We’re well into Autumn now, because it started in
early August, but there are hints of better weather for September,
which means the chance to sit outside and write. Of course, that
brings its own challenges, especially at lunch time.
There are marauding chickens, they know what a plate is
for, and with a little effort can manage the vertical-launch to swipe
lunch. Having lost half a sandwich to chickens in the past, I am
wary, I keep an eye on them, but there’s only one of me, twenty of
them, and their hunting strategy evolves. I’m not sure if the
latest trick is a diversionary tactic, or just wearing me down.
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| Cock-a-doodle-BOO! |
We have two cockerels, and the younger of them has
taken to standing behind my chair and delivering his best, most
deafening cock-a-doodle-ahhh! I know it’s supposed to be a ‘do’
on the end there, but he’s young and hasn’t had enough practice.
Neo, the senior bird, does a serious
cock-a-doodle-dooooooooooooooooo! The way he strains to get every
last bit of breath into that finale makes it look like he’s the one
laying the eggs, not the hens. Either way, it’s three strikes and
then I throw something light enough to do no harm, but change the
lyrics to cock-a-doodle-EEEEK.
Naturally, it’s a conspiracy, because the cats also
get involved. It does happen that I get sat on when I’m working
inside the house, but for some reason being out in the sun makes me a
far more attractive target. My best explanation is that if I’m
guarding my lunch from chickens, that improves the chances for a cat,
specifically Piper, to swipe something tasty.
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| I'm not sure these are my size |
The thing is, Oatmeal often hangs around his people when
they are sitting outside. His preferred spot is under the chair, or
on our feet, because whilst he has many fine and adorable qualities
Oatmeal is not an agile or athletic cat. He can jump, but not
very high and not reliably. The essential pain-avoidance activity is
to watch him and, when he does make the lap-leap, give him a boost up
because the alternative is to have claws latch into your leg as
nearly seven kilos of cat finishes the jump with a climb.
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| Give it up, Two-legs - I can wait all day and this laptop is warm. |
Piper, on the other lap, launches and almost
floats up. I say almost, because little Ginge is the one who really
floats up, but she’s not much of a one for stealing my lunch.
Piper is. Piper arrives, plants his six and half kilos on my lap, or
on the laptop, and then goes reaching for lunch. It doesn’t matter
whether or not the plate carries anything that Piper actually likes –
it’s the principle of the thing. Supposedly this is a case of mi
comida es su comida, but since neither I nor the cat speak
Spanish, it’s anyone’s guess.
The only solution is to show him the plate, make it
clear that neither bread nor fruit is for cats, and hope he doesn’t
notice the cheese. And hope he doesn’t sneeze.
I like sitting outside to write, but I have to be alert
and remember the golden rule: the cat is like an Olympic runner in
training – he can always take another lap.
