CATHEAD ARCHIVES

cATHEAD'S cRANKY wORLD
. . is written in cat diary form, the posts in chronological order, the Tags now re-edited so as you can access all CATHEAD's hilarious adventures from 01 to 43 by episode number, starting from the first post 01Meeeowwwwelcome! and following Cathead's belly-laughter diary at your own pace and time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

All Episodes One to Forty three now re-tagged !

( Scroll down the page to the tags on the left-hand side and prepare to die laughing)

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Poor keeper has been utterly distraught this past couple of weeks.
I keep trying to cheer him up by brushing my tail against his trouser bottoms as I stroll past, but all to no avail. Even the Dingo pup's daily playful antics such as leaping up at him and trying to slobber his face as she flies by are to no effect.

It all boils down to a sad episode that befell keeper the week before last - I heard him recounting it to his hypnotherapist - whom he nicknames "the hippo" - over the blower just three days back. Apparently keeper had been driving back from a cycling stint in Hertfordshire with his mountain bicycle strapped to the back of the camper as usual... and might have been daydreaming just a little.

Anyhows he was travelling at rounghy 40 MPH on an unlit stretch of road near Potters Bar, when a blur of a large bird flew straight out of the hedge right in his way. It was so close he hardly had time to brake and the poor feathered creature hit the windscreen right where his third eye would have been. Rather uncanny in fact.

He drove on aways in shock, then turned around and drove back the other way searching for the big bird in the roadway. He found it by headlight and stopped riskily as it was a very busy stretch of road.... and went to pick the poor dear creature up.,

It was a young Tawny Owl, but limp in keepers hands. He brought him back to the camper and stowed him in a carrier bag and started chanting names of God over him as he drove the poor Tawny to the vet college which is just around the corner... all the time stroking the still warm beautiful light brown (tawny) plumage.

He said he thought the bird struggled once so he stopped and tied the top of the bag loosely in case he tried to fly out into the van and cause commotion. Any hows keeper gets to the vet hospital and the nurses let him in with the carrier with Tawny. The senior lady vet inspects Tawny with as stethoscope and moves the birds neck and declares him dead with a broken neck.

Poor keeper came home distraught and crying and has hardly stopped since, He thinks he hears the owl's mate hooting for him in the early hours and wakes up sobbing. He's ever so guilty. Wow is a curse and a blessing to have such a loving heart I'd say. He feels guilty too about killing, albeit accidentally and no fault of his own, such a wondrous bird as Tawny. He was such a fine young specimen that the vet college phoned to say they'd stuffed him for display and for educating the young vet students .... and can you believe it they sent him a picture for his trouble in bringing him in!

So that's Tawny above.... and that was his tale that had to be told!

Would that there were more compassionates like keeper in this world, it would be a far happier place 4 sure.

'Scuse me while I paw a tear away from my encrusted slitty eye as well now... POOR TAWNY, I hope he is happy now and reincarnated inside a delightful Golden Eagle's egg up in the Highlands or something ).

Yowwww
CATHEAD

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Yowwww! Long time no post Cathead fans - or those of you still blogging after all this time.... little furry me has been utmost buzzy bee along with keeper, in paying frequent visitations to the local hospital in order to check-up on our mutual friend Bloaterchops, whom some of you may remember was last espied being winched out of an upstairs window of his rancid Norbury hovel, having succumbed to a mystery illness ( no doubt connected to his 32 stone of weight in a 5' 7" frame.)

Well, it took some time and some doing I can tell you. Cathead all along being smuggled into the ward time and again by co9mpassionate keeper who, it has to be said, is a saint in disguise. For even when other people who he helps reject him, still he continues to uplift and support despite his inner pain of crucifixion as all genuine spiritual folk must endure in this horrid world of devious using humans.

at any rate, only a fortnight ago, he again smuggled me under his jacket into the disinfectant-smelly ward 10, to again witness the billowing hulk of bulk languishing beneath the sheets of his sagging single bed.
The end-of-bed clipboards told of a steady decline in all bodily functions to the point where Cathead extrapolated the big man's demise within another fortnight ( and thats too weak).

So, something had to be done if ever I was to pad into his culinary junk yard of a kitchen, to be fed scraps of lard and juicy cockroach-ridden offcuts from last weeks ham shank off a mould-encrusted old fork.

There Bloaterchops was, laying semiconscious on a drip feed, face up and snoring. Dishevelled with stubble and wild hair decorating the pillow. I knew there was no way out for him unless....
.... I instinctively sprung from my cache of keepers warm inside jacket and down down onto BC's exposed chest. There I landed and sunk my still sharp claws into his rib cage. As I did so I let out the same awe-inspiring cat screech that had wrought that vet Doctor's ultimate demise, a few posts back.

At this old Bloa\tewrchops' eyes went wixde open and he startled awake and shouted and sat bolt upright in his NHS bed, all in one go.

The energy my dramatic intervention had wrought was nothing short of catmiraculous. For the out-for-the-count BC was suddenly out of bed and on his feet, snapping the feed tube and dancing around the ward in some kind of warpath frenzy....dancing...laughing like he had no cares in the world.

So much so that the junior doctors came rushing in and sedated BC with a big short of horse tranquilizere for his sheer bulk...and then keeper and I left.

A week later Bloaterchops was discharged, fed watered and washed - a new man!

Keeper took this digicam of him all back up and running again, all thanks to the hidden psychic healing powers of little white soxs me,

I tells you the honest truth,

yours
CATHEAD

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I haven't bumped into his burly form since over a year ago and wasn't sure how his life was rolling. Anyhows, as I stared and unblinkingly stared, the crane swung into motion over the tile-deleted and depleted roof of the run-down terrace which backs onto keeper's back garden.

On the end of the cable hanging from the crane was a strange floppy looking contraption. The jig moved until it swung against an upstairs window. It was only then that I spotted with my super-sensitive 10-times-better-than-human catsight, the tell-tale blue trouble strobe of some emergency van through the overgrown shrubbery constituting Mr Bloaterchop's weed farm, out on the road beyond.

Oh dear, I thought.

At that moment my keeper waded into the kitchen, hair all a sleep-scraggled, face stubbled and puffy-eyed from his seemingly nowadays obligatory wine-guzzle the previous eve.
" Hey Cathead " he croaked, " Like a saucer of milk?"
" Yowwwwwww" I replied, but then turned my gaze back through the window. This seemed to focus keeper as he lifted the full saucer to the worktop.
" What are you looking at Cathead" he quizzed.
As he peered in the general direction of BC's run-down manse, he gasped
" Oh Lord, how sad is that?".
" Yowwwwww" I replied, with human DNA-doctored cat sympathy.

For what was happening was now plain to see. The big double upstairs window that had been attended to by the crane was now swung wide open and the cable had disappeared inside. The "strange contraption" on the end was beginning to exit slowly, an inch at a time, but burdened and sagged by a whale-like weight of bulk and hulk.

" Oh good Lord" exclaimed keeper, quickly donning his clothes and shoes, " come Cathead let's take a closer look"

Out through the back door he rushed, followed by myself - taking the catflap route as a matter of habit - springing lightly over the lawn behind sprinting keeper. The cat Buffy and pet dog Dingo had sensed the drama and trouped along behind.

Over the 100ft back garden we all ran, to the wooden slatted fence boundary where keeper stopped and looked over. Both Buffy and I bounded and scraped up onto two fence posts, then sat and stared unblinkingly.
" Oh Lord, exclaimed keeper, the poor fellow must have had a medical emergency.

For there was our heavily obese old friend being winched and hoisted out of his bedroom window on a giant hammock, all strapped in by the attendant paramedics, who were looking out of the window and shouting directions to the crane driver below. Poor BC must have grown so voluminous in the past months that he could no longer fit down the stairs and out the door.

His chubby unshaven face - now a ghostly white pallor - and straggly matted hair was just visible poking from one end and the BC BO stench downwind was rather familiar to these feline nostrils at least. Dingo's nose was all a twitch too.

" How terribly sad " said keeper rather guiltily (as he rather understandably hadn't been in touch with this neighbour since the episodes where he took the rise good and proper a while back - see the back cat-alogue of my adventures in the Tags here below right, my friends ).

So. Poor old Bloater Chops hospitalized over Christmas & New Year. Friendless and doubtless sagging some NHS superbed in Norbury General NHS Trust. At least the big devil will be fed and watered.
But which brave auxiliary nurses will be asked to do the bed baths I wonder - oops I feel a hiccup of sick coming on.

In the New Year Cathead must turn his psychic-healing attention to sorting this fellow out once and for all and put him on the straight and narrow, as opposed the wobbly and wide.

Yowww

CATHEAD

Comments

CATHEAD ARCHIVES

cATHEAD'S cRANKY wORLD
. . is written in cat diary form, the posts in chronological order, the Tags now re-edited so as you can access all CATHEAD's hilarious adventures from 01 to 43 by episode number, starting from the first post 01Meeeowwwwelcome! and following Cathead's belly-laughter diary at your own pace and time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

All Episodes One to Forty three now re-tagged !

( Scroll down the page to the tags on the left-hand side and prepare to die laughing)

Then have a peep at Cat Head Theatre. Utter daftness gone pear-shaped and no candle to the original methinks

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Whilst curled nicely in my basket, witnessing yon Buffy and Dingo playfully tearing abouts the house , most the time Keeper is lounged in the settee lazily watching the WC footie, a continually replenished glass of dry white in hand.

A few moments of interest spark a twitch of a thin-skinned bat cat ear as I lay resting. In fact two items of recurrance that a) never seem to ever go away and b) confound my doctored cat brain enormously. They are yet more Geat Life Mysteries ( see my cat Tags below left for the others I have to date posted.)

I'll keep it short and sweet my dear pigeons, I know you are itching to get back to your own personal World Cup footie day preperations. Cuuuuuumon En ger land!!!!

Great Life Mystery 1.
The Bobby Charlton factor

Sir Bobby keeping up with England's paint-drying performances in Germany

You get the picture? Whole top half of the bus lopped off! Luckily there's hardly ever anyone onboard; but hell! That image! At 8, I'm no spring chicken of a cat but can remember seeing these same double decker meets low bridge decapitation scenes appearing on paper and screen regular as clockwork every two months year after year.

You would think by now someone would come up with a way to prevent this terrible bus carnage? For all you humans' harping on about new tek cures and advances, there are some basic stupidities that seem never destined to change. . . whoops. . oh look, there's another World Cup shot ballooning into the crowd again! Keeper lets loose a loud sarcastic inebriated jeer from the couch and shrieks " LAMPARD YOU LEMON ! ".
Yer "world class striker" is playing like a goddam schoolboy.

. .life goes on. . .

Yours ever,

CATHEAD

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yours as ever
CATHEAD

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And so I was, very still. Still in mind too. I'd assumed this Egyptian Tomb cat position at about 12.30pm and kept it up for three hours, cause I was in a trance, intoxicated by the vision. The vision of what is to come for planet earth very shortly. This is no Jehovas Witness mumbo Jumbo, this is 4 real Cathead fans, you'd better believe it.

It all started just after that Occult Bruiser episode with the spooky Trenchcoat Man that I related before Christmas. He'd stopped in the street to gaze unnervingly into the house at me, squat atop the living room drawers on my tassled cushion/lookout post. He just stared and stared .. .and soon keeper rushed down in fear for my basketmate little Buffy. As it happened she was being weighed up for a scrap by Mr Cool Cat, from my previous post MR COOL CAT ( see Tags). Mr Cool Cat though, was none other than Trenchcoat Man who had the occult powers to morph his body into that of a cat.

This in turn from his previous incarnation as a sooth sayer and psychic fortune-teller in the Highlands in the 18th century, who had come to a sticky end in a barrel of tar for daring to tell the local countess the truth about her philandering husband's foreign escapades in Paris - in front of her entire household.

That's enough history, we're here now eh? Well yesterday keeper had a weird experience, he was out in the camper with Dingo dog when he spotted our friend Trenchcoat Man walking along with some girl in a white hood.

He thought to get a picture of him and yet every time he raised the digicam to snap, Trenchcoat turned his back -that very second. This happened 4 times, keeper realated, as if there was some invisible force protecting him from getting his front/face picture taken. Or maybe, thought keeper, he wasn't really there, physically, it was only a holographic optical illusion.

This spooked my good keeper no end, so he phoned the local priest and blabbed all this out to him.
A prickly line of sweat formed across his forehead as he spoke. Of course, Cathead is all ears and took it all in.

. .. . oops there's keeper turning the lock in the door, back from his walk with Ding Doingo - to be continued Cathead fans. . . . hang on. . .prrrrr ssss, let me just. .. .prrr upload this. ... .ah yes, press this

.
Yeah, there he is eh? Personification of pure evil. He who knows no conscience, a totally young soul, one with no life learing lessons under his re-incarnation belt.

Except the one coming up from zee chat CH!
Oh Lord here's another pic, keeper was right, Trenchcoaty just kept turning his back at the split secind keeperfinger was pressed to the shutter, how very very bizaaary Occult.

And that hooded gorl with him, who is she? Some dark angel side-kick?

Back to my Egyptian Tomb cat meditation revelations.. ..there is a place -or more accurately a vibrational frequency, in the inner worlds. A kind of junction, where all the sounds of the universe, including the enormous forces of planets and stars forming, colliding, destroying; come together.

Thrown in there are all the shouts and shrieks and screams of all the living creatures in the universe at this each moment. The cries of pleasure and of intense pain, of orgasms and death throes, of agony and pleasure.

Allinall, totally nerve-wracking. How God can hear that and not want to wind-up the entire creation is beyond my lickle cathead I can tell you.

Just thinking about what I heard there makes me need a lap of Real Mc Coy cat milk from the kitchen carpet saucer. . . .
bak in a jiff

No, keeper is whiskin' us all away to see the Scottish snow til next week. .

LATER my friends!!!
Yow
CATHEAD

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Almost the whole of western civilization, including many " Christians" celebrate the birth of the Christ, their saviour, with the slaughter and consumption of 100 million inhumanely raised turkeys along with a debauched alcohol, drug and wherever possible, sex, fest.

And something from baby Jesus for Phony Liar;

" What profiteth it a man if he should gain the whole world and yet loseth his very soul"

Have a reflective Christmas, good friends.

Later.

CATHEAD

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Oh yes, you must remember him, from my BREAK IN blog (see my tags ). How can we forget those occult eyes? I just knew there was something weirdweird about him.
And now I know.

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Another piece of the jigsaw fell intoplace with regard to the X Ray back at Dr Animal's place, apparently showing Cathead without a brain ( see VETTED tag blog) Well now that I think about it, I do remember getting a snapshot glimpse of a jet black cat's shimmery bod in a cat carrier, being taken out of the torturer vets as I was being carried in.

I didn't look twice because I was nervous about my forthcoming combat with the new vet. But come to think of it, I had seen those eyes before. Oh yes. It was him alright. And my X ray got confused for his. I have worked that out after reading up on the occult after the MAYHEM last week. So Cool Cat has no brain and this is why. . .

The MAYHEM began last Tuesday morning as I was sat atop the drawers at my post, my tassled cushion, staring unblinkingly out into the street, people watching as usual.

There was that local oddball tall spindly rakish fellow in that sinister ankle-length black leather trenchcoat again, long-striding past, weirdly.

Keeper would comment on him now and again, he is a bit of a loner who dabbles in Kundalini yoga and who has some unusual Scottish forename name, like Leeiach or something; apparently.

He looked abit pale that day did lean mean Leeiach, like he'd been at the dope over the weekend. Only this time he stopped in his tracks right outside the house and turned and stood and stared right in at me.

Our eyes met, I stared back, unblinkingly. He just stood and stood, the wind in the street flapping the bottom of the shiny leather trenchy. . .and stared and stared. I began to feel something was definitely amiss, something unhinged and sssstrange.

Yes, as I remember the scene I feel shivers down my catspine now, and the fur is on end. Those eyes. How odd they were for a human, the whites tinged with yellow and the pupils slitty and black. But how similar to those of Cool Cat, infact. . . .they were the same eyes because they are one and the same being. A dark occult spirit, sent to crush Cathead.

As I stared he de-materialized infront of my very eyes. My fur stood right up on end and I hissed with instinct. About ten minutes later I heard keeper cry from upstairs,

" Buffy Buffy, Come away come away, he's too big for you!"
Keeper came sprinting down the stairs with his ever- present camera swinging violently abouts his person. He rushed out the back and I flew along behind him into the garden. This I see now was the scene keeper had caught a few seconds before . .

.

.

A big black cat -and we know who - had been squaring up to Buffy; they had circled each other very slowly for about five minutes before keeper shouted his warning from the upstairs window. As he took a second picture Buffy fled, luckily for her, for a catfight had seemed certain.
.

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So I followed a breathless keeper outside. Buffy darted quickly between us back into the kitchen and I just caught the swish and snap of a jet black tail disappearing over the top of our wooden fence and down into Bloater Chop's weed farm on the other side.

" Wait Cathead, he's very big" yelled keeper as I suddenly sprinted forth with a surge of spiritual energy and intuition that I should tackle this trespasser on the spot, before he returned.

As I leaped the fence and flew down the other side, in mid-air infact, I saw the big black chat was sitting right under the fence, in the long grass. So swoop swoop swoop, THUD. I landed right on top of Mr Coolcat himself! He let out one gigantic cat screetch and. . . . . de-materialized on the sopt in exactly the same way as the weird long leather trenchcoated chap Leeiach. I stayed stunned for a while, looking every which way in disbelief, past the weeds and old rubbish discarded over the years by the flabese Bloater Chops. Not a sign of the creepy cat.

Right, I thought, time to do some research.

So that night while keeper was sounders with Dingo in his room, I tippy-toed into the "office" boxroom and booted up the PC. Google treated me to pages and pages of info through which I cat-scrolled with one paw until . . . . . BINGO! There it was.

A record of a case history in the 18th century of a certain Mr Kenneth Brannach of Locharron in the Scottish Highlands, who was thought to have had the occult ability to transform his body into that of a black cat! He also is thought to have had the power of clairvoyance ( clearvision'ence) and the ability to foretell the future. Thousands of people from all over the British Isles had flocked to Locharron at that time to consult him and summon help in predicting future events. Mr Brannach was sentenced to death for witchcraft in 1798, burned alive in a barrel of tar he was. But before he died his last words were. . . .

" I shall return and also as my alterego blackcat, in another life in another time. In those future times I will bring chaos to the world in revenge for this savage fate bestowed upon me. In those days I will be known as The Grey One and will fight with the last remaining force for good in the world in what will become the epic occult battle to end all battles, to save or destroy the soul of the whole universe.

My arch enemy will be a worthy opponent with the spirituality and white powers of an angel incarnate, in the form of a London cat."

That would be little me then, I thought as I calmly read on, about sorcerers' powers in Medeival times. In a strange echo of vampirism, as I read about the Dent vampire of North Yorkshire, was the rare capture of the animal or bird that the magician transmutes into in order to spy on others or to achieve some mystic power. On one such occasion the animal, a Coyote, was dissected after death and was found to have. . . . .no brain!

Mr Cool Cat! He's an occult human in disguise!

And I typed into the search engine several names close-sounding to Leeiach for this leather trenchcoat guy's name. And lo and behold there's Liatach,( pr. Lee aye ach ) a fearsome towering Torridonian sandstone mountain in the northwest Highlands of Scotland, near to Locharron and translated from the Gaelic meaning. . . .. .THE GREY ONE!

Well I nearly fell off keeper's swivel chair at these discoveries. How do I defeat this new threat to Cathead's emerging powers? The powers of darkness are massing to try to stop these amazing gifts that are manifesting through the humble Cathead. Really, I'd rather have a peaceful life, just me, keeper, Dingo and Buff. But it seems I am destined for other things.

As I grow stronger by the hour, bones thickening, feliney muscles tightening, I can justaroundthecorner-sense some godalmighty showdown with trenchcoat man.

Bring it on!

YOW!

CATHEAD
.

Ready for destiny

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As a snatched kitten from the bosum of my mom who I never knew, I obviously had no opportunity to suckle so I suppose it's only natural instinct that I should get some craving for mother's own milk taste.

Well would you have guessed it, lovely Laura aka the animal-loving Ms Anthrope must have secretly contacted keeper in an e.mail, (though how she worked out his e. address I don't know) and sowed the seed of goodness in his mind , because lo and behold, just this very morn Keeper insisted,
" Here you two, Christmas has come early - I was out on the Broadway yesterday morning and saw this new in the pet shop window" he said, holding up a tin of Lovitts All Natural Cat Milk.

My heart raced all a flutter and was immediately reminded of Valerie, Ms Anthrope's kindly daughter's saying on her life blog which I survey now and again;
" Visualize it, Believe it and Watch it appear!"

We two, Buffy and I got stuck in straight away, although the method of delivery was a little unusual - that keeper loves to set us little challenges oftimes.
Belive, that Catmilk is an absoloute dream, the creamy hit on my taste buds sending me straight to cat high heaven, slurp slurp! Hope keeper makes a habit of buying it.
.

Buffy Sup rise
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Cathead Sup rise!
.
Yowww!
CATHEAD
& hi Mme Zuzh!
New you'd look in! Another premonition!!

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" Oh Cathead, err, phew. . I had to get back here as quick as poss', . . phew. . just been over to our old vet Dr Doctor for advice. You'll never believe what he told me, little fella"
I straightened into the Egyptian tomb cat upright sitting position.

"After telling him what happened at Dr Animal's the other week he confided in me that he knew Animal quite well and that he'd been badly ridiculed recently when he stood up in front of a national vets convention in Leeds to announce he had found a "talking cat with no brain".

The hairs on my shimmery back started to rise.
"Well the people in the hall fell about laughing and the vet Animal was heckled to the rafters. . .they were saying "show us the proof", . . ."have you got your miracle cat under your jacket then". . .and the such like. That bad vet then stormed off the stage -as best he could with his new found limp after the recent drill in the crotch episode -all red-faced."

Keeper sprang up from the chair and wandered through into the kitchen, looking down at me as he went. .
" and guess what he said Cathead? "
I jumped the basket rim and followed him like a little shadow onto the cold tiles.
" Yowwww! ! " I uttered, of course dying to know the rest of the story. Keeper fed a pitta bread slice into the electric toaster and filled the kettle. . .

" Yeah Cathead, the worrying thing was he had implied to Dr Doctor that he would try and "get that cat back by hook or by crook". It was then, little lad, that I got worried and rushed back here to check up on you"
Yowwww! I replied.

" We mustn't let our guard down Cathead, we are nearly out of this fix. No one believes Dr Animal, his reputation is all but ruined now, but a desperate man is a dangerous man and . . . ."
I could see keeper's mind ticking over.
". . being political for a second. . .of course, he's bound to try something."

Keeper did not know just how right he was. It was 5pm and the dark British autumn evenings have now drawn in good and proper. Keeper popped straight down the hardware shop on the corner which is called " Just Another Boring Old Hardware Shop "
to buy an infra red sensor floodlight/alarm for the back garden.

I sauntered out through the flap and into the garden to have a look about for the foxcub Morrison. Instead I noticed some dark shape crouching in the Juniper bushes up near the wooden fence over into Bloater Chop's. I padded up the lawn to investigate and was within 5 feet of this black form when at once a torchlight blinded my cat vision and at the same time a large net was thrown out over me!

The cowering shape took off, springing out of the bush and pinned me to the grass. I was writhing and spitting and clawing in shock. I looked up and saw those demonic eyes glinting out from the slit in a black lycra ski mask.
Of course, Dr Animal!

" Right, let's have you, my little black beauty " he muttered as he wrestled and pinned me to the deck with one gloved hand whilst pulling out and trying to unravel a black cloth sack from his pocket, with the other.
" You, my little friend, are going to be the making of me, tee heee."

As in many a traumatic situation, the general picture becomes very clear. In a split second the unconscious mind analyses and concludes what it would take a computer 10 minutes to work out. Of course, Dr Animal would become the most famous man on the planet if he could get me to talk. The alternative for him was ingnomy and infamy.

I bit and scratched as best I could, but he was very strong and I felt as if I was just on the cusp of letting out my cat screetching psychic powers again, when who should come bounding up the garden but the good Dingo! Keeper must have left the back door on a crack. No longer the wobbly puppy, Dingo has nowadays grown big and strong. Her yapping and growling as she ran distracted Dr Animal and he put one hand out in self defence as the young Doberman closed in on him.

Dingo launched into him, biting for all she was worth. I managed to scramble out of that wicked net and sprang straight up onto the vet's black pullovered back, sinking all claws of four paws into the nerve flesh of his spinal column. He cried out in painshock and spun around, trying to leg it over BCs fence. I dropped down and watched as Dingo, still clamping tight to Dr Animal's right trouser leg bottoms, was dragged along, still growling furiously.

Just then keeper materialised, fresh back from the shop. He piled onto Dr Animal and this time it was the vet who was pinned to the ground, his head off the edge of the lawn and face pushed sideways into the soil by the compost heap. Dingo was tugging so furiously that wicked vet's dark trousers had been pulled down around his knees.
Animal was suddenly quite a funny sight.

" Right you, up you get. What the hell are you doing in my garden" keeper admonished " and what are you doing dressed like that and carrying this! " he said, holding up the net infront of Animal's shocked face. He whipped off the vet's ski mask.
" Wait a mo " keeper whispered " I know you! Jeeez, it's YOU! Pull your goddam pants up"

Keeper got Dingo to relinquish her hold on the trousers and the vet pulled them back up with embarrassment. We two proudly followed keeper as he frogmarched a shocked Dr Animal indoors.

The police were called and evidence taken. Doctor Animal, the evil vet is now facing a stretch in the big house, as apparently he has a bit of previous for cruelty to animals. His career now in ruins, the vet surgery up the road now displays a " Closed Until Further Notice" sign.

Thanks Dingo. You are my dear saviour -along with keeper of course.

Sorted!

Yowwww, yours,

CATHEAD

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In other words, crafty gobbledegook for "we want to abduct your cat for further research". Obviously the injured vet had blabbed to the authorities about what he experienced the day before. Keeper politely turned them away then came back into the lounge, sat down and thought thought thought.

Some things you learn as you get a little older my luvlies. Even as a doctored cat you pick up on human behavioural stuff. Also I've seen keeper at work with people -he's very shrewd -sometimes.
So as soon as we got back from Dr Animal's he was putting up the defences.

" What was he doing to you in there little CH? " he spoke softly into my left bat ear whilst softly stroking the top of my cat head.
I couldn't tell him what happened could I ? How Dr Animal discovered a cavity for a brain on the X Ray and how he also discovered I was the original talking cat. But even knowing a little of it caused keep' to put the barricades of anticipation up. Step one was to seal up the catflap and buy large sacks of cat litter for me and Buff.

" They're not going to stop at this " he said, pouring out the litter into the tray and turning to me. . . " they're up to something. You and Buffy are staying in for a while"
I felt protected by keeper, what a sweet soul he is and very clued up on the politics of human nature.

Hopefully they will dismiss Animal as a crackpot who hallucanated the talking cat. But the X Ray pictures . . .how to explain away those? No wonder they wanted to do some more tests.

" Pre-emption is the best form of defence " murmered keeper that evening as he vanished out the door dressed in black.
He returned to the house three hours later, at 1am with a file under his arm.
" Now lets see what all this curiosity was about" he said, sitting down again and opening the file which had, amongst other words typed neatly on the top, " Cathead, Tom Cat, age 6 ".

Keeper! You darling! Without knowing it he has resucued me from a fate worse than vivesection by stealing my Xrays and medical records from Dr Animals surgery.

Yowww!
CATHEAD

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Thing is there's a new one opened just round the corner and I have a feeling he's going to try me out with that, I thought. I was happy with my regular vet Dr Doctor ( for that really was his real name, the humour in my cat brain offset the uncomfy investigation), he was kind and vegetarian and loved his work, compassion to all creatures great and small and feline.

This new vets though, it kind of gave me the creeps. One of those new modern efforts from a gutted out old pet shop on the corner. Money motivated definitely. Not a good sign with regards animal care that. Same thing as keeper constantly complaining about his dentist making up unecessary work on his teeth, calling it "precautionary" then wholloping him with a huge bill.

Anyways, too late, before I knew it I was being whisked, tinkering blue bell and all in the cat box across the busy road and into the new vets.
I sensed fear as soon as keeper sat me on a chair.
Not mine but a general ambience of apprehension from the other pets who had been there before me. I looked out through the mesh at the white-coated receptionist. Very hard features, businesslike and stern.
" Oh he's new, she said" as keeper explained about me. .." yes, he's registered over at Doctor Doctors in Croydon. " Oh Doctor Doctors, yes, she replied, her thin lips trying to suffocate a smile.

"What's his name . .oh Cathead " she said, reading the new patients form keeper had filled out.
" That's an unusual name. . .now, bring him straight though sir, Dr Animal will see him now.
Keeper laughed, " Doctor Animal, you're kidding me?"
" No sir, the receptionist replied, that's really his real name"

Before I had time to react I was whisked into the treatment room and my cat nose turned up straight away at the antisceptic stink of the place.

But then I knew. There he was, the one and only Doctor Animal, my nemisis from the animal lab days.
For he was the selfsame Doctor Animal ( could it be any other) who was employed by the animal lab to perform check ups on all us suffering creatures in our cages, every month. A tall, handsome early middle aged fellow with a high IQ but non-existent HQ (Heart Quotient)* One of those people who sail though life with no conscience, making stacks of money but no real friends.

Keeper was not to know. He let me out onto the inspection table. I looked up at DA. His eyes widened as he recognised me as missing from the lab. Missing presumed rescued. He said nothing except asking keeper to go back into the waiting room. So we were alone again, me and my old enemy from the bad old days. I eyed him unblinkingly as he tilted my cat head back to examine me.. . .
" Ah, we meet again little one" he said, very very wickedly.. . . .. . I felt no fear, my psychic overdrive was kicking in at the new challenge. ..
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PART TWO
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Dr. Animal, or Animal for short, had me gripped by the throat with one surgically gloved hand and prized open my cat mouth with the other. Then with a mini torch began scoping around whilst talking, he thought, to himself. . .

" Always wondered what became of you - my how you've grown since I saw you last. . ."
I eyed him carefully as you might do a dentist at a checkup.

" Same markings though, that half white moustache's a bit of a giveaway. . hmmm seems there are one or two cavities here. . ."
Don't think so Animal, my keeper kept me well away from sweets, kept me on the straight and kipper narrow. He's making excuses, I thought.

" Oh lets see how we're getting on on top "
He forced my cat head down to the treatment table and brushed aside the fur on the top of my bonce to the lump that was left from the drilling at the lab.
" Hmm, healed up nicely, but I think an X ray is a good idea to have a closer look ".

He lifted me off the table and put my head in a clamp type mechansism with my shimmery black body and tail sticking out - then walked out of the room and some funny buzzing noise lasted half a second and back in he marched.
" Right. . .." he picked up the clipboard to check my name. . ." Mr Cathead, I'm going to take a closer look at you now "

I knew this had nothing to do with an ordinary checkup because Doctor Doctor at the nice surgery used to simply feel me about a bit, do a couple of routine mouth and eye reflex tests and it was over in 10.

No, this guy was just too curious for my liking. He gathered the processed X ray pictures from the machine and stood in rapt attention and silence for a minute whilst I stood on his work bench.

" Jesus H. Christ, it's not possible. . . never seen anything like this! " he gasped.
Uh Oh.
He picked up his phone and dialled furiously. He started blabbing away to some colleague.
" I've just taken an X Ray of this cat, Charlie, you'll never guess what's on it, you'd better come round quick & take a look "

Animal had left the X Ray negs on their clip on the table. I only had to walk a foot and swivel my head around a little to see. Where my brain should have been there was nothing. Just a dark cavity.

Doctor Animal walked quickly back around the table and grabbed me tightly, lifted me and put me in another clamp device on another table, obviously designed for cats.

" Wow, this is amazing " he muttered excitedly.
I could almost see the pound sterling signs in his eyes at the thought of selling me back to the lab.
I could feel some power stirring within me. A heady mixture of anger and psychic force.

He began clanking around in his drawer of surgical instruments and brought out a whacking great hyperdermic. .
" Just going to sedate you little Cathead, then have a quick look back inside your head "

I quickly glanced sideways and saw he'd also removed a tiny drill from the drawer. A second thought flashed, hang on a tick, you haven't even asked my owner's permission to do this to me.

Keeper was sat back in the waiting room wading through Hello magazine whilst his fave pet is being lobotomized.

I struggled but the cat clamp was too tight. In sunk the needle and as he pushed in the sedative our eyes met again and the full force of the psychic power surged from nowhere. As if all the cries of fear and suffering of all innocent animals tortured and killed by the low HQ breed of humans was being focused back through me.

" Just count to ten, little Cathead. . ha, as if you can" " heartless Animal joked to himself.

OK, I thought, time for a different tack. I opened my cat mouth and spoke for the first time in front of a human being.
" One two three four five. . six. . seven.. ." not perfectly formed human words but distinct nevertheless, with a cat accent if you catch my drift.
The vet Animal was stunned, he stumbled back against the wall. .
" No, it can't be. .. .its not possible. . "
Thirteen fourteen, fifteen. . . . twenty. . " on and on I went. He stood in stupified shock.

The anesthetic was having no effect, my heart was racing, some great power was taking over my little cat body. I started shaking and trembling violently in the clamp.

Doctor Animal rushed over to the worktop and snatched the drill and fumbled underneath to plug it in.
" Whiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrr Whiiiiiirrrrr " he tested it.
He brought the evil machine to my clamped head as still I counted " thirty two thirty three. .."
" I'm going to find out the fuck what's happening here" he gruffed.

As the tip of the drill touched my cat head, all hell broke loose. The psychic power suddenly came rushing out through my mouth and I let out the most incredible cat screech anyone had ever heard I am sure. At that moment Dr. Animal cried out in pain and dropped the spinning drill on the floor.

" Ahhh my hand! my hand!" He was clutching it and keeled over in agony besides the still rotating drill. He rolled about in spasms of pain until one movement caused him to wedge the drill against his groin in the corner of the room. The drill kept whirring viciously.
" Ahhhh no, no, NO! "

At this the receptionist and keeper came bursting in and stared in shock at the scene. I decided time to stop counting. (I'd got to 58).

The nurse attended the vet who was writhing in a pool of blood on his floor whilst keeper unclamped me from the cat clamp table.
" What the hell are you doing to my animal !! " keeper blurted in rage. Doctor Animal was in too much pain to register keeper's angst.
"Ohhh no, ahhh, the agony. . .god help meee!"
Yes doctor I thought, that's what my little friends back in the lab cages were saying in their own ways, everyday of their short, tortured lives.

" Come on Cathead, lets out of here! "
He packed me away into the carrier and left the vet and his nurse to sort themselves out and marched me towards home real quick time.

As I swung from side to side inside the confines of the box I thought about what had transpired in that hell hole vets. The powers, they're getting ever stronger. My divine rage lets out with it some terrible destructive occult force - but only on the wicked it seems. I have to be really wound up for it to manifest.

But the thing about the empty cranium -as the heartless vet said, it's not possible that, is it?

Mmm, have to think about that one.

Yours lightheadedly,
CATHEAD

PS Returned to the scene today, dragging keepers digicamera to a hole in the hedge by the road to snap the vets. Just incase i go missing report this place to the rspca please my dear ones.
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So it came as a bit of a surprise the other nite when keeper woke me as he hurtled through the lounge at 3am, all dishevelled like, with the strap from his digicamera swinging behind. Into the kitchen he spun in bare feet, by which time I'd raised my dozy cat head from my basket curl. Then the ears perked.

Deja Vu time.

" There's some bloody thing out there" he muttered to himself.
I sat up, arched my shimmery black back, hopped out the basket and strolled round onto the kitchen tiles and yawned a cat yawn. There was keeper, leaned over the washing machine, outstretching his pyjama'd arm and holding the camera up against the window and FLASH!
I widened my sleep-encrusted cat peepers and stared up at him unblinkingly.
" Right, now, what the devil is that out there " he bent over to study the LCD screen to see what he'd caught and in something straight out of One Foot In the Grave said
" I don't believe it! . .. .no it's not possible. . .it can't be, must be a horrible co-incidence "

He left the camera, display still lit, on the formica topboard and quickly unlocked the door to the garden and vanished out into the night. I sprang up and gazed unblinkingly at the bright square and you know what, certain things began to coalesce and make sense. For that trip back from France was just a little odd in one or two areas actually, come to think of it.

" Shoo, shooo, get out! " came from the garden and then a clank of a dustbin lid and my keeper waded back in looking like a waking nightmare, locked the door and turned just as Dingo came trotting eagerly round from the lounge, tongue out and smiling, looking for a ( very) early morning walkies.

Keeper sat on a bar stool at the kitchen diner, crossed one leg up across the other and picked a large piece of potato peeling out from between his toes. Before I knew it Dingo had snatched the spud skin out of keepers hand and downed it in one, looking straight back up with expectant eyes for seconds.
" For Christ's sake Dingo, is there anything you won't eat! You naughty girl now get down."
Dingo sauntered back into the lounge as keeper got up from the stool and sighed, looking down at me.
" Show's over Cathead and you too Dingo, back you go " He grabbed the camera and retired wearily back to his bedroom, holding the door for Dingo to enter before closing it.

Buffy stayed sounders the entire time in her doilly- adorned basket across the room. She's got keeper sussed alright, lets him get on with it.

As I was saying, that France trip back seemed odd in some ways, there was a strange odour abouts the van, kind of damp-dog-drying-out mixed with slightly off foodstuffs. My cat nose reflex-twitched frequently. I just throught we must be passing sewage treatment plants or something. And as keeper unloaded the van outside the house on our return, I did note an extra shuffling noise as he slid one of the suitcases out from the back. Now our campervan is full of little storage spaces, hidey holes, nooks and crannies you know.

Keeper thought it was another strikingly similar creature the other night so no one should ever tell him. We had a bushy-tailed stowaway!

He's back!
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MORRISON ( back)
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and justifying his fox cub name again - what were the chances he'd find another Morrisons bag? That keeper just never learns to put the rubbish in the bins, but fantastic for Cathead. Another little playmate in the neighbourhood.

You know what they say; a fox is just a friend you've never met.

Yowww!

CATHEAD

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" Yeah, a big, huge, shiny RAT! " he laughed as he wandered through into the lounge.
Charming, I thought. Have I done something to offend him recently? No, not that I could think of. I could still hear him laughing manically to himself as he got the ironing board out.
" Cathead the Rathead" he sing-songed as he ironed away.
I suppose I should forgive I thought -after all he thinks I don't understand what he says.

Nevertheless his poke fun words had an effect on me, got me thinking like. About rats. Sounds like cats. Wonder if we are, actually, related after all. The tail's right alright. The ability to squeeze through the narrowest of cracks. Yet rattys have a far worse reputation. I've heard you humans telling each other that you are never more than 10ft away from a rat. That's news to me, I never did see a rat anywhere in our house. Or that it only takes a rat 2 weeks to chew through a floorboard. I suppose the killers at Rentokill will have a few more "rat truths" up their poison-pelletted sleeves to demonize our little friends some more.

I don't buy all these nature's creatures put downs. I mean there's another OWT I heard that funny woman next door relating to Bloater Chops over her fence one day about how the average person swallows 150 spiders in their sleep during the course of their lifetime. And who, may Cathead ask, is doing the counting?

Anyways, a squirrel is just a tree rat but you humans go all "ahhh how sweet lets feed him some nuts" over them. They get a bad press, rats.

And so on and so on my little doctored cat brain wandered in rat introspection until I mentally stumbled upon the catchprase metaphor Like a Rat Up a Drainpipe. It has a ring to it that, I mused to myself, sitting on the outside back step just under the flap. I had a little giggle, " thhhhhh thhhhh thhhhh" at my mental mantra,
" Cathead the Rathead, like a rat up a drainpipe"
Yea thats what I am, a RAT UP A DRAINPIPE.
I began padding around the back of the house, wondering how to pass my morning ~ maybe go rat hunting? Ahh cut it out CH, you're getting obsessive.

I heard a quick scratchy scurrying noise behind me - I swivelled around fast and my startled unblinking peepers cauught sight of a large brown rat scuttling along the path until it reached the outside drain whence it smacked BUMPH against the brickwork and smartly shuffled up the black drainpipe and gone.
Jeez I thought, how about that? How odd life can be and they do say one can actually manifest events in front of you if you can fill enough of your subconscious with the thoughtform first. Wow, I didn't really believe that, did you? Must be careful what I have going on in my cat bonce from now on, esp. with my morphing cat brain throwing up a real pot pourri of psychic abilities and revelations.
Or maybe it was co-incidence? No way.

Well I suppose "Rathead" had better sort this potential new problem for my keeper. In the wild I've always operated a very un cat-like policy of leaving rats alone, somehow the human DNA implants have added a compassion element that overides the instinct to kill and eat. Wonder who that kind life-respecting human was who's DNA they used? Certainly not that Mr Blair fellow.

In through the flap I clacked and paused just inside the kitchen. Total quiet. Keeper had gone out. Buffy and Dingo still kipping. But I knew there was a rat ensconsed within the network of drainage pipes behind the sink cupboards. I pawed open one of them. Ah now let me see, theres the plastic piping from the washing machine and mmm yes, that one leads up to the upstairs sink and that one is some open vent thingy. Well, Mr rat could be just about anywh. . . .

A sudden scrabbling sound came from the corner of the cupboard. I stretched my double jointed cat neck around and opened my eyes wide. There he was! The little fellow cowering in the corner by a manky cobwebbed old dry scouring pad and quaking with fear. We both eyed each other for a second. . . suddenly he made a dash for it but I swiped out my paw quick as lightning and pinned brown rat down as I jumped into the cupboard and brought the other paw also to bear upon poor ratty, whos little ticker I could now feel through my pads was going like an express train. My claws did not extend. Instead I cat-nipped him on the back of his neck and carried him out of the flap like a newborn kitten. The little fella was paralysed with fear and made no attempt to move or escape.

I dropped him on the lawn and off he darted in the direction of BC,s.
He'll like it better there, I thought.
Just as well the compassionate Cathead got to him first, I pondered, for if Buffy had seen him, brown rat would have been brown bread rat, for sure.

And Keeper, I thought, if you ever have a rat laugh at me again I'll bring him back along with his friends and family for a good rat knees-up under the floorboards.

Yowwww!

Yours
RA. . .oops
CATHEAD

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That wasn't grass I was savouring Mr Keeper, I proudly thought as I paraded along beside him on the low path by the ponds at the Swains Lane end of Hampstead Heath.

Those little grey mushrooms tasted better than anything you've ever brought back from Tescos, they were like really delish.

As we proceeded along, dodging the dog pile hurdles every 20 ft, the oncoming people laughing and smiling and going " Ahhhhhhh isn't he cute " yaaawn, as per usual, I began to feel a little funny. As my cat fish eye lens peepers roved the sky reacting to peripheral glimpses of flitting starlings and crows ( the old cat instinct part of the brain doesn't give up easily ), the scudding clouds assumed odd shapes, like huge crouching tigers with extended claws. And like the creepy craggy sweaty faces of some of the animal lab guys. The sky itself in fact, assumed a pink rather than blue hue. Yeah, like this background here on the blog page.

Ok, I thought. OK, so my change from cat to cat plus through the human DNA implants is shifting up another gear. Another metamorphosis here I come.

" Come Cathead, stop skulking along like that", keeper again had to pull me forward by the necky. I could feel my white fur belly brushing along the path. What the hell was I doing? Yowww, something weird was afoot there, definitely. For my Keeper assumed the form of an upright crocodile with elongated quick-snap jaws and armour plating of scales jutting on his neck.

I looked up unblinkingly at him from my low crouch.
He was staring down at me, then opened his mouth again to speak.
" Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Caaaaaaaaaaaat Heaaaaaaaaad Whaaaaaaaaaaaats wrooooooooong wiiiiiiiiiiiiith yoooooooooooou " in a very deep gruff tone, like some weird chanting Tibetan monk. "

He shook his head and stoooped to pick me up and walked, cradling me, away from the path and onto the field leading up to Kite Hill. Each step he took, I felt like I was on a bungee rope, dropping 10 metres and bouncing up again. Hold on tight Cathead, I thought, ride this thing out.

" Ohhhhhh juuuuuust taaaaaake a loooooooook at thaaaaaat wiiiiiiil yoooooooou CaaaaaatheaaaaD"
he seemed to drag on forever. I just about managed to swivel my very poorly cat head around, but what I staringly saw really did the trick in freaking me out and convinced me I'd lost my cat mind altogether.

Fear and panic gripped, the first thought was that I would never blog again, I would lose all my faithful friends, Dawny, Mr Chawky, DD, Rick, Ian, John HP, Biochy, spiritual Alexa, Janey Nickola, and many more. The old cotton socks paws came up over the eyes again.

The next thing I knew Keeper was bringing me round with a wet flannel to my cat head and both Buffy and Dingo were hovering over me, Dingo's big flaps of Dalmation pup ears fanning me with deep concern, Buffy gently licking my nose.
" Oh thank God you've come round Cathead, we thought we'd lost you for a while."
I looked about the lounge ~ the nightmarish special effects had gone.

Later, I played ball of wool tangles with Buffy, to get my super cat co-ordination back honed again. Such sweet innocent games. Sometimes I wish I was back a cat again. Life was much less complicated I tell you.

But that sight on the Heath that made me pass out with shock. I lived with the image stored in my feliney bonce for 2 days until I was finally released from the fear that I was going completely cat-rabid mad. Going through keepers digi files today on the PC confirmed to me the sometimes ultra cruel tricks of co-incidence that life can play on us all. Oh and yes sireee I'm sticking to keeper's Tesco bland of mushrooms in future.

Can you imagine a human DNA-doctored cat, tripping on majic mushrooms coming across this?
No need to imagine it, my dear dear friends - you heard the reality from the cat's mouth.

Anyway, call that art? they're having a laugh arn't they?
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yours un-hallucigenified,

CATHEAD

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Yowwwww! She's a real craftswoman of a digital design and animation wizzkid. If you need any pic party tricks on your blogs Cathead fans, she's the lady to see.
Just click on her thumb in my friends gallery.

yours
CATHEAD

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Freak Out! Psychic alarm bells ringing!

It's 3.07am by the dash clock and I am bounced from my tranquil cat kip spot on the duvet on the camper's pull -out bed.
It's keeper panicing and fighting with the covers to sit up, going
" Oh WHATS THAT? WHATS THAT NOISE! "

He's always been a light sleeper and distinctly paranoid about camping wild in the van. I did notice some sort of rustling noise during my curl-doze but thought nothing of it. One cat bat ear twitched and that was it.

But keeper was sat up, shakily reaching to switch on the van's small vanity light then quick-time scrambling into his T shirt, shorts and shoes. His hair was really wild and he looked like something freshly crawled from the deep as he scrabbled in the cutlery drawer for the torch.
" There's somebody out there Cathead" he whispered loudly, " I'm going to see"
Ah for god's sake, I thought, come off it, there's no one going to bother us out here.

Michael had parked the campervan on a deserted alpine off-road level, on a high col near Sixt, at about 2000 metes or nearly 7000ft. Keeper, like our cute blog friend Alexa, has a thing about getting fresh air. But this is ridiculous I thought, as we car sick-zig-zag'd up the seemingly never-ending ear-popping mountain pass road the evening before, grinding down the gears and going through a couple of litres of gazoil to get us to the top. Fresh air is one thing but a trip half way into the stratosphere? I hoped he'd remembered to bring my oxygen bon bons.

Instead of the torch, the first thing a dishevelled and disoriented keeper found in the drawer was the digicamera. He sat up on the end of the bed with Cathead now squashed against the opposite window by the thrown-back duvet; then popped open the flash, scraped back the small slider window above the kitchenette and poked the camera out, pointing around roughly in the direction of the disturbance. . . . clickFLASH!

The rustling noise stopped immediately. Weird.

" Right. Now lets see what we have here."
Keeper switched the camera onto view and straight away the LCD screen displayed a bright square.
" HA! Jeez, I knew I should have put the rubbish out on top of the van instead of under it".
He poked his head out of the window and went
"SHOOO" loudly.
I caught a glance of the screen and cat-tittered to myself. Bloody hell K why'd you have to disturb my beauty sleep like that? Calm it man, it's only a ruddy FOX CUB.

And so it was. As with many things in life, you humans freak at your own fears and little else. When we got back to Norbury I looked at keeper's digicam files here on his PC and have named the renard Morrison, after the supermarket whos shopping/rubbish bag he was tearing apart looking for goodies. The wee cub returned several times more, as evidenced by the on and off rustling plastic bag and empty can-on-stones racket for the rest of the night.

The next morning was fun. A devastated-looking keeper, after yet another rough night in the camper imagining attackers outside; wandered slowly around the van in a stubble-faced stumbling daze, picking up the strewn oval of bits of paper kitchen roll, Kiwi fruit peelings, licked-out empty tuna and catfood tins, chewed up cauliflower stumps and eggshell etc.

That'll teach him.

(click to enlarge)
MORRISON

yours
CATHEAD

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" Well Cathead, that was our big friend Derek on the phone ".
REALLY! I thought. ( Derek is a BIG friend folks, not a big friend, if you catch my drift. )

" Yeah Cathead, looks like he's trying to pull another fast one before we go away. Little does he know we already have a " nice campervan" . Whatever, let's go round the garages and see what trick he's up to this time."

Old Bloater chops was at it again, I thought, tut- tutting to myself as keeper clipped the elasticated leash onto my wee belled-up blue leather collar.
Keeper had let on to Doris next door that he was off to France on holiday and somehow it filtered through to Mr Big from the slovenly habitation nearby.
Off we went to inspect Bloater Chop's latest charitable offering.
" Brand Spanking new Devon conversion my backside. . . " sniggered keeper on our way round the back of BC's terrace, me springing joggingly along below.
" . . .kitted out with every extra, fridge, cooker, heater, air con eh"
We turned a corner and stared.
" well that's a good start to the holiday Cathead. Thank god we already have a decent VW of our own! "

He's a bit sick in the head you know, that Bloater Chops.
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As we both stood admiring BC's alledged super van, keeper snapping a pic for posterity, I heard a scuttling scratchy quick pitter-patter of paw feet on the damp pavement behind and before even my fastcat reactions could turn my cat head, who else but Dingo herself shot past us at break neck speed and straight up to the wreck of a camper parked up off the road, gave the front bumper a quick sniff, backed-up and proceeded to pee, ssssssssss sss onto the tagged-tyred buggered wheel on the van's driver's side, then yelped excidedly, tail a' wagging, back up to keeper who knelt down to receive her laughing tongue-rippling young head, Cathead receiving a face full of drooling Doberman pup lick in the process.
" Oh Dingo, it's YOOOOU!! come here baby. . you naughty girl pissing over our friend's property . . .ha, I must have left the door open.. . . come on then Ding'n' Cathead, back to the house with you".
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CHAPTER TWO

Keeper sat all three of us pets on the sofa, crouched down and said
" OK you lot, listen up "
I'm all ears, I thought.
" I'm taking Cathead with me on holiday to France. Unfortunately there's no room to smuggle all three of you across the channel in the campervan and I haven't time to sort out the rigmoroll of paperwork for pet passports for you.. . ."
Buffy started up swiping and clawing at Dingo's left ear - she had spotted a flea. Dingo reacted furiously, shaking her head and jumping off the couch.

". . . oh come on you lot, I'm trying to explain something. That's right Cathead, just stay put."
Keeper hauled Dingo back onto the couch, patted her butt to sit her down again and tapped Buffy on her cute tortoiseshell cat head and pointed a finger.

" Now behave Buffy. Right. As I was saying, there's only space for Cathead, so you two will have to go next door with Doris and Abigail for a week, OK?"

The two pets Dingo and Buffy just stared back at keeper but unconsciously they picked up the message I sensed for Dingo especially seemed below par for the rest of that day. I picked up the message fine and dandy, I was thrilled to be travelling across the water to la belle France!

Yipee, I knew I was keeper's favourite all along!
-until I overheard a kitchen conversation later on.

I was dozing in my lounge basket when my twitching left cat bat ear just and so picked up. .
" Now listen Dingo, I'll really miss you, you know how special you are to me. Look, have this nice big steak I brought you from the butchers . . .Dingo darling, it cripples me to. . . .WAIT for me to unwrap the meat goddamit!. . Jeez, GET DOWN! . .to say, to say farewell, but its only a week, girl. You're too big already to fit in hiding in the camper. Only Cathead is trained to stay put".
I heard the sound of firm patting.
" There you go girl, eat your dinner".
( Keen slobbering and chewing sounds lasting 10 seconds follow ).

Yeah thanks keeper, I thought. I feel really special now.
Never mind, France it was! I saw in my cat mind's eye a land of garlic, onions and people wandering around in the mornings clutching horse-long phallic Gallic bread sticks. Cheese & red wine Coqs Sportifs sporting hooped T shirts a la Ian Thorpe, babbling like excided racoons to one another in between chain-smoking Gauloises, playing funny games with silver balls on each other's gravel driveways and pottering about in Citroen 2CVs, not one of which could out-perform a fully loaded Unigate milk float with a flat battery.

Erm I think I was picking up on Keeper's mental impression of the country in the early 1980s when he was last there. Lots and lots has changed, as I was about to discover. . .

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CHAPTER THREE

Ohhhhhh, theeeeeeeee
Life on the ocean wave the life on the ocean wave,
the life on the ocean wave the life on the . . . . .
Oh dear I feel decidedly cat sick. Cat sick/car sick only this must be. . .
yeah, sea sick.
And it's claustrophobic and it's smelly.
Like diesel-exhaust-and-oil smelly.
And it's pitch black in here.

Yeah Cathead you dunce, thats because you are;
a. At sea
b. On board a ship
c. hidden below decks and
d. It's a rough crossing.

Bloody keeper had left suffering Cathead smuggled under the pulled-out double bed in the camper. Confined in the cramped confines of the dreaded cat carrier whilst he lived it up duty-free above decks, enjoying the sea slap and spray of the English Channel on a fresh breezy August afternoon.

Mope mope. Cathead, the genius amongst you, reduced to skulking miserable and trapped in the dark, ready for the big spit. Reminded me of the animal lab days. How I hated those terrorizing scientists. . . . . . . .wait! A shaft of light!
A pair of hands - and a face. . . Michael!

" Come Cathead, I couldn't bear to think of you shut away all alone and fearful next to the ship's nerve-wracking engines while I enjoyed the upstairs hospitality of the Seacat. Look, come to keeper".

His hands reached in and grabbed me from my carrier prison and gently stowed me under his North Face jacket and up the steep metal staircase we ascended, metal step by step step step step and out on deck and . . .wow!

A sudden blast of WIND! YO! the salty spray, the throaty noise from the props and roar of the powered churning white water below. The Seacat was still lurching about from side to side as we catamaran'd along at a fair rate of knots, but being out in the open again, I found my sea paws.

My cat head was poking out of keeper's jacket near his neck and he kept his back to the crew and passengers in a quiet corner on the starboard side. He was taking quite a risk, first in sneaking below decks back to the camper once we had set sail and second in bringing a smuggled pet up above deck under his jacket, risking discovery.

Big fines and a ruined holiday might result, especially on the French side, sticklers as they are for rules & regs.

We both watched in silence as the white cliffs receeded.
" I love you, Cathead", he said, quietly, looking out to sea.
What a man! What a heart! I LOVE HIM TOO, how can I not, for this big-hearted risk-taker both saved my life and gave me a life.

I gave him a big sandpaper tongue lick on the chin and meeowed as close to human-sounding as I dare. . .
Meeeooothankyouwwwww.

Keeper suddenly stared down at me, shocked.

"Bloody hell Cathead I could swear you just spoke! Bizaaare! Must be the sea air and that double Islay single malt I had. "

I'd better watch it, I thought, I want to stay undercover as a cat til I am more sure of the direction this human DNA morphing is going to take my cat brain. Don't want to end up in a circus or a freak show. Certainly not.

The problem with ordinary humans not spiritually evolved is that they treat animals like. . . . animals. One of the symptoms of a spiritually developing individual is that he/she sees more and more the sameness in nature of lifeforms rather than only noticing the outward differences.
We are all the SAME as YOU, we are living breathing beings with a sense of identity and self.

What's more, scratch the surface of a human and you find the animal in any case. This thing you call society with its polite conventions is the 5% makeover mask to cover the 95% base'ness ( business) within.

. . . but I digress. . .

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CHAPTER FOUR

Out of the carrier and under the duvet on the pulled-out bed in the back of the camper, I could peep out of a dark fold to see through the window van; us sweeping through customs, keeper confidently waving at the checkpoint guys on the French side and before you knew it we were chundling through the docks area in Calais and onto the A1 motorway, heading south, keeper all the while repeating some odd mantra to himself.
" remember right right right right
remember right.
Remember right right right right
Remeber right.. . . ."
On it went for ages, I started cat frowning with tedium until I realized my oddball keeper was reminding himself to drive on the right.

We stopped at the first Aire de service. ( services) where out came the elasticated leash and we took a long stroll around the place to get some fresh French Aire air. I sniffed at the morning freshness, French freshness, it was kind of, well, fresher than English freshness, Norbury freshness, somehow. My little moist turned-up black cat nose just would not stop twitching at these strange new smells wafting about.

" Well here we are Cathead, what do you think of France then?" smiled keeper as we sat in the morning sun on a bench seat by a sparkling fountain. I wish he wouldn't keep talking to me as if I could understand, I thought. It's very frustrating to keep silence like some Trappist monk. If I spoke he would be freaked -I think.

" What do YOU think" I thought

" You know Cathead, I think this country has really changed. Like last time I was here as a kid in the 1970s it seemed a far poorer place. Now look!"
Keeper gesticulated, throwing his hand out to thin air in the direction of the cafe, shop and infrastructure of the Aire. . ." It's like another world, another planet". It was rather, modern actually. This was confirmed when again Cathead went under keeper's jacket and we went into the services. The food was fresh and wholesome, the design and lighting space-age and the staff smart, courteous and friendly. Keeper tucked into a Jambon salade and stick bread from the patisserie and fed tidbits to the good Cathead,crouching low on his lap They slid down lip-smackingly nicely indeed.

Compare that with Cathead's experience at a Welcome Break on the M6 when I vomited up all that suspiciously shiny chewy bacon and rubber egg that keeper fed me one time. I almost didn't need the encouragement of the "food" mind, the mere sight of the dirty litter-strewn run down rat's nest of a restaurant was enough on itself to induce nausea, even in a cat.

A FRENCH AIRE LITTER BIN.
Something plain, something ordinary, but this public utility mentality is extrapolated almost everywhere. Look what a little organized creative design flair and planning the constructs for the long-term can achieve. Standing proudly defiant against attempts at burn and kick. C'est extra-ordinaire n'est ce pas?
(Raided from keeper's digicamera files tonite).

CHAPTER FIVE

YIPPEE, this is great! We whizzed like lightning down the A1, the strong French sun pounding in through the windscreen. Fabulous! The van is a real flying machine when the turbo kicks in.

YO!
Cathead was propped up in the Transporter's passenger seat like a wee human, sitting atop four cushions, one of which was my very own tassled affair, which Keeper had brought along to give his fave pet his own scent- comfort in a strange new land. The seatbelt went over my soft white underbelly and under my front paws, leaving them free to wave about at onlookers. Complete with a keeper-treat of a kiddies DALLAS COWBOYS baseball cap perched just so on my cat head, I think looked cool ( I caught a glance of myself in the wing mirror - oh yes, oh yes! ). All that were missing were the . . . ..
" Here Cathead, let's try these on you."
Keeper had parked up and he leaned across to fit a tiny pair of infant's toy Ray Bans over my cat eyes and leant back to admire.
"YO!" he cried, then burst out laughing . . ." God, you're the business now Cathead".
He reached into the glove compartment for the tissues to dry his eyes, so consumed with mirth was he.
" Ha ha . .. .Oh dear, Ahemm. Cathead, you're a one off".
I swivelled my trendily adorned cat head sideways to look out. There was a small crowd of froggies gathered down below the van, with their children in arms, laughing and prattling and pointing in at us, all astonished like.
Keeper didn't much care for this attention and drove off in a huff.

" It's brilliant, I can't get over the way you just stay put Cathead, you're the best trained cat I ever did see " remarked K, glancing sideways at me as we rolled along again.
I looked back at him and went " Yowwww ".
" Ha ha you're so funny Cathead, sometimes I think you can understand what I'm saying!"
" Yowwwwww "
Keeper shut up and concentrated on driving on the right but I could hear his mind ticking.

After a couple nights kipping free at the aires we arrived in Haute Savoie, the French alps. I was let out on the 'lastic leash and we wandered up to a viewpoint and I looked up. . .and up . . .CRICK! . . and up. Mont Blanc! 4800 metres! That's like 3 miles UP, what a monster mountain. My hugely sensitive cat eyes just stared and stared unblinkingly at the high heavens, at those perfect peaks of perpetual powder. The only hill I've ever seen is that rise on Norbury common which is lucky to hold a slush drift in the depths of winter, what with global warming.

" Get the skis out Cathead" laughed keeper
Now that would be a sight, I thought.
No chance mate, you go ahead and break your legs if you want to; leave me on some sunny pavement cafe in Chamonix with a saucer of creamy alpine milk, a chunk of Reblochon de Savoie to chew on and all the fresh French alpine air I can cat-breathe.

Ahhhhhhhhh - bon sante tous!

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CHAPTER SIX

Ooooooo la laaaa!
Keeper introduces little Cathead to some French lady moggies. . . . .

We booked into some two star Michelin hostelry just over the border from Geneva, in Annemasse actually. It was a tall, dark 1920s terraced affair with cold echo'y landings, varnished doors & bannisters and one of those old creepy almost silent-running open-plan cage lifts, with harmonica sliding & clattering metal grill doors on each floor. The spot reeked of polish and cooking herbs and the owner was an aggressive fat woman perpetually clad in a red plastic apron.

yours
CATHEAD ( with a strop on after too much sun on his cat head. Sorry. )
PS I luv bookmarks! Press Ctrl and D to keep up to date with little Cathead's blogventures.

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yours
CATHEAD

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Och tha noo fur noo, I'm off ta ma basket after tucking in Buffy ( and I did say tucking ).

Nite ( good to be back )
Can't wait to read what all you naughty Blog dot co dotters have been up to too.

Yawn, the CARS!
CATHEAD

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
MORNING all!

Me thinks that way-out-west Highland air has gone right to my cat head for I am still fresh with visions and memories of an hallucegenically vivid trip and a half.

Cathead and Buffy creep-creeping through the bonny purple-flowered heather, stalking the grouse.

Cathead's wee bonce bouncing up and down in the back campervan window like a toy car dog, pretending to be a stuffed replica of himself! What laughs that got from the following traffic ~ some folk almost ran off the road.

The truly awfully gruesome sights from ground level what with all those ayeing kilted Highlanders waltzing about.

Cathead and Buffy fat with midges after they tried to ambush us when the wind dropped. Yum what a tasty treat they make, neither Keeper nor Dingo were too keen on them tho. Poor Dingo was yelping and running after her tail in torment, jaws all a snap snap trying to catch the tiny flying devils which were biting her smooth young Doberman hide asunder.

Keeper, dressed in midge net safari hat and looking like Sheik Yamoney, making matters worse by trying to swat the midges on Dingo's back with a rolled up copy of The Scotsman. Poor Dingo fought with her instinct to bite keeper for hitting her and her natural good nature to trust him as her keeper.

Aye, we made really good progress up through the Central Belt and over the Forth Bridge past Stirling and Perth and onto the A9 to slice up through the perpetually chilly Cairngorms. We stopped several times along the way to make wee diversions along the country lanes ( to have wee wees )where we saw some fine sights. The traditional Scottish sheep in their summer coats
and also some pre-packed John West produce jumping around making the most of their lives before being stacked on a Tesco shelf by some night shift retiree ( a trip to Scottie would not be the same without a glimpse of the leaping salmon would it ? )
And Wow, Buff and I didn't know whether to attack or cower in fear at the sight of the feathered king of the Highlands atop a rotting tree. we decided the latter course of action might be the wiser.
Further along the way keeper slammed on the brakes and we picked up a straggling canine hitch hiker wandering along the verge looking worse for wear. He shuffled into the back with us three and Dingo instantly made friends and settled him down to rest. Keeper called him Piebald, some strange cross between a Lakeland Sheepdog and a Jack Russell. We dropped him at Inverness animal sanctuary and made jolly sure Piebald got a bowl of Pedigree Chum and a good basket for the night.

Doubling back up to Aviemore near the Cairngorm mountains, we went up to the Base Station at over 2000 ft where keeper disappeared into the Gents for quite a while, on some secret photo mission he mentioned to some puzzled passer by. Afterwards he put us all on our leashes and we trundled off along a high level path that soon took us into the remote Cairngorm fastnesses. At once we stumbled upon a sight so grand and strange and weird as we had never clapped eyes on before. A real mc coy Highland Wild Cat! Squatting two feet tall and staring straight back at us - keeper reached for his camera and I instinctively ran on towards him, stretching my elasticated leash to the max.
" COME BACK CATHEAD" keeper shouted anxiously. I wriggled through the heather right up to him. What a big bonny creature, he just sat there bolt upright, staring, staring, staring, wild eyes dilated

I soon realized the reason for my instinctive lurch forward - the implants were activating again. I stopped short of this big burly bruiser and my doctored cat mind melded with the wildcat's.

Oh, the things he had seen and had had handed down in his gene pool by his relatives, present and ancient past. Those dreadful Highland clearences of the 18th & 19th centuries that today would be called ethnic cleansing, when thousands of crofting families were evicted and forced to leave the land so as some noble lord could boast his sheep.

Those two poor scouts who lost their ways in a snowstorm in the 1930s after an expedition into the heart of the Cairngorms. They struggled down a corrie ( An t Schneada ) but the storm was so severe with the blizzard blowing against them, they didn't make it back. Their bodies were only discovered two months later despite several search parties, when the thawing snow exposed them and they were both found to have thick breast plates of ice frozen to their chests through torn Tweed jackets, formed by their body heat melting the snow blowing against them as they ran and re-freezing when they died. Their bodies were covered in cuts and bruises where they had stumbled down the corrie in the darkness, bashing against rocks and boulders in their vain frantic panic to reach the pine forest and safety.

I recognize the place where they descended down from the corrie to their deaths by the stream from the wildcat's mind legacy; from one of keepers pictures

Oh so much else was in this beautiful creature's mind, too much to tell here, but ended on a funny note when I sensed his impression about the present invasion of Scotland by the English, escaping stress of city life and using their easy money from house price rises down south to fund their country cottage and new lifestyle. Wildcat thought

" Hordes of the multitude cometh, all in search of solitude "

and " They aint lived through a Scottish winter yey! That'll soon have em tail between legs back to southern softie land"

Ha, what a character Wildcat was but keeper sensed danger as he seemed to know that this huge wild feral could snap the good Catheads neck at any time and he yanked me back by the throat by the leash. Boing! back sprung Cathead. The wildcat had seemed hypnotized by my approach but now he bolted back over the dun brown heather beds and away like a dot across the glacial morraine & up into the corrie.

Towards the end of the trip keeper again fell for another Bloater Chops diversion and drove 65 miles out of our way to visit his " Highland Castle " for which he had given keeper a key and directions to find, near Kingussie. . . .
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" Now that is what I call taking the rise" muttered keeper " never again ".
Well I should think not Michael, I thought. I know its a human characteristic for folk to always be surprising one, but most folk on this planet are really not worth knowing if you are a gentle helping soul like my keeper. There must be a way for the good to rise to the top in the stead of the scum without becoming embittered?

Cathead is working on it.

Meantime a couple more SO Scottish pics to keep you happy before keeper and us are off on yet another voyage -this time to zee land des Frogs.

C. Ya
CATHEAD

Soon after, keeper took this pic of the performing bagpiper blowing his heart out for pennies in Glen Coe. Surrounded as he was by disgorged coachloads of retired snowheads, the piper looked orgasmically blood-pressured redface as if about to explode into fifty pieces and scatter across the heather-clad hillsides. I suspected that he was a performing android, keeping the Scottish economy going 24/7. How could a human in the same capacity keep piping away for hours with the midges flying under his kilt? Not possible is it? I looked for a big clockwork key jutting from his back but there was none. Puzzling that.

Typical genteel Highlanders' pastimes. Roaming in the gloaming, kilted up and eagle-spotting. A dram to hand in the concealed hip flask then back to the Button Ben for High Tea and you're as Scottish as you can get. We drab English can only aspire to such idyllic lifestyle. Impressive or what!

Comments

Dingo was hovering over me, staring down rather concerned at my strange posture in the basket. No playtime today my young Doberman friend. I'm out to lunch mate.

The human DNA implants that I unwillingly and unwittingly received as a kitten are integrating more and more as time goes by, into my cat original. My feliney makeup and DNA structure is morphing into something strange. I can feel my cat skull plate bones creaking with pressure like the hull of a submarine out of its depth and slowly sinking. Along with the physical effects come the psychic realizations.

This one that started during my cat kip early this morning and continuing through daylight hours, is all about LAD ( life after death ). LAD is, in itself something of a misnomer because all that dies is the body form. Onwards forwards goes the soul of the departed into the astral world which is in itself, paradoxically, seperate and yet connected to this physical one. The astral world forces this world to exist by dint of a cascading gushing in of spiritual water. It was this deafening Niagra-like roar that at first got my paws up over my bat ears.

And the sights, my god.

The departed ones getting the shocks of their lives upon realizing they are dead ( the ultimate contradiction in terms ). The jolt to the human ego is so severe that their only respite is to resurrect the memories of their lives just lived through, with fond recollections of the people and places that were close to them in life. So it goes that the afterlife for most folk comprises reliving back through of experiences from earth, through imagination. So the mind also as well as the energy or astral body stays intact after physical death.

No more important a transition this, in reality than taking off your overcoat and hanging it on a peg. But it's made a big deal if you humans get very attached to that overcoat. Then there is the madness of lametation and grief. Ahh, the human condition it takes a brain-doctored cat to see!

During this living through in imagination, the soul is located in the astral world suspended above the earth ( in low earth orbit you might say ) although normally NO WAY can he or she be aware of the splendour and bliss of that world in itself because of fear and preoccupation with living through stuff from earthly life just gone.
This situation is commonly known as Heaven or Hell and are purely subjective states, not places.

Because the physical body is gone, the impact of the mind on the energy body or astral body becomes 10 times more intense than back on earth. And unlike earth, where there are drink and drugs etc to blot out the mind's honest effect, there is here no escape from its direct influence. One is forced to confront one's earthly behaviour frame by frame. So either a previous "good" life or a previous "bad" life are lived through in either the heaven or hell state depending on the balance or aggregate preponderance of good or bad in the person's being.

This living through is not without meaning because valuble lessons are gleaned from these vivid cinema scenes from ones own life. These reliving experiences evoked from the unconscious are very real-looking and sounding for the soul, like a virtual reality construct that one undergoes in a lucid dream. In fact it can be said that afterlife resembles ( barring exceptions) waking up fully conscious within your dreams.

( Exceptions being more developed humans who have lived through many more lifetimes and who are therefore already wiser and have therefore lived a spiritually seeking life. For them, a different and much happier longterm afterdeath existence is organized for them. )

So the average human, generally speaking cannot return to earth without being a changed and wiser person, ready for the next life experiment.

After exhausting the compulsion element of the energy in memory, which takes, in earthly timescale ten times as short as the length of life he/she has just lived out because of the aforementioned 10 times of intensity of reliving in the astral due to no protective physical body being present( 6 years for a 60yr old ); the person floats around in the astral only gradually descending back to earth with one sense of incompleteness left over; that of isolation.

Being alone as an ordinary human suspended spirit is not normal or pleasant and the natural base instinct of the depleted soul goads it towards human society again and the human wanders the earth as the spirit of an unborn child looking for new parents. The lonesome suspended human spirit hovers around compatable men and women who are hooked up as young couples ready to reproduce. The human spirit instinctively knows the only way back into the physical world for him/her is to get into a pregnant female's womb. This influence of unborn spirits is the factor in the loneliness and sexual frustration of the incarnated virile male and the aching incompleteness and baby/nest making instinct of the incarnated female.

We are all influenced by thousands of spirits around us. They can however only influence or at extreme worst ( rarely) possess us, if we are on a compatable wavelength. The ones who need to possess are the spirits of suicides who have a voracious need to fulfill unspent desires which they themselves cut short, through the bodies of others. These are mostly spririts of bad people who committed some wicked deed then killed themselves. The good spirits who committed suicide seek help from the enlightened ones who are always on earth to help. So always best to aim for the angelic side of things, then we receive knowledge and goodness from the angels. I saw the realms of those demigods of old and what a sight! I will go into those higher worlds in future Cathead blogs.

You all know that cats see spirits?

The angels or agents, suffice to say here, are the spiritual civil service in charge of creation and specifically this world. Some are light and some are dark angels with specific offices or allocated departmental jobs and functions. However their typical condition, as pure souls uncontaminated by physical desires, is their total immersion in happiness due to their constant remembrance of God's name and they autonomously carry out the divine will on earth.

So the spirit of the unborn child which is nothing more than compulsion energy memory-depleted soul of the person from another life, worms into the womb of a pregnant woman after the 3rd month and enlivens the foetus and lays there in hiding, something like the Alien, waiting for rebirth. During this time in the womb, the unborn child remembers several of its previous lifetimes and in so doing remembers another lost instinct, to pray to God for deliverence from its piteable condition trapped within the womb. The unborn child, seeing its mistakes from the past, promises to devote a good and pure life to the service of the Lord if he/she escapes the dreadful confinement (and the abortionist's wheel) to once again strut their stuff in the physical world. Alas, when they are free and grown, they forget all about their time of repentance in the womb with all that " religous rubbish" and carry on with their mischief for another life.

That newborn child is a person with a long history coming back with a clean mental slate into the world after having died a few years ago. So, human ladies of womens' rights persuasion, remember well the words of Cathead - and whether you do actually have the right to choose abortion, because who has the right to take anothers life? After 8 or 10 weeks there is another living human being there along with you.

BIRTH!
That newborn sprog gurgling in swaddling was in all probability crippled over in arthritic agony in a soft armchair in some flesh rot stink of an old folks' home not 10 years ago.

And you know what did it for me in these realizations? What caused the hapless Cathead to keep his white cotton sock paws up over his bat ears? It was that tormenting cry of the baby when born. For you will, as I did, recoil in shock and your own realization of when you were born, of the awful truth behind that nerve grating high pitched full on wailing.

You humans as newborns are crying because you know that you are losing forever those treasured memories of loved ones from your previous life. You have had to let go of them, all your children, your wife, husband, mother or father or friends from the last life. Instinctively the newborn baby knows this new life, incarnated in a new body and with a new brain, is being flooded with new experiences, new parents etc which is rapidly blotting out those memories left over from the last life of all those who were near and dear to him or her.

Ring any bells?

My own collared was tinkering away as I shook with awe at these realizations. . . . .

" CATHEAD ! Come get dinner! " cried keeper from the kitchen. That lovely metallic sound of the can opener grinding apart the top of the tin of Felix gets me & Buffy up and bounding through every time.

How instinct-driven we all are at heart, even right down to a tin of catfood.

" JEEZ Cathead! Are you OK? You look freaked, man, you look like you've just seen a ghost " retorted my keeper as he poured out some cat biscuit dessert on the formica topboard, stood back and clickFLASH! green-eyed me again.

Well several actually and "man" huh? He doesn't know the half of it.

later
CATHEAD

PS Keeper has just said we all need a holiday - not the Bloater Chops variety either. So he is packing now for an early start tomorrow. Dingo is leaping about the house all an excited slobber and wag.

Wish me luck at keeping my cat head on whilst away. (Beginning to feel like a kind of Dr Jeckell and Mr Werecat) Dare say I'll have loads of cranky black hilarity to share with you on return.
Miss you all, look after yourselves.

LATER
Cathead

Comments

That I have "Green Eye" instead is freaking me out and has my little cat brain all in a whirl and a tizzy wondering what those bastards back at the animal lab did to me. I have red blood I know, but not in my cat head it seems.. . . .

Can somebody call a vet please.

And please don't laugh at the picture - no it's not cat porn and it's not funny for little me either.

yours
CATHEAD

PS At least the catflesh-white shaven patch of cat bonce & nose from HELLS BELLS 2 and A TRIP OF A LIFETIME is starting to grow back ( see pic).

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Keeper is often plagued by these dark-clad denizens of the high street. He parks up for one minute on a single yellow to collect his dry cleaning. No car ticket slapper in sight ( he checks well, scanning carefully about). He returns, arms full of swinging polythened trousers and jackets to find the accursed yellow square on the windscreen. Or worse the dreaded padlocked yellow triangle of steel on a wheel.

So Cathead's GLM no 3 is how do these artful street dodgers manage to pop up out of nowhere? Not once but every time. Do they have the macabre ability to materialize out of thin air when no one's looking? Or do they simply hide up alleyways like 2-legged capped rats? Cathead will have to put his psychic abilities into overdrive to fathom this one.

One thing Cathead says is for sure. With all that tramping the streets all day long they sure as hell aint got no sole.

Cathead's GLM4 Wimbledon Roof

Every year keeper & I yawn at the gogglebox at the familiar sight of the Wimbledon covers being pulled on and off and on again then off again by gangs of schoolboys in shorts, like some theatrical farce. Because surprise surprise, every year in June ( the stormy season) it absoloutely hisses it down in SW19.

Wimbledon is the WORLD CAPITAL OF TENNIS. The All England Tennis Club's annual receipts from television and gates runs into hundreds of millions of squids! Yet the pompous scrimping cheapskates still don't get a roof built over No. 1 Court. This is miserly upper class shareholder Englishness at it's "best" and certainly a great mystery that has me pulling my fur out. Leading us swiftly on to. . . .

cATHEADS GLM5
2012 Olympic bid winner. . .LONDON!!
Yes the city that can't even get it together to build a roof over their world centre of tennis!

The city that is years behind and three times over budget on their new world-famous Wembley football stadium. The city with a totally inadequate and creaking to overflowing transport infrastructure and a site for the main drug-enhanced performance stadium sited in the middle of an illegal ethnic wild east of rubbish heaps and dereliction, over which proudly presides the now weed- infested Millenium Dome. ( remember that hyped-up taxpayers money-laundering scam; well we aint seen nothing yet.)
TB's New Labour friends will again be queing up with salivating wallets to be handed the building & hospitality contracts.)

Yeah! We can do it! But it's certainly a great life mystery how we are going to do it English AND well.

7 years of Olympic media hype! Great excuse to SWITCH OFF the goddam lie box, keeper.

yours
CATHEAD

Comments

Well something similar happened to our entire family equipe yesterday. Keeper was busying himself with some small sissors and a Lady Bic, snipping away and shaving the hard shiny streaks of wood varnish-locked fur from my cat head and bod' whilst muttering to himself.

" Jeez H. Christ, the scrapes these animals get into, it's like having a shoal of babies " Shoal? I thought - he's had too many late nights he has. " KEEP STILL Cathead!"

DING DONG! went the Avon chimes. Keeper discarded the tools and sprang up to his feet. I gazed down at the heap of bitty black pieces of what looked like shiny liquorice on the bathroom tiles. I sauntered through to our hallway, sensing a light breeze from an opened front door. But contained within the airflow was that all-too familiar tangy stink.

I looked up to greet the wide presence of Mr Bloater Chops himself at the doorway, still in "Outfit 2",( the black track suit bottoms and rude red split XXXXXL T shirt), talking softly to my keeper. Jostling his big beefy palms, he toyed with a small jingly collar. Oh no! It's back!
Obviously keeper had ensconsed an ID tag with address at some point on the leather neck ring and BC had tracked me down. I ventured nearer the door and promptly jacked up my batty cat ears to listen in.

" . . .yeah, like I found your cat's collar on my back lawn yesterday, just thought I'd call round with it & check to see if he's ok. . . " BC droned on, smalltalk-wise.
" Oh that's good of you, may I ask your name? "
" Derek" replied BC.
Yes that is good of you, I thought-raged, especially considering you chucked a tin of varnish at me yesterday.
By now the Doberman pup Dingo and Buffy were peering up from the hallway. BC looked in past keeper's shoulder,
" Oh look, how sweet! You know I'm such an animal lover too. Where did you get this happy little bunch? And what happened to the wee black one's head?" he pretend-concern queried. For he knew darned well what the long white streak of cat flesh down one side of my cat head was all about.
" It's a long story" replied keeper. There followed an awkward silence. . ." Ah well, thanks for your generosity Derek"

Keeper was about to close the door, obviously dying to get away from the gross sight and smell of the slovenly hovel-dweller when Bloater Chops piped up again quite smartish as a verbal foot in the door.

" I was kinda wondering Michael, whether you'd like to spend a day at my country retreat in Oxfordshire. It's some pile I inherited from my grandmother. Detached and in three acres of landscaped grounds, there is an air conditioned guests' annexe alongside for you all to stay. . . . anytime you like in future; F. O. C.!" BC said, grinning a yellow smile, " Free....Of.....Charge! " he continued, emphasizing each word slowly.

Keeper hesitated. . " Oh go on" said BC " I don't have a car and this would be the only chance I get to see my country residence this year."
Keeper eyed this gravity victimTM and perfect vision of decadence up and down while kneading his chin.
I was already shaking my head and trying to telepath him. . .NO NO NO N O! " YOU HAVEN'T SEEN WHERE HE LIVES!
And it was true, he hadn't. And on that basis along with an overdeveloped sense of compassion towards downtrodden creatures, keeper agreed to BC's dodgy proposal. I watched him tramp back in from the door after arranging time & place to pick BC up. He knew he had made a mistake, his head was down and his mood turned quiet and sombre.

So up like larks we all sprang next morn' and keeper crammed us three pets in the back seat. Two in cat boxes and one slobbering excitedly over the back of the driver's seat headrest. Dingo's lively wagging tail thumped rythmically against the plastic wall of my cat carrier.

We drove around the corner to meet BC.
" He lives THERE?!" said my keeper to himself as he pulled up. Too late now, I thought. I sensed a gloomy doomy kind of day ahead.

BC came a'"jogging" down his dandelion-erupted pathway, all a gigantic bounce, pivoted around the bonnet with one hand and landed in the passenger seat with a low thud, out of breath. The front end of the car depressed a foot lower than the driver's side, sagging with a metallic groan and sinking down to its lowest suspension extent. "
Well howdy Mike & Co, lovely morning isn't it?" he said, breathlessly.
" Yes it's set fair today" apparently, keeper replied.

BC had splashed what smelt like some poor imitation Brut ( Brute?) aftershave all over him in a futile attempt to mask the foul body stench. So he was at least aware on that front.
" Yeah, sorry about the slight pong, my water heater packed up last week "
We three pets' noses were all a' twitch. Dingo looked decidedly morose all of a sudden, her ears flopping and she fell to a sulk on the seat.
" Right then", exclaimed BC, clapping his lardy hands " Let's get this show on the road".

So off we went, slowly at first as keeper was wary of damage to the left front suspension. His driving posture seemed to cringe evey time the car went over a pothole. Bloater Chops, meantime, filling half the car with his berth was savouring the journey. We had to stop around ten times on the N. Circular, M40 & A road to Bicester in order to replenish BC with bacon sarnies, sausage rolls, crisps, Mars bars and Diet Coke -he just couldn't pass a greasy spoon or garage. Keeper was getting vexed. All windows were down and all vents on full bore fresh air-blast throughout.

BC grunted out directions. " Left here. . .no right. "Turn around here" " It's your next left". Until finally we arrived.

So this is your grand inheritance?" said keeper.
"Yep" said BC. " Gated as well. How's that for style?
"Yeah great" replied keeper. " A real Des' Res'."
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Keeper let us out, took a couple of snaps for posterity, put Buff & I on our elasticated leashes and unclasped the esteemed gate ( dented farm gate). He shuffled over the dry dusty track to the buildings cursing to himself; BC struggling on behind, all huffing and puffing, " Mind the broken glass ".

Dingo sniffed about a bit, but wasn't exactly enthralled by this prefab slum collection. No food around here for a while. Buffy crept along, turning her nose up at all she smelt. I sat and surveyed the site unblinkingly then bounded along on the stretched elastic and sat again. Keeper kicked gravel and loose stones in disgust and slouched into one of the buildings. We followed. After twenty seconds Derek entered.. " Well help yourselves to the deckchairs chaps" he smiled. " I'm getting the roof on next month, funds are a bit tight just now."
"Yes, sure" relpied keeper.
I raised my half-bald cat head and stared unblinkingly up into a mackerel sky where the ceiling should have been. Well at least he was right about the air conditioning bit, I thought.
" Like yeah," BC continued, "the old lollipops harder to come by these days. . . . don't suppose you could lend us a grand for essential works Mike?"
" Erm no" said keeper, softly .. " and by the way, the cost of your essential works here would run into hundreds of grands and would have to include demolition charges."
Bloater C. for once seemed taken aback and scratched his fat cow head, saying nothing.
Keeper paused. . . "Well Derek, you described it perfectly. Your "pile ".
" Knew you'd like it" replied BC in all spivvy seriousness.

The journey back was undertaken in silence. BC excelled himself by pissing his pants, soaking the seat and nearly flooding the front passenger footwell, as we couldn't get to a garage in time.

See how the generous of this world suffer? Keeper has been badly affected, he's in a dark depression just now.

Oh yes, a day to remember, definitely. And I got my little jingly bell back into the bargain.

yours
CATHEAD

Comments

. . .I started to fight back against the grey onslaught and as I did so, the adrenelin rush sparked a new resource in my ongoing morphing from cat to something cat/human, with the animal lab's implant human DNA fusing in my cat brain.

The chaotic fighting picture in front of my eyes began to slow

.

right

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.

.

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down.

Instead of Kevin's paws with extended claws being all of a blur, they appeared to move in slow motion, along with my movements of defence too, yet my super fast cat reactions remained the same in real time. So I could telegraph his lunging bites and swipes by reacting much sooner, instead of when the blows were almost upon me.

So I blocked all his scratchy swipes and dodged all his cat nips by everything appearing slowed up as in something you might experience in a dream.

Kevin reacted furiously at not being able to land even one scratch or bite or kick. The big old feral was probably undefeated in cat battle and this stymie with his next door neighbour Cathead was doing his head in. He speeded up the street-fighting movements, but I continued to see his offensive moves well in advance and still parried and dodged well in time. He grew tired and stopped to back off, breathless and tongue-distended. He stared puzzlingly for one second, caught his breath and with one gigantic screech charged me for all he was worth, as in something from an old Kung Fu film.

Kevin led with one kicking leg outstretched in mid-flight like some feline Bruce Lee. I simply ducked and as the grey form whizzed over my cat head I sprang up with all my might, connected with his underbelly and Kevin took off like an Easyjet eight feet in the air, where he soared all a twisty turny 20 feet in distance to land. . .to land. . .. I turned my cat head, looking up unblinkingly. . . to land. . . SMACK ! ~right bang against his keeper's mammoth belly! Kev dropped to the long grass, dazed.

For Bloater Chops had emerged from his dark hovel to check out the screetch-and-tinkle commotion and stood scowling with hands on wide blubbery hips at the end of his sad garden, like some distorted hall of mirrors Jack of the beanstalk.

" Who the hell are you, you little black bastard " he growled like Blackbeard. Kevin had gotten to his paws and was cowering in shock between his keeper's thick feet, licking a bruised hind leg. BC picked up a rusted old half empty tin of Conseal wood varnish from amongst the tangled rabbit weed and hurled it at me. I turned on my heels and jumped up to our fence -my escape route home. As I did so, the tin crashed against the wood and a few splashes of the clear lacquer splattered out onto my shimmery little cat back and head.

" I hope it does exactly what it says on the tin and stays on forever you little sh.t " was BC's charming parting shot as I dropped back down onto our lawn. I cantered back and through the flap, safely home except. . . where was that familiar tinkle tinkle little bell as I walked? The collar! It must have come off in the affray.

I checked myself in my keeper's bathroom mirror this morning and along with tiny blood clots at odd bite/scratch points on my head, ears and body; off to one side on top of my cat bonce there is now a long large streak of shine, like clear plastic, where the Conseal has set solid into the fur.

What will keeper make of this, plus minus the collar treat he has only just bought? Well at least I'm shot of that goddam poncy little tinkerbell. ( Buffy is curled in the corner now, giving my shiny new head a funny look).

Regards
CATHEAD

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" Ahh there you are you two " keeper smiled . . " nice timing ". He crouched down, holding the two collars and it was then that we noticed. . . .
" tinkle tinkle tinkle " went the two attached cute wee sleigh bells. This engaged Buffy's curiosity and she wandered up to keeper and sniffed the new leather of the collar. Keeper siezed the opportunity and swiftly buckled the strap around her sweet throat. Buffy pranced away, all a Tinkerbell ring tones.

I wasn't too keen on this.

" Come Cathead", keeper half spoke/ half whispered, shaking the bell'd collar and with a "psss psss" and snapping fingers, " come get your new pressie".

Ah well I thought, I may as well play along with his silly game. Can't say I was ever enthralled by the idea of wearing a stupid cat bell around me for heavens sake. I'm not some Swiss cow in an Alpine meadow ~so what's the big deal?

I pawed up to him in resignation, offering my neck for the collar. And hey presto, it's the amazing new jingle bells Cathead! Great. It was a metallic blue bell, to match the collar. Buffy's was pink and she did look great with it actually, her feline femininity enhanced. But the macho Cathead? Don't think so. I'm not some pampered inbred house cat, I'm an adventurous mongrel-moggie fresh air fiend.
Cat bell Cathead? Don't put me on.

My big mistake was to choose as my first belled-up excursion, a sorte over to Bloater Chop's manse, the first time I'd ventured there since seeing him en-flagrante with a rusty bed and some house flies back in May. This time I circled around the front to have a look in his living quarters. As luck would have it, BC had finished his cellar work-outs and was crashed out, laying sprawled half on & half hanging off a prehistoric collapsed setee in his grubby lounge.

I was stationed in his front weed farm, amongst some dog daisies, gazing in through the pane of a window a quarter opened on a toilet flush-dirty sash cord, the glass rendered semi-opaque by a donky's years build-up of layers of industrial and vehicle pollutants and internal dust and grime ~and god knows what from the blubber-bound occupant himself. Compounded by an obvious absence of window cleaner-attention over the past 30 years.

The lounge was quite spacious, with a high artexed ceiling, the corners covered in dark motes. It was sparsely furnished, with just the skip-ready settee loaded with the bulk of BC, who was watching television whilst munching away on some Wotsits. Crumbs cascaded down over the barrel belly and onto the floor, where stood at arm's length a half-drunk 2 litre plastic bottle of Diet Coke. The television was a beat-up little black and white 14- inch with a twisted metal coat hanger sticking out. It sat on two old milk crates piled in the middle of the room on a threadbare food-encrusted rug. One single unshaded bulb hung from the ceiling on a long flex.

This time the fashion guru was clad in max-expanded elasticated Adidas tracksuit
bottoms and a red charity shop XXXXXL T shirt with a worn slogan " I choked Linda Lovelace" emblazened across. The T shirt had been sissored on one side up to within 2 inches of the armpits to accomodate the titanic BC berth, so an ample amount of a white flesh lava flow of flab flopped out to one side. The few days of unshaven facial hair and tangled sweaty dark rug on top remained consistent from my previous visit.

Bloater C took a giant swig from the coke bottle and, remarkably sprightly-like, rolled off the couch whilst propping himself with one log of an arm on one end and grunted up onto his feet all in one movement . 30 stone of body up in one. My cat eyes widened, unblinkingly. Impressive! Now where was he going. He thumped and waddled along the lounge foor, bowing the creaking boards as he went, arms forced outwards by his bulk. He opened a rickety door through into the hallway and struggled into the gloom; returning after a minute swinging something from his right hand. I zoomed in -and blinked. For there, in his wide fat grasp were the two hind legs of the grey feral who had attacked Abigail, my next-door neighbour's beloved pet only a few weeks ago. The ragged long-haired grey was hanging upside down and BC began to swing him like a feline pendulum across the room whilst flexing his giant legs in tandem as if doing some kind of grotesque dance routine. For a horrible second I thought the cat was dead, but no, he was actually relaxed and seemed to be quite enjoying the ride, front legs outstretched. Obviously this had been part of BC's routine with the cat for some time. I assumed the scraggy feral was his pet.

" There we go Kevin " said BC, swinging the cat even higher "you love it; you absoloutely love it"
The scraggle started meeeowing contentedly as he swung upside down in midair.. . ." I don't know", said Bloater Chops, as if reciting lines in a play, " there's just no room to swing a cat in here". He then proceeded to break into song. . .
" Oh would you like to swing on a star,
Carry moonbeams home in a jar,
Or are you better off as you are,
Or would you rather be a pig?

A pig is an animal with dirt on his face
. . . ."

BC stopped himself short in some uncomfortable realization, then piped up again with some other durge from the distant past.

Well this bizarre ritual continued for a good ten minutes until BC let the critter down on the floor where " Kevin" sauntered off back into the hallway again as if nothing had happened and BC did a kind of reverse replay of his up movement, back down across the collapsed couch and continued to watch his black and white snooker.
"And for those of you watching in black and white, the pink is just behind the yellow" droned the commentator.
" Ah Ha ", grunted BC. He scrunched up the snack packet and tossed it behind him over the couch to join the other interesting assortment of bits & pieces of discardation that had laid scattered across the floor since time immemorial.

Weird city! Isolation definitely has a distorting effect on the single human male mind.

The smell of summer grasses, herbs, pollens and weeds were having a soothing effect on my cat head and I decided after chewing on some sweet blades of fresh grass to have a little cat-nap whilst basking in the warm sun & shade - maybe crunch on a nice shiny beetle or earwig or two - before going home. On awakening I arched my black cat back and s t r e t c h e d my front legs out and commenced to mongoose-jump through & over the tall weeds and wild roses to reach the fence of our back garden. I had bounded three or four leaps before I realized my mistake. The bell, the bloody >>bell! It jingled away merrily as I jumped and the sound must have carried as far as BCs cat-flapped kitchen door because. . .

At the end of his garden, at my jumping-off point onto the fence back home, loomed the substantial bulk of BC's long-haired grey feral, now fully recovered from any vertigo and giving a good impression of a steam train standing in a station. Hssssssss.

Before I could take in the shock, Kevin was on me, swiping and scrabbling away with his sturdy front feet and dirty sharp claws, just as he had done to the trapped Abigail. He was very strong. My cat eyes were full of grey blur with the odd quick glimpse of snarl and general nastiness. Cat screech abounded as we quick-time rolled and scrapped about in the brambles and nettles. He was saying, in his way, "you're on my f...ing patch Cathead, now pay the price". Ouch, that HURT. Biting, scratching, onto my nose and ears. I had to respond quickly. The shock triggered my human DNA-implanted brain into overdrive. My perception shifted and I began to fight back. . . .

I'll recount the rest of this little episode in my next. Must rush from the keyboard -keeper has just turned key in the front door.

see ya.
CATHEAD

Comments

The other evening our keeper was slouched dozing in the armchair, half watching some soap sludge on the tragic lantern, when the Avon chimes rang out. Struggling to his feet he waded through into the hallway and swung open the door to greet the night - ziltch. No one. My keeper shrugged his shoulders and sat back down. Immediately DING DONG. Repeat step 1.

This farce continued for ten minutes until an infuriated keeper squeezed past my lookout post/ chest of drawers to lean over, pull back the nets and glance out sideways to the doorstep, illumined from the hall through the door's leaded lights. I joined him in this whacky vigil, atop my tassled cushion on the drawers. After a minute the oddest sight transpired.

The "cripple" Buffy appeared on the step and sprang the full 5 feet up to the white bell button on the door jam and, in mid-flight, jabbed it with her right paw - DING DONG - before twisty-turny falling on her feet and scarpering quickly under the nearby bushes.

"The cheeky little madam" commented my keeper, " I wonder where she learnt that trick". I cat sniggered in the disguise of sniffles.

The next morning our keeper was standing in the kitchen, busy grilling some toast, whistling away to himself in some jolly mood. He was wearing his rather tatty blue towelling dressing gown, tied closed at the waist. He is quite attached to that old robe because some ex-girlfriend called it his " huggy bear suit". Sad the way human males cling desperately onto lost loves. Some mother issues there, me thinks.

I was looking up at him pleadingly, unblinkingly, and giving him a now-and-again short meeow from my squat on the tiles, half-expecting a corner piece of the Allinsons to fall like manna from heaven when done ( to a blackened crisp, as usual ). Suddenly, flashing across my unblinking vision at human chest height, like some mini trapeze artist in full flight and all a blur, was the open-legged outstretched form of a cat who had sprung from atop the upright fridge-freezer standing 6ft across the tiles.

Next thing a truly terrible piercing human scream of agony filled the kitchen as I witnessed the cat - now indentified as that rascal Buffy - stuck onto my keeper's blue back like spidercat and as if by superglue. Only I knew that she was clinging on by four sets of razor sharp bird-killers, sunk like drawing pins through the huggy bear suit and into keeper's delicate back skin. There followed another blur, this time of blue towelling as keeper swung violently around, cursing and spitting as he instinctively tried to shake off the 4 X 4 sharp surprise attack.

Buffy flew again, this time downwards and out of the kitchen to land awkwardly with an thud on the living room carpet. She scuttled under a table in the corner and gazed back up in shock.

" Oh God, it's you Buffy! " lamented keeper. ." Oh God I'm so sorry baby, I didn't realize."

She had twisted her left hind leg on landing and later on was transported to the vets for a check-up. Luckily it was only a bad bruise. So she has lately been sharing basket with the good Cathead, who spends most of the night licking the sore leg until the tortoise shell fur is saliva wet, flattened and of a darker shade. Buffy stares meaningfully back into my eyes and licks my cat head, especially the lump on the top of my cat skull left behind by the drilling at the animal lab.

I'm sure she knows I'm not all cat you know, ok she's affectionate in her way, but there is a slight waryness there still, and she cannot outstare me I notice. She's still a little freaked from the kitchen incident, which I sense has re-triggered trauma memory of the abuse she received as a kitten.

Time and Cathead will heal but

I think her days of imitating circus acts are over.

Yours
CATHEAD

Comments

He was crying on the phone to a friend this morning and the house has a strange smell which had us trio of pets all twitching our noses in uncertainty about its origin and nature.

Keeper was sobbing away on the blower describing his trip out to Hampstead yeaterday and as he was driving along some narrow, parked car-lined road by the Royal Free hospital witnessed the car in front of him roll over a black cat that sprinted out into the road from under one of the parked up cars.

He stopped and walked back to retrieve the unlucky creature, to find it dead on the spot. It was a scraggly old male with no collar -a virtual stray. Perhaps his life was so rough he had decided to end it all in a cat suicide.

Now my keeper is a strange sort with some funny ideas sometimes. He related how he had picked up the dead cat and put it in a Tesco carry bag, brought it home and wrapped the little body in three layers of black plastic bin liner secured round with sellotape to try to keep out the stench of rotting cat.

He put the cat mummy on a makeshift altar in a little room up in the attic that he uses as a store. There he has installed some incense and candles and a picture of baby Jesus above.

I know this because I followed him upstairs as he carried the dark package on outstretched hands as if in some funeral ceremony, slowly, deliberately, into the room.

I peered up, unblinkingly, from the top of the staircase as he placed the black shiny package on the improvised wooden shelf altar and started chanting on some rosary beads. . . "Oh dear Lord, please take care of this little soul, who no one cared about in life and deliver him to peace and rest. In your holy name, Amen"

Well I was flabaghasted by this display of strange animal religous rights and for a second thought my keeper had lost the plot. But as my eyes settled on the little black form on the wooden shelf-come altar, my psychic DNA-doctored mind tripped in and I saw a little blue light hovering over the wrapped body. It was the dear soul of my little dead brother. And I sensed he was happy.

My keeper went on to relate on the phone about how they do say the soul -animal or human- lingers around his/her dead body for up to three days after death before going on to heaven. During that time prayer helps the departed one, as do positive thoughts about them, he said. I would have thought he'd been staying up too late eating chocolate cookies with his Buddhist books had I not seen that floating dot of electra blue.

But I shouldn't really criticize my good keeper, for it was his compassion and decency and daring that got tiny kitty me rescued from my cage of hell in that horrible experiment lab' and away from those sadistic sub-human scientists.

Yours
CATHEAD

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