My cat Leonard
He's got to be in with a shout of being the best cat ever.

Shortly after moving into our house in 2000, Ex-Mrs PJM and I decided to get a couple of cats so off we went to the local cat rescue. I clocked Leonard fairly early on as he was sat there in the middle of a pack of cats just watching me. Some cats would hiss and spit, others just hurled themselves at you but he cooly sat there biding his time, never taking his eyes off me. He was a common or garden British shorthair with very fine blue/grey fur and the sort of demeanour best described as unflappable. Indeed he was as chilled out as a cat could be without either being aloof or comatose. As soon as my attention was diverted, he sauntered over to me and greeted me cooly and from that moment I knew I had been adopted, he was coming home with me. Ex-Mrs PJM chose this bedraggled bundle of black fluff which she named Jasmine. Without much further ado, both cats were in cat carriers and homeward bound.

Both cats were very different characters. Jasmine started to eat like a cat possessed and just grew, becoming a massive bundle of affectionate fluff in no time. She also suffered from an unfortunate flatulence issue which made her stink to high heaven, never has a name been so ironic.

Leonard meanwhile quickly began to reveal his persona. The whole laid back thing was a bit of a ruse to cover up the fact that he was a devious and clever little feline. First night we brought our cats home from the cat rescue, we shut the cats in the kitchen for the night. I was woken at 2am by the unmistakeable sound of purring in my ear and was immediately blamed by ex-Mrs PJM for letting the cats out. This happened at least three times during the night before we figured what was going on.

Yep, Leonard knew how to open doors.

This habit had many drawbacks, worst of which was the day I got home early from work and engaged in some sofa based sexytime with the then missus. Rather annoyed that no-one was on hand to let him out, Len indignantly decided to open the front door and head out that way instead, which treated the entire street to a view of my pale arse rocking like a fiddlers elbow. Bastard. Whenever we went out, we had to make sure doors were locked so they couldn't be opened from the inside. Neighbours thought we were nuts.

However despite these occasional acts of mischief, he was extremely affectionate, he'd follow me around the place like a dog and had his favorites amongst my friends, one of whom he'd greet at the door and not let out of his sight until my friend went home covered in cat fur. Being incredibly inqusitive, he loved people and indeed other cats, dogs and all sorts of passing fauna with equal devotion.

He befriended a neighbour's German Shepherd dog who used to jump over the fence into our garden which never fazed Leonard one bit, he'd just wander up and say hello. He'd also bring home random feline friends too, much to my amusement. In all the time I had him, he never raised a claw in anger, despite having to be bathed more than once on account of coming home covered in something unsavoury. He even seemed to enjoy his visits to the vet, despite being jabbed with a needle, he'd turn round and start purring at the vet, only to jump up, open the waiting room door and attempt to escape when the vet's back was turned.

The little fella would spend hours studying you, watching what you were doing if it was of any potential interest to him. Rather than let the cats out of the back door every time, I'd open the kitchen window and let them figure it out. However it wasn't long before I found him trying to paw open the handles on the windows when he wanted to go out and the door was locked.

One particular act of feline genius stands out. I returned from work to find him lying on the floor, drooling like a mong with his tongue hanging out, surrounded by green herbs and the remnants of a plastic bag.

"Honey, why is Len stoned?" I asked

We'd been giving him catnip for a while and kept a large bag of it in a drawer in the spare room which was always kept with the door shut. Len had figured this out and waited until we were both at work before hatching a plan and managing to break into a spare bedroom, climbing onto the chest of drawers, opening one and finally retrieving a bag of strong cat narcotics.

The little dope fiend was properly mullah'd for the next 24 hours before falling victim to a major case of the munchies.

There really wasn't a nasty bone in his body. Some cats catch and kill stuff, but not Len. Oh no. The only gifts he brought back in the house for me were frogs, which were physically undamaged but often understandably traumatised. He'd sit at the doorstep making a strained meow noise until I opened the door to see him sat triumphantly holding a frog in his mouth as if to say "Daddy! Guess what I've got for you?". I'd then take froggy and release it (again, totally unharmed) into the garden. Five minutes later Len would appear with the frog as if to say "Daddy, you carelessly lost your froggy, but it's okay, I've brought him back for you".

Being such a gentle soul, he'd insist on sleeping on my bed (and would expand in such a way as to seemingly cover an entire double bed in cat). If it was cold, I'd wake up to find him under the duvet suggled up with his back to me and without fail at 07:30 he'd wake me up with a subtle touch of his paw on my cheek. Actually, he used to do the latter in the middle of the night if he was bored and wanted a fuss. Bless.

When I briefly lodged with my builder mate Phil, Len was part of the deal and quickly befriended Phil's feline-phobic Springer Spaniel. I recall one Guy Fawkes night when the Springer, utterly terrified of loud noises, guns and bangs as befitting a carefully bred gun dog was curled in my lap shaking with fear. Upon seeing this, Len decides he's going to curl up on top of both of us and comfort the terrified hound. He never left the dog's side all night.

His most popular party trick was that he could be taught and trained like a dog. Guests were incredulous that we had a cat who would not only sit on command but would beg and also High Five me when requested (and bribed with a treat).

All in all, he was a damn fine cat but sadly he was run over three years ago. I'm not ashamed to admit that in all my life, including one divorce and numerous nasty relationship endings I've never cried so much as I did that day. Len was a cat in a million and remains much missed.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 8 Jun 2007, 10:13, Reply)

Cartoon Cappers
When I lived at home we had a cat called George who was always catching poor unsuspecting furries and bring them home through the cat flap for closer inspection.
One night I was awoken to hear some sort of commotion in the kitchen and went down to investigate. I opened the kitchen door quietly, lent in to switch the light on and experienced what to this day is both the funniest and surreal moment of my life.

In the middle of the kitchen floor was George with his back to the door. In the left corner was a mouse and to the right corner was a Duck!

As I turned on the light all three stopped what they were doing and looked up at me. It did cross my mind that I was actually dreaming about myself in a cartoon.

After I stopped laughing I had to decide what to do next. I considered just turning off the light and quietly retreating to leave them to it but the thought of duck bits all over the kitchen wouldn’t have gone down to well so I had to intervene.

I grabbed George and put him into the utility room next to the kitchen. I looked for the mouse but while dealing with the cat little Mickey had taken his leave behind the fridge. This left the duck. By this time it had jumped onto the draining board. In a moment of inspiration I lent across it and opened the kitchen window and the Duck took this opportunity and dived through the opening and dropped out of sight.

The next thing I see is the duck legging it up the garden desperately trying to reach take off velocity with George on its tail like a Cheeter chasing a gazelle, the cunning git had been sitting under the window waiting. I couldn’t see the outcome as they disappeared into the gloom.

I've no idea how the cat got the duck through the cat flap intact; maybe they were just three friends having a little kitchen party.

Thanks for the memories George, you're sorely missed.
( archie Bubba, Fri 8 Jun 2007, 10:18, Reply)

gay dog.
One drunken evening whilst at home sat on the sofa, my girlfriend was pleasuring me with some 'oral relief'.
After a few minutes, my dog, a usually quiet border collie named Todd, wandered up to us and calmly took a big long lick of my shaft, and then walked off.

Clearly the moment was lost, and subsequently I felt the need to shower.

So, there you have it - I was sexually assaulted my own dog.


After confiding in my friends with this story, they consequently labelled me with the nickname 'Bonio'.

twats.
(nappy rash, Fri 8 Jun 2007, 9:31, Reply)

The Great Dane with the Dodgy Gut
Title says it all really.

When I was a little sproglet, we had a lovely lump of a Great Dane that was about twice my height. Beautiful, lovely, friendly, soft, gentle creature. Unfortunately he had an inherited stomach problem - basically it meant that things would fly through him, and he had an absolutely enormous appetite, which lead to a propensity to eat whatever he could find. To this day, I sleep in late - purely because as a child you never wanted to be the first one up because of the sheer mountains of dog dump that would confront you downstairs.

Memorable passages include:

1. The entire 4kg tub of margarine he snaffled. This greased him through, and for days was fixed in a squat, ejecting a never-ending stream of arsegravy.

2. When I couldn't find my favourite pair of yellow socks. My mum swore she'd washed them and they were in the clean laundry basket. Three days later I found them, still neatly folded - and in the middle of a gently steaming pile of dog's egg.

But, by far the most memorable:
3. When he managed to nick the remains of a sunday roast. Unfortunately, the bits of elasticated string from the roast were still on the plate. A day or so later, he was wandering around the house with about 6 inches of the elastic hanging out of his bumhole. My dad decides to help out, and grabs the end to tug it out. It's well wedged up the gut, so my dad pulls hard. The end of the greasy elastic slips out of his fingers, and the whole thing snaps back at the hound's ringpiece. I have never, ever, seen an animal move so fast or yelp so loud. He didn't come back for hours, and wouldn't go near my dad for weeks.

Despite the faecal exploits, I loved that big stupid woof.
(meepmeep is, Fri 8 Jun 2007, 10:50, Reply)

THROW THE CAT!!!
.
This story sounds cruel, but it isn't.

When I lived in Manchester I used to visit a big students house out in the sticks. It was an old Victorian place with ceilings about 12 foot tall.

So I was sitting in one of the rooms, about 10 scruffy students lounging around me , when this cat appeared and jumped up onto my lap.

"THROW THE CAT!!!" the stoned students yelled.

"WTF?" - I couldn’t do that - that would be cruel. And the little ball of fluff sitting on my lap purred away and was kneading my leg with his paws.

So one of the students jumped up and picked up the cat, still purring, and hurled it full-length across the room towards the windows. Of course, the windows were covered by very thick, felt-type curtains and the cat landed, claws extended into the pile of the curtains. It quickly ran down the curtains and headed for me and jumped up into my lap again.

"THROW THE CAT!!!"

So I did. I tentatively lobbed the cat in a gentle parabola towards the curtains where, again, he made a purrfect (sorry) landing, ran down the curtains and jumped up on my lap again.

So that’s what I spent the next few hours doing. Throwing the cat. Once I got the idea that the cat positively loved this treatment, I kind of got into it. Lobs, left-hand spin, right-hand spin. Double and triple somersaults - this cat handled them all.

Eventually I had to move seats as I was bloody tired and somebody else took the cat-throwing seat.

Weird eh?

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 8 Jun 2007, 11:34, Reply)

Cats are rubbish....
....so here's a good dog story.

I woke up one morning to the sound of my brother howling with laughter. I went downstairs to find him in the kitchen with tears running down his face, hyperventilating and pointing, pathetically, out of the window.

I looked out, couldn't see anything, so I went outside, brother followed.

My neighbours then came through her garden gate and said:

"I've got something that belongs to you"

And from round her legs, my little dog Patchie follows with a big shit-eating grin on his face that says:

"Guess where I've been?"

My brother, in his infinite wisdom, had tied Patchie's favourite toy to the washing line with an old lead.

Patchie decided to try and get his toy back by pulling at it.

The washing line wouldn't give, and the old lead wouldn't give, this resulted in a rather spectacular catapault effect, twanging the dog clear over a 6 foot fence.

Which is what my brother was laughing at.

I can only imagine what my neighbour thought when she saw a small ball of white fur rocketing across her garden then getting up and peeing on her herb garden.

Lil' Patch isn't around anymore, but he really was the funniest dog ever, and that story still has my brother wetting his pants every time you remind him of it.

There may be more Patch stories later if I can write them in such a way as to do him justice.
(Jugular, Fri 8 Jun 2007, 11:56, Reply)

My friend used to have a cat
When she'd tell people this they'd say 'oh, did it die then?' and she'd say 'no, it blew away'.

It was out in the garden during the hurricane of '87, and they saw it sail away over the garden wall, never to be seen again.

She doesn't understand why other people find this hilarious.
( Pachey, Fri 8 Jun 2007, 11:16, Reply)

Who's A Pretty Boy?
Probably not the best thing to cheer you up after the death of a pet but makes me laugh so bugger it. A long time ago I was told the story of a friend of a friend's father who had recently lost his wife to cancer. Suddenly lonely he decided he would get a pet to keep him company. He had a few goldfish but they resolutely refused to ask for a cracker or whistle for his amusement. So he decided he would buy a budgie, something he'd always wanted but his wife had always vetoed. Being an animal lover he didn't totally agree with the idea of it spending long periods of time caged up so, whenever he was in the lounge for any amount of time he would open the cage and let the bird fly freely around his living room. This began what can only be described as the amazing demise of a string of budgies at the hands of this lovely old man.

The first one died of natural causes. A few months after he bought it it was enjoying its free roam in the living room time and perched on the edge of the sofa where, after a couple of minutes, it simply fell off sideways and thudded onto the floor stone dead. A little upset but with desire undimmed the man buried it in his garden in an ice cream tub, erected a little lollypop stick crucifix and bought another. This one decided to commit suicide, which it did by hurtling round the room a few times and then inexplicably nose diving straight into the fish tank whereupon the cold water stunned it into shock long enough for it to drown, despite the owners best efforts to retrieve it.

Slightly perturbed but still lonely and with another mini wooden headstone in the garden, budgie number three was purchased. This one lasted for three months until, again, when flying free around the living room met an untimely demise. As the man sat there reading his paper he became aware of a slight breeze and realised he'd left the patio door open. He quickly got up and ran to close it, lest his amazingly still living budgie escape into the garden. The budgie sensed its chance of freedom and flew full pelt for the opening. The man reached the patio door and slammed it shut just in time to slam the budgie in it as he did so squashing it into a nasty stain on the woodwork.

Quite upset he took a couple of weeks to get over burying another of the poor little sods and then promptly went and bought another. Again things went fine for a few weeks and again one day he had opened the cage and it was merrily swooping and soaring round his lounge. The man was happily reading his paper and enjoying the whistles and squawks when he crossed his legs at the exact moment the budgie was doing a perilously close victory fly past and kicked the poor bugger straight into his open fire.

Apparently this was the final straw and, with four little lollypop stick crucifixes now adorning his back garden, he gave up his aim of budgie ownership and bought a dog instead. I really, really don't want to know what happened to that dog.
( Gleeballs is mostly made out of chocolate and hate., Fri 8 Jun 2007, 11:07, Reply)

When I was growing up...
...we had a cat and a dog. As we all know, cats are smart and dogs are.....not.

My cat used to torment the dog something rotten. When she was bored, she would attack the dog and get him worked up till he started chasing her. Then she would run around the sofa a couple of times, with the dog in tow, before jumping onto the armrest. When in prime position, she would whack the dog as he ran past. And being.....not smart, he would run around and around the sofa, convinced that if he just ran fast enough he would catch that pesky cat. He would run faster and faster until eventually he would collapse from exhaustion in a heap, at which point the cat would get bored and eat the dog's food.
( Damocles wants no part of your debauchery, Fri 8 Jun 2007, 10:29, Reply)

Naughty Rotty
A few years ago I met up with a friend of mine for a few beers one Sunday lunchtime at a reasonably posh sort of a pub in South London. He turned up with his wife, and their dog, a friendly rottweiller. We were informed that we could only sit in the Public Bar if he wanted to bring the dog in, as there was a restaurant / Beefeater type eatery in the other half of the pub.

So, into the Public Bar we head and proceed to steadily work our way through eight or nine pints, with the canine asleep under the table. Anyway, a couple of hours into the session, a distraught restaurant manager (who was distinctly light on the loafers) came rushing round in a state of alarm, as allegedly my mate's dog had "eaten half of the sweet trolley".

My mate immediately leaps to the dog's defence, "No fucking way has my dog touched any food in that shit restaurant".....

Perfectly on cue, the rottweiller appears round the corner. Where its head used to be is a massive ball of cream, meringue, strawberries, kiwifruit etc with a happy tongue and a couple of eyes sticking out. To the annoyance of the restaurant gimp, the whole bar cracks up for about five minutes.

As a funny conclusion to the story, my mate was forced to pay 120 quid for the day's supply of puddings on the trolley. However, as the manager walked off with my mate's cash, my mate demanded that the trolley, along with left overs, be put in the car park for the dog to finish, as he had "fucking paid for it".

Amazingly, they did put it out there, and the dog spent the next few hours mullering its way through the remainder of trifles, steamed puddings, and chocolate gateaus. It must have had an almighty shit at some later stage.

Very funny day.
(Mandrill, Mon 11 Jun 2007, 23:27, Reply)

Kitty cam...
I once knew a girl who's cat was fascinated by her computer webcam, sometimes though it was quite irritating....


(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Wed 13 Jun 2007, 16:12, Reply)

Hamster Suicide
When I was married to my evil 1st wife (think Hitler but with a FULL 'tache), I needed some male company. As most of my mates were "off limits" - she couldn't stand them and they hated the sight of her - I decided to purchase Basil, a Russian Long Haired Hamster.
Basil was ace. He looked like Dougal from the Magic Roundabout, and was more intellegent than Hitleress! I was running a pub at the time, and Basil had this amazing trick where I'd take him downstairs and bet the regulars I could put him inside the pool table and predict which pocket he would exit from. Basil and me were like Paul Newman and Robert Redford in "the Sting", he was my soul-mate.
One night I got really maudlin with a few mates that had braved the Nazi and popped round to my boozer and decided I needed to leave Hitleress. One of my mates said I could live at his, but that would mean leaving the pub, and that was my job, what would I do? I didn't want Hitleress to "win" the situation too.
I decided I had to split with Adolfina and seek a divorce, once I had done this I called my boss at the company I worked for and informed him of the change, as the ex said she'd pack up and leave immediately and I didnt want her to get paid for a second longer than she deserved. Then, 2 weeks later the brewery told me that as we had been employed as a couple, I was now redundant - I had 3 weeks to get out.
So it was off to the mates house to live till I got back on my feet. Now my mate was allergic to pet hair, and as anyone who has owned a Russian Hamster knows, Basil moulted. A lot.
So Basil went off to live with Hitleress, and I pined. Basil was my best friend and I knew he hated her. One night The ex calls me and through tears she tells me that Basil had died. He had escaped from his deluxe hamster space station house and had dived head first into her dads tropical fishtank. He had taken out about a dozen Angel Fish before floating, belly-up with a seraphic expression on his face.
3 weeks alone with my ex and her family had driven Basil to suicide.
I got custody of the body and one night myself and my mates took him to the river Humber and -in one of those boats with a elastic band propeller- we gave him a viking funeral. Set fire to the boat and watched it drift down to the Humber Bridge with a tape of Amazing Grace being played on Bagpipes. I cried my heart out, and in fact am filling up now.

Basil was a legend, I have a framed photo of Basil on my desk at work 14 years later. I loved him. Rip Baz xx
(airliebird Has now found Twiglets in Sydney!!!!!!! yay!, Fri 8 Jun 2007, 12:05, Reply)

My cat Geoff
in a similar vein to chthonic's story, my cat (Geoff, he was called this when we got him) is a fucking fat bastard. Seriously, other people's cats who they think are too fat look positively anorexic in comparison.

Geoff's obesity has affected the house in many ways, most of them breaking something in one way or another. Firstly, a perfectly good garden gate. Just by jumping on the top of it, completely buckled and destroyed.

Now poor Geoff is a bit self conscious about his weight. His coming and leaving the house through his catflap was never done when he thought anyone was watching, because anyone lucky enough to bear witness to the struggle would burst into fits of laughter. Geoff knows when people are laughing at him, and he doesn't like it.

One morning we came downstairs to find the catflap in several pieces and Geoff sitting beside it looking very embarrassed. He'd finally become so fat that the catflap had literally torn apart.

Anyway, we had to go out and buy Geoff a new catflap, for "the larger cat, or smaller dog". But poor Geoff still hasn't got over the embarrassment, and continues to only use the catflap when he's absolutely sure no one's watching.
( Damien's Hearse, Fri 8 Jun 2007, 11:20, Reply)

My girlfriends cats
They're cheeky little sods. You sit down for a nice meal (and her mother cooks some fantastic meals), take a forkful of food, stop for a moment to reply in conversation.... and a furry paw appears and pulls the fork towards the cat, who then eats your lovingly crafted meal. Or the same paw will come out, and pinch a choice piece of meat.

We had to take action. On piece of meat, was laced with all we could find - chilli powder, tabasco, black pepper - you name it, we put it on the meat. It was then tantalisingly placed on the edge of my plate, ready for a cat to try and steal it. Pretty soon, we saw the fur clad burglers paw appear, hook the meat, where it disappeared under the table... and we heard an almight screech, which we took to be cat for "OH MY FUCKING GOD, MY FUCKING TONGUE FEELS LIKE SOMEONEBODY HAS SET IT ON FIRE AND IS THEN BEATING IT WITH A RUSTY ELECTRIFIED CHAIN", or something to that effect. I have never seen a cat try to claw it's own tongue out before, but that one has never triedto take anything off the plate again.

One down, 6 to go...




Length? The cat thought it went on too long
(Potty Jag har smör i min rumpspringa, Fri 8 Jun 2007, 9:40, Reply)

Dinkus the cat
This is my blind cat Dinkus.


I rescued Dinkus from a mentally ill chap from a boarding house I got wind of from some staff at a homeless shelter.
He was'nt being feed properly and spent all of his life hiding under a bed.

When I got him home he was acting strange and nervy, but it was'nt until the next day that I realised he was blind.
A trip to the vet confirmed that he was born blind.
I'm not sure how the RSPCA had missed that when they sold the kitten to the guy.

Anyway, Dinkus likes to play outside, he knows the boundries of the yard so I let him wander around by himself.... he does'nt stray too far.

One day he was out and about doing whatever a blind cat does in a yard when I heard that meowing that every cat owner learns to panic from.

He strutted into the kitchen and deposited a small bird on the floor in front of me, meowing , and looking as proud as punch :)

I had a tear in my eye when this happened, I felt like the proudest parent in the world, and my Dinkus had finally become a man.

Well the bird was ok, just a bit spitty, so I let it rest in a shoebox until it was fit to fly off.

To this day I don't know how he caught it, but one theory is that he was yawning underneath his favourite tree and it slipped and fell into his gob.

I have two rescued Cockateils' as well but I'm not as fond of them.
One makes kissy noises and acts all cute then attacks your face, and the other has sex with dishwashing sponge while chanting "quick, Quickly"!
(sinewriter, Wed 13 Jun 2007, 14:28, Reply)

Hmmm
Not one of my proudest moments, but anyway...

I once had the nest dog ever, I was called Bradely, he was a cross between a red setter and a springer spaniel.

To say this dog was stupid is like saying that Stephen Hawkins has slight troubles with stairs.

But this story isn;t about Bradleys stupidity, no it's about his "other" habit.

My dog wanked. A lot. Prolly more than I did (which is hard as I was 15 at the time.)

Anyway.

Picture me and my family, sitting in the living room watch TV. Bradely sitting infront of the TV "cleaning" humself. Suddenly water appears on the screen. We look puzzled and I get up to see if there is a leak. Then I notice my dog with his cock in his mouth, rubbing up and down with it clenched between his teeth.

Not something I want to remember to be honest.

A week later, I'm sitting in my room playing Diablo 2. Suddenly I feel something hit the back of my head, I reach round and feel a liquid. I curse and look up, expecting to see a leak. I get Deja Vu and suddenly remember that Bradley had been sleeping on my bed...

Yes, when I was 15 my dog came on teh back off my head.

As I said, not my proudest moment.
(Lusiphur, Fri 8 Jun 2007, 18:47, Reply)

My old golden retreiver Rupert (RIP)
He was the coolest dog, and livened up every house party we ever had.

He was a pedigree, and therefore entirely inbred, and therefore completely stupid, but he was the most loving, friendly animal that ever existed.

A few of his funniest foibles include:

Following you round the entire house with his own tail in his mouth, thinking it was just another one of his toys and he was bringing you a present.

Barking to be let out, and standing at the door - when you got there and opened the door he'd forgotten why he was there in the first place because he was so excited to see you again. (repeat this a few times).

His abject fear of umbrellas.

The best party trick though was the fact that if you put anything on his head, for some reason, he'd be paralysed. His eyes would move and you could see the excitement boiling up inside him, but he just wouldn't move - even if you held a biscuit just out of his range(and he was a greedy bugger)he'd just stare at it, willing every part of his body to reach out and eat it, but he just couldn't. When you finally did remove the item on his head, it was like a jack in the box with all his pent up tension bursting out in one go.

Hence we have lots of pictures of him wearing stupid glasses and hats.



RIP Rupert - the best dog ever.
( HoratioFellatio Taking the the out of psychotherapist, Fri 8 Jun 2007, 15:24, Reply)

re: pacifist pooch
When I was very young we had a massive english sheepdog. Ridiculously good-natured. Never fought, never bit, nothing.

So we would take it for a walk in the local park (Toxteth, Liverpool) populated by scally kids and their baying pitbulls who would occasionally try to fight him. At which point (I said it was massive, yes?) my dog would... sit on them. An angry pitbull helplessly trapped beneath a still-placid sheepdog four times it's own weight is a sight to behold.
(eightAce, Fri 8 Jun 2007, 11:07, Reply)

Don't mess with the cat
Years ago I was living in my sister's house with her, her boyfriend and her cat Tito. Now Tito who did not approve of having any rivals for my sister's afftections.

One sunny Saturday morning I was lazing in bed when I heard a roar of pain from their bedroom. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of fur closely pursued by naked flesh zoom past my door, a shriek of pain and surprise and finally the unmistakeable sound of a heavy physical object falling down the stairs.

It turned out that Tito had wandered into the bedroom to find the happy couple enjoying some morning delight at which he had sunk his teeth into the boyfriend's big toe. Cat flees out of bedroom followed by enraged boyfriend who in his haste does not see that the evil feline has been sick at the top of the stairs during the night.

Fully grown man slips in pile of cold cat vomit, tumbles down stairs during which time cat escapes to sit on the fence at the end of the garden watching the house with a hostile eye.

Cat 1 Man 0

As usual.
( electric_goat, Sun 10 Jun 2007, 10:29, Reply)

My cat loves me
The most interesting way I've ever been woken up was with my cat puking into my mouth. She'd been out mousing and had come in to give me some loving and obviously had eaten a few too many mice or maybe she thought I needed feeding as a gift to her beloved. I staggered into the bathroom to get some water to try and stop myself from throwing up and looking in the mirror saw I had small dangly mouse intestines hanging out of my mouth and a leg stuck to my cheek.
( Brandy_Bumwinkle, Sat 9 Jun 2007, 9:32, Reply)

Chickpeas
We had both our cats castrated on our kitchen table. To be fair, it was a mate who was doing the snipping, not me, though it fair brought a tear to my eyes. It helped that he was actually a vet too.

Injection into the cat's front paw, cat drops like a sack of spuds. Vet starts frenetically tugging at the hairy nutsacks, slices with scalpel, pops the love spuds out (see title), hummus a little tricky for a while after that.

Slices them off, doesn't even do a left over right and under, right over left and under or even a granny knot, nor does he sew the sacks back up again, just a quick antibiotic and bobs ya flippin'.

This is the weird bit, the bit you don't see on Rolf or when you usually have your cats castrated. When cats come round from anaethesia, their brains wake up sequentially, one of the first signs of this is 'paddling' which is what it sounds like, all paws going hell for leather.
"Hold it down", he said, "It's starting to paddle!"
"Huh?"
"It's still asleep but its legs are waking up, hold it or it will be off!"
Yeah yeah..
10 seconds later, the cat was in the loft, two storeys up, banging its head against the furthest wall like an angry wasp. This lasted about 10 mins, the rest of the cat's brain then woke up and it stopped paddling, and spent the next three days licking where its bollocks weren't with a mournful expression.
(Countryslicker, Fri 8 Jun 2007, 13:25, Reply)

He's only trying to be friendly.
Cantsleep's entry just reminded me of my sister's dog, George. George is a staffordshire bull terrier, and when he was a cute little rubbery-faced puppy, he used to sit on people's heads.

The problem is, that he is now a boisterous bundle of energy and solid muscle that still thinks he can sit on people's heads.

I discovered this last time I visited, and he tried it on me. He got as far as my shoulder, with two paws on the top of my head, trying to clamber up.

It was then I felt something alien enter my ear. Guess what it was, readers?

I was about to turn and yell "George! Down!" when I realised that if I turned my head, my mouth would be in the current position of my ear, and it would not be wise to open it.
So I started trying to beat him off.

Er. You know what I mean.

It was then my sister uttered the classic line "He's only trying to be friendly!"

Length? Well, I didn't have to buy cotton buds for some time.
( Stevedix http://www.stevedix.de/blog, Mon 11 Jun 2007, 13:04, Reply)

Pippin
A medium sized white cat with a few brown and black spots on her.

I'd say that I've owned her for about five years but if another cat questioned her she'd say that she owns me.

Over the last five years I've gone through divorce, bankruptcy, job loss, depression, a recurrence of alcoholism and plenty of other lows.

Throughout it all has been Pippin. She does'nt do any special tricks, she's had no brushes with death, she's just an ordinary cat.

What makes her wonderful is that when I've fallen, she's been there. We've had to move house several times - we've gone from rural farmhouse to scruffy chav terrace - yet she'll make friends and enjoy outside wherever she lives. She's watched me staggering about ripped to my tits on cheap white wine, but stayed until I got sober and I know that when I get home from the nightshift I'm currently working she'll be very happy to see me.

I'm single now. I'll be 39 soon. Frankly, I don't care because as long as Pippin is at large I'll have a companion.
( The Disappointed Caravanner of the year, Sun 10 Jun 2007, 0:04, Reply)

Many years ago I touched my cat's special area
I was sat in our living room watching TV. The rest of my family was doing likewise.
Sam, my childhood pet, now much older came and sat by my chair and rubbed his head against my hand in the universal sign for 'give me attention and I may let you live.'
So, still watching the TV I began to rub his head and back. Clearly meeting with feline smoothing criteria Sam rolledd over and let me rub his belly.
I must stress that I was watching TV, and only idly playing with the cat,honest.
After a minute I realised that Sam had a lump on his belly. Thinking that it must be cat cancer I quickly looked over to have a look.
Sam was lying on his back, legs spread wide, enjoying a nice little hand-job.
This was in full view of my Folks too.

Hmm...
(BigAndyBee, Fri 8 Jun 2007, 20:21, Reply)

Fatdog and Adventure Ears, Part 2
One of the things about Jack Russells is that they're small and high-strung, which means that they tend to get cold easily. I find that it's common among owners of these mimsy little things to have them sleep under the covers at night, often curled into a miserable little ball behind your knees.

The thing is, Adventure Ears will huddle behind my knees until she gets warm- usually somewhere between 2 and 3 am- and then stretch out. And a Jack Russell paw is small and pointed.

Being awakened by being anally fisted by a Jack Russell is a lot less fun than it sounds.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 8 Jun 2007, 15:28, Reply)

When I was small...
We had two cats, Minnie and Lottie. Lottie owned my brother, and Minnie was mine. Minnie never hurt anyone, alhough she was a great hunter. Lottie was... well, imagine a small furry chainsaw. The two of them were inseperable.

One house we had, we lived next door to an old people's home. The cats used to spend a lot of time there, as old people are happy to sit all day and fuss the cats. One day, the woman who ran the granny farm came round to complain that our cats dug up her flower beds.

"Er..." said my Dad. "Don't you have a dog?"

She did. Turns out the cats had showed it who was boss, and left it at that. We had no idea. Until the day that the dog jumped over the fence into our garden. The cats were having none of this one. Minnie did a dying swan routine in the middle of the garden, so the dog takes off after her. Meanwhile, there's no sign of Lottie. I was outside watching this, thinking 'Odd... No Lottie." Two laps of the garden, Minnie goes past a tree. The one Lottie was hiding in. Lottie does a Para-style flying leap onto the dog's neck, and manages a perfect 5-point landing. The dog howls in panic. Minnie spins around and bundles in too. One absolutely *massive* pasting later, the dog tries to make a break for it. But our garden is lower, and he can't get back over the fence... We go round next door and ask them to come rescue the dog.

Stupid dog did this twice more. Then one day, both cats come in, dragging their bellies behind them, both wearing big grins. They flop down on a bed somewhere. Next door starts putting up posters about a missing dog. WTF? Our cats *ate* an Alsatian? Seems so.
(purplegod counting down for Christmas!, Sat 9 Jun 2007, 10:21, Reply)

when
my friend sarah lost her dad, she was only 6. in order to cheer her up, which was do-able at that age, her mother bought her a hamster.

the next day, sarah ran gleefully downstairs to play with her new pet. only to discover it had escaped in the night. not content with that, it had fallen into the big fishbowl underneath and drowned.

not content with THAT, the corpse had bloated and swollen and poisoned the fish. which were floating on the surface.

so this poor eager little 6 year old ran happily into the room to play with her pets. only to be greeted with a floating bowl of death. shame.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Fri 8 Jun 2007, 16:36, Reply)

The old adage about council flats proved incorrect
It was my sisters sixth birthday and she got a kitten from my parents. She was over the crescent moon. I was sent to bed for being a naughty boy so missed seeing the action but I did hear it. What I heard was the following

My sister:'Wheee! Whee!

The Kitten:'miAAAwww! miAAAwww!'

For a couple of minutes this continued. Then I heard my mother

'What the hell are you doing?!' SMACK!

Tears and crying from my sister as she runs into our room and dives underneath the bed covers.

turns out that in her eagerness to play with her new pet my beloved sister had got a coathanger, tucked the hook into the kittens collar and proceeded to SWING the petrified moggy around the room, 'Because I thought she would like it'.

Which just goes to show that in Hackney council flats -regardless of what the residents say- there is enough room to swing a cat.

It has been not so scientifically proven by my family.
(The_Greyhound wrote www.luckymcdanger.blog.co.uk on, Fri 8 Jun 2007, 11:47, Reply)

Lucy Goosey
Our neighbor had a goose that one day wandered over and started following me and my family around. We thought it was so adorable that we wanted to name it and let it just hang out with us. But the next day we couldn't find it anywhere, and then we heard it honking next door. They had locked it up in a pen! My step-father, Rich, went over there and asked our neighbor why he locked it up and he said she was an ornery bitch who would just be a nuisance and attack anyone that came near her. "But she liked us!" Rich protested, so our neighbor basically said "Fine then, it's yours".

Well it turns out the reason she was such an utter cunt to most people is that she had lost her mate, and geese mate for life, and apparently she had taken a fancy to Rich! So now she follows him around, making geesy noises every time he talks on the phone and honking and screaming every time she hears his truck (or any truck for that matter) and runs full speed to the driveway. She's fairly protective, too and will attack total strangers if they act too hostile or affectionate towards Rich. She once kept a postman trapped in his car four over an hour until my step-dad arrived to rescue him. She's also a randy old gal, especially in the spring. My older brother had a friend who she tried to rape while he sat by a bonfire outside, and in his horror he threw his beer on her to get her to back off, but I think that just made it worse. My mom and her have formed some sort of truce, though. I assume that Mom must have knocked the hell out of her the first time she tried anything. We even buried an old bathtub in the backyard for her to bathe in as she'd muck up our pool and be in there all hours of the night splashing.

Heres a pic:

( J-Rod chortled as he came, Tue 12 Jun 2007, 19:41, Reply)

My daughter's hamster
It's my daughter's 4th birthday and I go up to the posh bit of Enfield and buy a beautiful loving black hamster and a hamster cage.

The hamster comes in a cardboard box that I place on the seat of my car as I drive down to Hackney.

Well, it starts battering away at the sides of the box so I put the box into the footwell of the passenger seat.

I got home, went into the house with the cage and then returned to the car. The hamster had bitten a hole through it's box and as I'd left the car doors open had fucked off into the street.

Fuck. Anyways its only 4pm so I'll go to a Hackney pet shop and get a replacement hamster.

I get to the pet shop and ask for a hamster. "OK!" says the young lad who's underage working in the shop.

Anyway he shows me this golden hamster in it's cage. "OK that'll do!" I say. He opens the cage and grabs the hamster which does not move. "Oh err he must be sleeping! I'll see if there are any others!". The hamster in the cage is clearly dead. Anyway he gets me another hamster from the back of the shop. And this is a Hackney hamster. It's got attitude, an ASBO and wears a hoodie. It starts screaming away as it gets put into its cardboard box but I think fuck it I can't let my dear daughter down.

Anyway I install the hamster in its cage and then drive into middle of London to collect my daughter from nursery.

My daughter's birthday is in November so it's dark by now.

As Im travelling along I look in the rearview mirror and I see the original black hamster cleaning its paws on the rear parcel shelf. Fuck me. I thought I'd beeter catch it and put it back in its box otherwise my daughter might freak out in the car.

So I stop the car and then suddenly get an inordinate fear of being bitten by this hamster. So I put on a pair of big ski gloves that I had handy and began to try and catch this fucking hamster.

So there I am, on a dark evening, looking for a black hamster in a black-trimmed car with a pair of black gloves on. Fucking genius.

Anyway I caught it after 15 mins put it in ots own cardboard box, nested that box into the econd cardboard box and put the fucker in the boot.

Anyway I picked my daughter up and was travelling back to Hackney and got at attack of guilt. What if the poor hamster was suffocating? I could have that on my conscience even though I was secretly thinking of murdering the working class Hackney hamster.

So I opened the boot and fuck me the little bastard had chewed through both boxes and was free in the car. Fuck it I thought.

So I start driving again and sure enough the little fucker was on the parcel shel again loking straight at the mirror - and I swear it was smiling.

Anyway I screeched to a halt opemed the back door and the hamster shot off into Newington Green never to be seen again.

2 days later my daughter leaves the lid off the cage and the mad Hackney gangsta hamster escape and comes a ropper in a moustrap we had down.

So we replaced it with a pair of the wifes tights all rolled up and she was quite happy with that (she thought it was having a really long sleep) for a couple of weeks until we got a third hamster.
(tonyhrx, Tue 12 Jun 2007, 13:34, Reply)