Blissed-out Feline

It turns out that being a house-cat with changes to the household (Jeff's arrival and Mrs Doubleu's recent comings and goings to the States) puts Max at increased risk of stress. And as this is one explanation for his scratching, we thought we'd give Feliway a go, hoping the facial pheromones would calm him and give the leather sofas a well deserved rest.




Well as you can see it seems to be working. 3 days in and Max seems to be slightly friendlier, more laid back and less destructive... and let's be blunt: a little blissed out at times!



This afternoon he sat at the back door watching wood pigeons and collared doves whilst less than 2 feet away, Jeff was watching him. We haven't seen that before!

Max averts disaster

The hot water has been decidely tepid lately. Thorough investigation revealed that despite Mrs Doubleu using the hairdryer as an emergency personal heating device, the radiators were in fact still working pretty well. It was clear though that at least one part of the combi boiler was not working.

We arranged to get a man in. An appointment was booked. He came. A part was ordered. Time passed. Then the man came again, and went - wrong part. Today he came back with the right part, fixed the boiler and had a self-congratulatory cuppa (strang, mulk, wi twa shuggas - part Geordie, part Glaswegian he was), then he foxtrotted.

I tried to make my lunch but kept being disturbed by Max. I suspected the racket was direct insubordination secondary to having been locked in his room during the plumbing procedure. It could also have been the chorizo I was having for lunch - that can make Max a bit cranky when he thinks Jeff might be ahead of him in the queue.

But no, Max wasn't hassling me. He was miaowing (which is rare) and trying to force way into the cupboard under the stairs. I chased him away a couple of times, but he was persistent, so I opened the cupboard to find water streaming from the boiler.

"And they don't think I'm smart enough to be an outside cat," thought Max as he settled down with his blankie, satisfied with his Lassie-like efforts. Meanwhile lunch was on hold as I tried to get hold of the plumber, again.

That's my mouse

Well the gloves are off, Ladies and Gentlmen.

Max was playing happily with his favourite catnip flavoured mouse (or is it a chinchilla?). First he wrestled with it on the bed, next he cast it onto the floor then practised his pouncing on the landing. He chased it down the stairs and that's where it all went wrong. In his excitement Max forgot that he shares downstairs with a bigger carnivore, nay, an omnivore.

It was not witnessed, but by breakfast the next morning the mouse wasn't damp - it was wringing wet. Wringing wet with what was surely dog saliva. It wasn't even chewed. I suspect Jeff went to sleep with the thing in his mouth, sucking every trace of catnip from the small creature.

Posing the "What's this?" question to Jeff produced the usual pavlovian response: head down, mournful eyes BUT wagging tail. Mrs Doubleu's doing: he knows no-one can stay mad at him for long, and even as he's told off he's wagging his tail for the cuddle that will come after.

Max looked on from the stairs. He was shaking his head in disappointment. The usual refrain:"Why did you have to bring that creature into our house, our home?"

I dried the mouse out. I even flexed and worked it to soften the crusted dog spittle. But the little mouse is no longer Max's favourite. After I'd finished my efforts at restoration he took a few tentative sniffs, turned about in dismay and retreated to his chair, comforting himself by kneading his blankie that Jeff has not yet spoiled.