Prawn crackers manqué
May. 27th, 2006 10:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceI have posted before about Barry-the-cat's curious and unfortunate penchant for chewing what it is inappropriate to chew. Hitherto, it's always been hard stuff, metal mostly, that worries me for the sake of his teeth (I've taken to cloaking the bedside radio in a T-shirt, so's he won't try to get at the aerial). As I type, though, he's trying to dig his way into a sealed cardboard box, because he knows - quite rightly - that the books inside are padded about with expanded-polystyrene beads, and he wants to eat them.
Null flavour, null scent, texture of prawn crackers - what can be the attraction? But he's mad for them. And he does eat them, swallowing and all, and that can't be good for him either. Which is why the box is sealed (well, actually turned upside down), but I don't think it's going to defy him long.
Honestly, he is so destructive. It's like living with a puppy: every time I come home, I wonder what new victim is going to be disembowelled across the carpet. Yesterday it was a toilet-roll (dangly thing! kill! slaughter!). Last night, as usual, it was me. He's a vampire-cat, fixated on blood; he spent a happy five minutes trying to get at my wrists, but I was sneakily hiding them inside the sleeves of my bathrobe, so all he was getting was mouthfuls of green towelling. So he refocused, plunged upwards and bit into my jugular.
Next time, I shall bathe in holy water. That'll fox him. (An aside: there's a wonderful moment in the first Chalet School book, where the girls are having their hair washed - a rare experience, and one they loathe - and Grizelda tries to ask in German for hers to be rinsed in hot water, but alas, says holy water instead. This is a great joke, and repeated constantly through all the fifty-nine books to come...)
Null flavour, null scent, texture of prawn crackers - what can be the attraction? But he's mad for them. And he does eat them, swallowing and all, and that can't be good for him either. Which is why the box is sealed (well, actually turned upside down), but I don't think it's going to defy him long.
Honestly, he is so destructive. It's like living with a puppy: every time I come home, I wonder what new victim is going to be disembowelled across the carpet. Yesterday it was a toilet-roll (dangly thing! kill! slaughter!). Last night, as usual, it was me. He's a vampire-cat, fixated on blood; he spent a happy five minutes trying to get at my wrists, but I was sneakily hiding them inside the sleeves of my bathrobe, so all he was getting was mouthfuls of green towelling. So he refocused, plunged upwards and bit into my jugular.
Next time, I shall bathe in holy water. That'll fox him. (An aside: there's a wonderful moment in the first Chalet School book, where the girls are having their hair washed - a rare experience, and one they loathe - and Grizelda tries to ask in German for hers to be rinsed in hot water, but alas, says holy water instead. This is a great joke, and repeated constantly through all the fifty-nine books to come...)
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Date: 2006-05-27 11:54 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-27 12:50 pm (UTC)