On-line Dating ~ for cats – The Reply

For humans reading this:-

This blog post  ‘On-line Dating ~ for cats – ‘The Reply’  is a response to a feline ‘approach’ from an admirer called Neurotic Cat, (who is the owner of Mrs.P & Beloved).  Who wrote a letter of love to one of my cats : Alfie  ‘Two Toes’  Capone.  If you haven’t read the loving advances of Neurotic Cat,  you can find them on Mrs. P’s blog: Craft Odyssey .  You might want to read Neurotic Cats blog post before you read my own cats reply so that it all makes sense to you.

I hope that this is as much fun for you to read, as it was for me to type.

Of course,  all that you are about to read was dictated to me directly by Mr. Capone himself.  I am merely his personal assistant,  or, as he calls me:  ‘his servament’ ~ . . .  ~ C ❤ bs.

I now hand you over to Mr. Capone – all HIS own words.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Alf Capone’s reply to Neurotic Cat.

Neurotic Cat,  Princess,  …

Your profile has piqued my interest, as has the photograph of you flashing your tummy!

I feel I should let you know somethings about the real ‘me’.  The REAL Alf Capone.  So find yourself a comfy spot and I shall begin;

I was born at an early stage in my life and have now attained the grand age of 4 in human years.  However in cat years I’m now in my prime and aged 35.**

I’m built along the lines of a small Puma,  and stand approximately 38cm (15″) from floor to top of shoulder.

Can you see my snowy  white shirt peeping out of my Tux?

I have a luxurious black fur coat and wear a tuxedo which reveals a hint of white shirt on my muscley chest.

My nickname, ‘Two Toes’,  relates to me having two white toes on my (left) back foot, and was given to me by my human family of ‘servaments’ (servants) when I moved in at 8 weeks old.

See my two white toes?

As I matured I developed kleptomaniac tendencies, often returning home with purloined goods from the neighbourhood, including cat toys, socks, bread rolls, meat from barbeques, long strips of silicon sealant – which I resolutely refuse to divulge where I obtain it from,  and leaving them all as surprise gifts at Mrs. Cobs feet.

I am also a trained Assassin.  Bringing home various dead bodies . . .  of shrews, mice, rats, and even a large, stupid bird, which I later found out was called a pigeon, whose corpse I stashed under Mrs. Cobs chair for her to find.  I’m not sure if the noises she made when she found it were happy ones.  But I was content and that’s all that matters.

Peeping Tom?  No, I’m the Neighbour Watch Chief Officer!

I’m part of the Neighbourhood Watch and like nothing more than keeping an eye on the neighbours through their windows.  “Peeping Tom” is another phrase which has also been used to describe my activities, but I have no understanding of this term.

I like to ambush Mr. Cobs and ‘Bellie’ the K9, as they return from their morning strolls, by laying in wait and leaping out of various driveways as they pass.  I then escort them to the front door to make sure they’re safely home.

It’s a quiet road where I live and the residents know that when I’m lying in the road, then they’d better drive around me – or suffer the consequences.

Look into my eyes.  Not around the eyes, not above the eyes, no, look into my eyes.  You WILL do what I request!.  You are my servament!

I enjoy food, particularly if I go out and come back in again – even if it’s only for two minutes.  I believe I am telepathic, and try to convince Mr. Cobs to feed me by staring into his eyes from a distance of two inches.  If this doesn’t work, I walk onto his tummy with all four feet and stand in front of his face so he can’t watch the TV.  This works every time!

I am partial to cream, ice cream and yoghurt – which I only seem to get in very small amounts from Mrs. Cobs, and only if I lick it off her finger.

The K9 unit.

I lurve the K9 unit, Bellie, but she doesn’t seem to reciprocate it.  I show her my lurve by scent marking her, or as she calls it ‘head butting’,  sucking and padding her blankets and climbing onto her bed with her.  There’s not enough room for us both, so I lay on top of her, keeping her warm, padding,  and digging  my sharp little nails into her, showing how much I appreciate her little, roly poly, warm, soft body.  For some reason she takes umbrage at all of this and grasses me up to Mrs. Cobs as if I’m doing something wrong!  What a nark.

Mrs. Cobs read a poem to me a little while back, and I  liked it so much that I remembered it because I agreed with it whole heartedly,  so I’m going to share it with you:-

Cats Sleep Anywhere

Cats sleep anywhere, any table, any chair.
Top of piano, window-ledge, in the middle, on the edge.
Open drawer, empty shoe, anybody’s lap will do.
Fitted in a cardboard box, in the cupboard with your frocks.
Anywhere!  They don’t care!  Cats sleep anywhere

Author: Eleanor Farjeon (1881 – 1965)

I’m quite a laid back and can sleep anywhere, and apparently, from photographic evidence which has been submitted to me, in absolutely any position.

Fast asleep

Too big to fit that circular bed on the top of the cat scratching/climbing/sleeping/hiding combination ..  my tail, back legs and bottom are hanging over the edge of the circle bed and from just over half way along my body .. those parts are hanging over the other edge of the circle bed and I’m fitting myself onto what’s available .  Both of the Cobs were heard to say … “THAT cannot be comfortable” … and yet, as you see,  I obviously am!

I  like to put myself to bed.  A trick I learned from the K9 unit.

See?  Like the poem said …  cat’s sleep anywhere!

We have an ‘elder’ in our family.  She’s a black and white feline, who is now 22 in human years, which means she’s attained the great age of  105 years old  in Cat years.  I look out for her.  I am . . .   THE BODYGUARD!

The elder is a good sport and lets me have three-quarters of this bed, while she squidges up in any space left.

I spend a lot of time with her, especially when she’s in the front garden asleep under the Hydrangea bush.

I protect her from any other cats.

If The Elder is out there, I’m there too, guarding and protecting her.  No one DARES to come near her when I’m there.  Not even that  Ginger [expletive deleted]  from over the road!

She’s half my size but … if she wants my food then I let her have it.  She is The Elder.  I know my place.  P.S….  she’s the one who taught me to ask for food every time I go out and come back in the house again.  It works for her and so far, it’s (almost) working for me.

I exercise by chasing my considerably smaller sister round the house, usually around 10.30pm, but also if my food is two minutes late!  I call this: ‘Playing Cowboys and Indians‘.  Mrs. Cobs calls it:  PANDEMONIUM!  I have been known during this game to clear the width of the sofa – from end to end – in just one leap.  Impressive eh?

My sister  –  a.k.a.  Princess Tippy Toes.

This is how Princess Tippy Toes asks for her dinner.  She lays around the kitchen looking pretty.  pffft!

I am aware when Mr. C is about to play on his  X-Box, and five minutes before he goes to play …  I re-locate to his gaming chair. 

Mr. Cobs Gaming Chair. fnar, fnar, fnar.  More like MY Comfy Chair!

I pretend to be asleep and Mr. C doesn’t remove me, so spends his time playing his game, sitting on the floor to play.  He appears to have great difficulty getting up from this position after he’s finished playing.  Watching him and listening to the noises he makes and the muttered imprecations concerning feline behaviour, is absolutely bally hilarious!  But the fun doesn’t end there … for  . . .  as he turns off his game  . . .  I vacate the game chair and go instead to sit with Mrs. Cobs in the living room.  Mr. Cobs appears not to find this aspect of my behaviour endearing.  (He has no sense of humour!)

I’ve got a healthy pink tongue, and, Mrs. C. says, big chubby cheeks which help me to give the bestest cheek rubs ever!

 I’m single, in good health, glossy coat, rippling muscles, eat well and healthily (most of the time) and I’m adventurous.  I’m caring, protective, loving but maintain a real macho facade.  I have great eyes, teeth and claws, and like to help around the house by checking that the carpets are firmly attached to the floor, and that the rugs are in the correct positions.  (Having good claws comes in handy for this job!).  I like to  ‘chill’  in Mrs. C’s craft room, on a big comfy cushion which she’s put on the floor under one of her desks.  It’s a great room.  It’s cool, airy and quiet – apart from Mrs. Cobs continually talking to herself and asking me my opinion on ribbons, bits and bobs and ‘stuff’ – of which I have no interest, unless they fall on the floor.  THEN I’ll have an interest in them.

… an all action shot of me with my Crack Coke  Cat Nip Banana

I have only one vice …. I very much like Cat-Nip.  It gives me a warm, fuzzy, psychedelic feeling and I have been known to seek out my Cat Nip Banana and steal it, even though Mrs. Cobs has hidden it from me!  (How very dare she!)  Mr. Cobs calls it  “Crack Coke for Cats”,  but I don’t know why because I don’t  drink it.

Mrs C asked me to ‘pose’ for a moment so she could photograph my paws.  Apparently they’re big.  Can you see my ‘thumb’ … sticking out from the side?

So Neruo Cat …  if you’re looking for an all action, caring, sharing Hero …  I’m your Cat.

Cheek rubs  ~  Alf.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And there ends The Reply to Neurotic Cat.  I do hope I have typed his every word exactly as he spoke it to me.  🙂

This wonderful, fabulous, loving, quirky, characterful, amazing, magical, gorgeous, friendly (to everyone) , truly beautiful hearted Cat, walked into my life and continually renews the foot prints which he leaves all over my heart.  He’s such fun and so adorable.  Yes, I admit, he does have his moments, but it’s all part of the great stuff which makes him ‘him’!

What he fails to mention in his reply to Neurotic Cat is that he has the ability to see Fairies.  Yes, he really does.  He plays with them when they come out to play in the evening.  He will scoot up and down the hallway, stopping every now and again to sit upright, taking all his considerable weight onto his bottom and back legs, and will reach up for something which cannot be seen with a human eye, but is quite obviously definitely there, and he’ll tap and play in what appears to be empty air, using soft paws (no claws), and everyone looking on can see that there is no fly or midge ..  so what the divil is he playing with?  What is it which is keeping this stunning creature amused in the way he is?  After perusing all the options,there is only one answer to this question.  He’s playing with Fairies.  Fairies which only he can see.   They must come into the cottage through the Fairy door we have to the side of our own front door. Yes, we really do have a fairy door there.   You don’t believe me?  … take a look …

Can you see it?

Now can you see it?

Have a wonderful Thursday my fabulous blogging friends. –

**To convert cat age to an equivalent human age, an accepted method is to add 15 years for the first year of life. Then add 10 years for the second year of life. After that, add 4 years for every cat year. This means that by year two, a cat has matured to about the same as a 25-year-old human.  There is a website which will work it out for you: www.CalculatorCat.com .

Save

Advertisement

Meet Alf Capone – one of my Craft Room companions.

About three years ago Mr. Cobs and I were talked into having a kitten by our (grown up and married)  daughter.  She knew someone who was desperately trying to find homes for kittens and we agreed that we’d have one.

We chose the most adorable little black and white bit of fun and mischief, got her home, and within about three hours we knew we’d made a mistake.  We shouldn’t have just had one kitten.  We should have had two.  She needed a little playmate.  We were fine, but we weren’t kittens.  She’d come from a big ‘brood’ of kittens and we felt so mean taking her away from them all.  It was decided.  We contacted the lady and asked if we could have another kitten.

So back we went the next day to pick up the tiniest little black boy kitten;  huge big blue eyes which melted my heart and the tiniest little white diamond on his chest.  Ohhh, he was SO adorable that there should be a law against being that cute.

We got him into the house and his little girl sister instantly jumped on him and battered him with play.  Mr Cobs and I both agreed that we reckoned the young lady was going to be the boss out of the two of them.

We weren’t ‘new’ pet owners.  We already had two dogs, and one very elderly cat (whose now 20 years old).  So looking after little rascals wasn’t in the least bit of a surprise.  We knew what we were letting ourselves in for.

But …. we didn’t quite reckon on Alf.  Or … Alf Capone;  to give him the full, respectful name he requires.

(I call him ‘Alfie Pops’  – but don’t let him know I told you because I fear that he will tell me I’m dead to him if anyone else knows about this affectionate monica I’ve bestowed upon his head).  :o)

Photograph taken by my lovely neighbour, who’s way better at capturing a photograph of this almost all black chap than I am.

 Now I’d like to think that Alf Capone Esquire is more James Bond  (cue Live and Let Die music in the background) – because he is so sleek.  So dashing.  So, SO handsome, and he truly looks like he’s wearing a tuxedo.  The white diamond on his chest simply looks like a pure white shirt, beneath his black tuxedo jacket.  However, I’ve never seen a Bond film where James attempts to assassinate his sister whenever he’s ready for dinner and none is being served at the exact time he requires it.  (more about this distinguishing character  ‘trait’ in a moment)

I’m not saying that any mafioso would assassinate his sister – however … we are dealing with the Cat Mafia here and so I think the rules are very different.

I absolutely love this fascinating creature to the moon and back (plus tax) and he tickles the heck out of me with some of the things he does, and has done, in the time since we’ve had him.

I’m rather ashamed to tell you this but …  well,  …  Mr. Alf is a kleptomaniac.  He’s stolen things  from other people’s houses;  cat toys, food – corn on the cob, a fried egg,  and even bread rolls which, by the look of the contents, came from someone’s barbecue.  He’s delivered looong lengths of silicon sealant at my feet which he’s obviously freshly pulled out from goodness knows where;  a sock;  a tiny rubber bouncy ball,  and … oh,  an assortment of other weird and odd stolen things.    Along with the usual cat ‘gifts’ of birds (both alive and those he’s personally ‘delivered’ to the Rainbow Bridge) and mice (those are more often than not alive and running at speed when he drops them, with me chasing after them, squealing: “eek, eeeeeek,  EEEEEK!” as I try to catch the darn things but stop him from catching them again – sigh).

But his most favourite thing to do is to accompany me to the craft room, where he sleeps either under one of my desks, on a big, soft red with white spots comfy cushion, which my (now passed on) eldest dog used to sleep on, or he will curl up on one of the chairs pushed under the table at the back of the craft room, and sleep there for as long as I’m crafting.

If I haven’t gone to my crafty hidey hole when he feels I should have, he will come into the living room where I’m sat and, standing on his two back paws, he’ll put his front paws on my knees and tap me gently, over and over, until I look at him, and I can clearly see the ‘nag nag nag’ in his eyes, asking me to “C’mon….  get a move on, I’m waiting!”  LOL.

However …. in the house, when he gets tired, …. aw, that’s when he becomes a baby again.  He loves the blankets we have for our dog (she likes to clamber under the blankets and put herself to bed).  Mr. Alf loves these blankets too,  so much so, that they’ve become his version of a childs ‘blanky’.  He HAS to have a few minutes with the blanky before he’ll go to bed.

You see …. he likes to suck on the fluffy side of them.  Yes – you read that correctly.

We’ve tried to stop him – to no avail.  We’re aware how bad it is and I won’t bother to tell you how worried I am that he might be taking bits of fluff into his system.  (I have checked these blankets and haven’t found any bare patches, or parts where it looks like bits are missing).

The photo above shows you how he drapes himself over the edge of the dogs wicker bed, and once he’s got the blanket in just the right place, he begins to pad, pad, pad it, – just like he would have done to his mummy’s tummy when he was a kitten and wanted to feed – and then he’ll begin to suck it.  Audibly.  Noisy little slurpy, sucking noises.  I kid ye not dear reader.  This is really embarrassing when we have visitors and he does it, because it’s quite loud. 

Once he’s had his blanky time, he then gets himself into position to sleep …. by making sure that he drapes himself half on the bed, and half off.  (see the above photograph).   Doesn’t matter which of the numerous beds we have dotted about our little cottage, – he has a choice of:-  two wicker beds with comfy cushions; a large, rigid plastic bed with a big squishy cushion inside; a firmly padded tartan with matching cushion cat bed, or two lovely, roses printed Cath Kidston pet beds – he makes sure that he drapes himself in such a way that at the very least one whole leg is draped outside the bed.  We have no idea why he has to sleep this way, but I’m figuring that it must be a Cat Mafia thing.  One foot always ready to pounce while the other three are sleeping. 

However  … when hungry, that’s when this adorable little monster becomes the naughty little devil and gets a telling off.  If we take just a nano second too long in dishing up his hearts desire, he will turn his annoyance at being made to wait, into a reason for his killer instinct to show up and he will attempt to kill his sister, so as to get us into action pronto.

He chases her around our cottage: – up the hallway at breakneck speed and back down again; over the high-backed chair in the living room (with claws out, which makes it sound like he’s ripping the fabric), over the sofa, both the back and the seat parts, into and around the conservatory, up the 5 feet tall cat scratching post/bed/climbing frame combination, and,  eventually , if the door’s left open,  he’ll harem scarem through the bedroom, at a gazillion miles an hour – which he KNOWS he’s not allowed to do – over the bed, onto the windowsill – disturbing the curtains and making the lovely little yacht I have on the sill there rock back and forth.  If by chance he manages to actually catch his sister, he’ll make her squeal by grabbing her by the scruff of her neck – which gets him a real old telling off, – which in turn makes him sulk on the sofa until he finally gets what he wants …. dinner, in his favourite dish.  (Please God don’t anyone give him the wrong dish!)

He can be a troublesome bug to our dog too.  He major time loves our dog (‘Maybees’ – say it sort of singy songy and you’ll see how it sounds.  lol) sooooo much, that he wants to love her and love her and love her.  He rubs his chubby little cheeks around her face, scent marking her and making her ‘his’.  He cleans her ears for her with his raspy tongue, which tickles her and makes her shake her head so violently that I think it’s going to fly off one day.  He clambers onto her bed and snuggles up to her – which drives her nuts and she pleads with me to get him off.  Ohhh he loves Maybees soooo much that it’s pitiful to watch.  Maybees does love him too.  But she just wishes that he’d leave her alone to snore when she’s asleep and not climb all over her, trying to wake her up.

But he’s adorable.  For all his funny things, annoying things, rascal ways … we all love him to pieces.  My Daughter and Son-in-Law have both said that they’d have him in a heartbeat.  He’s just brilliant.

And … when he finally finds a spot and settles down ….  he’s just the little boy he always was when we first brought him home.

He’s just my Alfie Pops.  Soft, with fur like you’ve never felt before.  Thick, deep and luxurious.  Sweet natured (really – most of the time).  A little baby who loves ice cream,  drinking chocolate (I dip my finger into it and he licks it off my finger) and scrambled egg.  His favourite treats are cheesy puffed cat crunchies,  which I keep in a little glass jar and shake them when it’s time to come home and stop playing outside in the woods.  He’s a beautiful, massively heavy, big (much much bigger than he looks in these photographs) gorgeous, sweet thing and I love him to pieces.  And no, dearest daughter, if you’re reading, I’m not going to give him to you … but I’ll share him with you when you visit.

Before signing off ….  I know this isn’t one of my usual crafty posts and I know I’ve been Missing In Action for a couple of weeks (or so), and my blogs been very quiet.  I had to have some surgery.  I found some lumps about four weeks or so ago and the surgeon said that rather than simply take a little biopsy and wait to see what turned up, he felt it would be more prudent to remove all the lumps and, hopefully, all the surrounding cells, and then get a biopsy done on all that tissue.  He doesn’t think there’s anything to be worried about but I won’t get any results quite yet.   I’m not worrying until there’s something to worry about, because that’s just a waste of days and the older I get, the faster the days seem to go, so I’m not about to waste even one day worrying when I’ve got so much crafting to do!

Normal service will be resumed ASAP, as I get back to my crafty stuff.  However …  I will continue to introduce you to the fur babies I have here, who accompany me to my craft room, so that you paint a picture of who’s under the desk with me as I craft.  :o)

Thank you so much for coming to have a read.  I love that you visit to share a few minutes with me.  Thank you. 

Have a wonderful, happy, blessed day!

… and Alf Capone, of course!

Save

Save