Dear Reader, I need some advice. Some parenting-type advice. There’s a teenager in my household who doesn’t think he has to follow any rules, yet assumes he is entitled to all possible privileges. He wants to go out whenever he pleases, and when he’s home all he does is eats and sleeps.
That’s right, I’m talking about
a certain Mr Boots:
This week, Boots has decided that he will meow every morning, starting at 4.30am, to be let out. Oblivious to all curses and objects hurled in his direction, he keeps up a steady stream of whinging. He also likes to gallop across my face while I’m asleep, and attack my toes if they are peeking out of the doona. However, this morning he really outdid himself. First he leaped onto my bedside table and sent books crashing everywhere. Then I heard a ripping sound, but I was so sleep-deprived I managed to snooze through it. I woke up to this:
Of course, he had discovered a toilet roll, and had his evil way with it. But that wasn’t all. After about an hour of trying to ignore the ripping, crashing, and meowing noises generated by said Mr Boots, I heard a new kind of sound, a sort of scrabbling. I opened my eyes, and there was Boots halfway up the wall. He had literally climbed up the doorframe, digging his claws into the wood surround and the plasterboard. His head was level with Bertie’s cage (which is on a hook at the top of the door), and Dear Reader, while I don’t like to think badly of others, I don’t think he was making his way up to Bertie just to say ‘Hi’.
It’s past 9pm as I write this, and that stopout of a cat has still not shown up. When he does we are going to have a little talk. It will be a very short talk, involving only three words: Hobart. Cat. Home.
If that doesn’t work I’m calling an exorcist.