Andy Richardson: Beware of those devilish cats when going about your day
Cats. Soft. Fluffy. Full of love and affection? Right. Nah. Wrong. Cats are the devil’s work. While the world’s 2,500 Gods – and that’s a helluva lot of Gods, logic dictates the worshippers of 2,499 have placed their money on the wrong horse – are busy designing heaven, full of harp-playing angels and suckling pig feasts, the Devil is talking to his crack sidekicks. Cats.
And right here on earth, they are the ones gently wreacking havoc on our everyday lives. Forget flooding and Covid-19, the thing that’s more likely to get you than either of those is cats.
It was a pleasant Sunday morning. The cats had worken us, as they do. I’m sure they have the same body clock as us and know what time they ought to be getting up. But like an over-eager newbie in the office, they’re winding the clock forwards by five minutes each day as they make earlier and earlier demands for breakfast. A time will come when supper time and breakfast time coincide, like some sort of gastronomic feline eclipse. But I digress.
The cats needed food. And so downstairs I went to oblige. One had dragged a plastic toy in front of a single step into the room in which they feed.
And so, amid the gloom, I found the middle toe of my left foot cracking into the toy and I stumbled three steps forward like a drunk, desperately trying to maintain my balance. I’m pretty sure I heard the cats snigger. “Well done Ovid,” said one to the other, which was weird, because neither is named Ovid. But then cats are clever and secretly spend their night-times reading Roman love elegies from the era of Augustus.
I looked down at my foot. It was pulsing. And growing purple. I thought I’d continue my day and winced as I pulled on a pair of running trainers. After a minute-and-a-half on the treadmill, I realised I’d been defeated. No run. More cat sniggers.
The Cat Protection League exists to look after feline friends who’ve fallen on hard times. I’m wondering whether to start a homo sapien equivalent, for humans who’ve fallen on hard cats.
The bone wasn’t broken. Bone is harder than plastic toys laid out like elephant traps on the top of steps. Phew. Though a doctor friend told me I’d severed the ligament. Nice work, Ovid. And your pesky brother. Breakfast will served….. in eight days, if you’re lucky.
I tend to have a thing for injuring myself before breakfast. The only time I’ve actually broken a toe also came before reaching my desk. An energetic start to the morning had been followed by a gentle collision with a door frame. Ouch. And now my little toe points behind me, like an owl’s face when he’s checking out what’s over his shoulder.
Such injuries, however, pale into insignificance against those accrued by She Who Must Be Obeyed. During a fantastic holiday, she decided to book herself in for a skydiving session, as you do.
So while I was busily pottering around a botanical garden she was free-falling to earth from 9,000 ft. Which is a helluva long way. I arrived at the parachute club to see her group come in to land.
And I thought to myself the descent seemed a bit too steep, a bit too fast.
A few minutes after the rest of her group had made their way back to a club house, armed with certificates to reflect their courage (read: madness), a ghost-like figure emerged. She had her arms wrapped over the shoulders of two instructors who both looked as though they’d just been handed a tax return. I muttered to myself gravely about the foolishness of the person who was being helped back to the hut. Who’d be daft enough to jump out a plane and risk injury?
The answer, it turned out, was She Who Must Be Obeyed. A swift journey to the local A&E revealed a broken ankle and severed tendons, resulting in a 12-week rehab. Ouch.
Back home, Ovid marvelled at the length of her lay-off and wondered whether he might not have placed the plastic cat toy in an even more dangerous position so that he could have really done some damage.
My toe is on the mend, and She Who Must Be Obeyed is finally off her crutches. She asked me if I wanted to go and start planning this year’s holiday. There’ll be no parachute jumps, she has promised, so our holibobs shouldn’t be interrupted by emergency trips to the local hospital. She suggested we discuss where we’d like to go over tea and cake at a new Cat Café that’s opened just down the road. Ah. Right. Do you know what, I think I’ll stay at home this year.