The Whiskas Chronicles – The Enemy on the Doorstep

The fate of the age of man lies in the balance. The Battle of the Back Terrace has reached a crucial stage and the white wizard seems all powerful. Any chance of a peaceful settlement has been banished to the darkest corner of the blackest shadow.

But despite being tired, weak and psychologically battered, we fight on. We will never give in to this bullying and intimidation and as long as there’s a single breath left in our bodies we will never SURRENDER.

It starts in the distance, a low high pitched moan which pierces my subconscious and drags me from my slumbers. Then another, closer and suddenly I’m fully awake, waiting for the next taunt. It’s not long in coming, this time he’s even closer; the white wizard is brave tonight. There’s silence for a moment and then:

“MEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW”

And the back door rattles violently.

I roll out of bed and in one seamless movement and with the stealth of a cat I’m at the door and ready for the battle. This time the white wizard will find the tables have turned.

Okay, that’s the way it panned out in my head. What really happened was that when the little bugger rattled the back door and screamed like a banshee with its throat cut, I fell out of bed in shock, stubbed my toe trying to find my flip flops, banged my head on the window trying to grab the door handle and probably woke up my neighbour by screaming obscenities at the damned cat.

The long and the short of it was that by the time I got onto the back terrace, Whiskas had long since left the scene of the crime, further proof in my mind that he knows exactly what he is doing. I could see his ghostly outline, cowering in the safety of the neighbour’s garden about 50 yards away. Being pure white isn’t the best camouflage at night.

I really don’t know what he hopes to achieve by this course of action and we’re at our wits end trying to deal with his psychological torture. We’ve tried the nice approach. Giving him more attention because maybe he was feeling unloved, but his nocturnal behaviour has deteriorated. So now it’s time to put away the carrot and bring out the metaphorical stick.

This morning Whiskas’ bowl has remained empty. It’s even been turned upside down in an attempt to deliver a harsh message which will maybe, just maybe, make him think again. His cushion and blanket on the back bench have also been removed and put away in the shed until further notice. The welcome mat has been completely withdrawn in an attempt to teach him that biting the hand that feeds you is not such a good idea.

People are always telling me how cats are much smarter than dogs. I have yet to see evidence that this is true. I really hope Whiskas can convince me otherwise.