out the chance of any decent photos, until yesterday. So the day started with a three hour hike along an old merchant’s trail on the island’s northern coast. Trouble was Spanish TV was screening the Tottenham v Man Utd game, so we had to hot foot it home for that; the sweat barely had time to dry under the rucksack straps.

Man Utd had hardly managed their last gasp escape when it was time for an early dinner of Mediterranean pitta pockets (a semi home made concoction of flat breads filled with mozzarella, cherry tomatoes, red onion, sweet pepper, fresh basil and oregano which is lightly fried in olive oil). Delicious and quick; essential given that Carnaval’s opening parade was due to start at 20.00 (or so it said in the official guide).

Andy and I work on the basis that nothing, but nothing starts on time here – it’s a pretty sound principle, so we didn’t drive to Puerto until nearly 20.30. Unfortunately, by that time, there wasn’t a parking space to be found in, or near the town. The nearest spot we could find was in the La Paz district above the town, a 15 – 20 minute walk to the centre, most of which is down stairs; it’s okay going down, but a killer on the thighs on the way back up. We eventually reached the town centre about ten to nine and guess what? The parade had only just started.

There were about 1500 people in the parade; dancing troupes in wildly colourful costumes, cute kids in even cuter costumes and the stars of the show, the Carnaval Dames and Carnaval Queen wearing…a smile and not much more.
The only problem was that the drivers of the floats carrying the queens seemed to think they were in the Daytona 500 (I suspect because they started late and were trying to make up lost time). Each one sped past the spot where we were standing, giving me just about enough time to take one photo per float before they were gone.

It did mean, however, that the parade finished quickly. We legged it backed to La Paz, drove home (now about 22.00), stuck on some Ministry of Sound, poured a vodka sprite, laid out all our potential fancy dress clothing and decided it was time to think about what we were going to wear to the opening street party.

Two hours later, two ghoul/witch/monster thingys were striding through the banana plantation next to our house on the three kilometre walk into town.

It was near one in the morning by the time we hit Plaza del Charco; probably still a bit early for seasoned Carnaval veterans, the streets hadn’t filled to the point where it takes an aeon to move anywhere (that happens about 03.00).

After that, we salsa’d our way (or, in my case, a stiff legged, British version of it) around the three streets where the partying takes place, checking out the weird, wonderful and occasionally, lewd, rude and highly amusing costumes all around.
The thing about Carnaval is that it’s such an incredible high. Even when it reaches its peak and you’re jostled and bumped by the swaying mass of friendly beaming creatures around you (at one point I became far more intimate with a trumpet around someone’s waist than I was comfortable with) it’s impossible not to be swept away, almost literally, by sheer wave of joy that engulfs the place.

Somewhere at very-early-in-the morning o’clock, my legs screamed that enough was enough and we decided that it was time to wend our weary, but ecstatic way back home.

As always, the first night of Carnaval exceeded all expectations. It was hard work and, at this point, I’m not sure I’ll survive the week, but it was great fun, honest, despite what my body’s telling me today.