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Posts Tagged ‘jungle’

This was all so before my time, in kitty terms it is purractically Purrehistoric…

Long ago and far away, in a land where the trees never shed their leaves, where the snow never falls and the rain is so warm it’s like taking a shower with your clothes on, there lived and became a small Family.

But, before the family bit became and be-was, there were Cats (and after too, obviously).

Firstly and only for a very short while – due to a pack of yellow-eyed slavering feral dogs which ran in the night-time – there was Half’a’Guinness, a small feisty black kitten. This is him…

He loved his heggs did little Guinness.

Then there was Cobweb. Being a Siamese (though not quite as Pure as she ought to be) she had Purretensions and Temperament. Her bipeds were returning to Blighty and couldn’t take her with them, mostly due to the Temperament, but also the cost of air-freighting and quarantineing, so she became companion to little Arfa and looked down her nose at him, mostly…

This is her…

After the Dogs That Killed in the Night Time, it became known on the grapevine (or pussibly any old vine – stick a twig in the ground and it would grow like Jack’s Beanstalk) that Cobweb’s nevvy was looking for a Good Home, so along came a tiny black kitten which was named Squirrel…

And this is him…

Rather in the way of Marmers, Cobweb became the ‘stremely irritatin’ one and Squirrel, like me, the Most Dearly Beloved.

When it became time for the Family, which had now become Four instead of Two, to return also to Blighty, Cobweb fell on all her four paws and found a home with an ancient Australian lady called Dorothy, who spoke to her as if she were at least a Duchess, and fussed over her such that the pu’s had to stifle their grins behind their hands, for Lady Cobweb had never been spoken to in such gushing tones before: Dorothy fed her on roast chicken and vitamin pills and she throve into old age.

Alas for Squirrel, the Siamese part of his Temperament made him flee from his would-be adopters and he disappeared into the Jungle, never to be seen again…

Thus ends the tale of the First Cats.

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While the parental units were oot’n’aboot the other day, I was left In Charge of Rolling Ells: Marmers was designated Deputy Squeaker and carried out his roll by having an Extensive Snooze, as is his wont.

Naturally I felt it my bounden duty to patrol regularly, invoking the ‘sus’ Law with any Intruders. I felt a real sense of achievement when I was able to curtail the incursions of this big stripey fellow – who knows where such outrageous trespassing might have lead, had Captain KC of the CCC Guard had not been Alert!

He already had the torn wing that lead to his demise, honest guv would I lie to you? Nary a paw was laid upon him…

Upon the pu’s return, I purresented them with my booty, at which they cried out in amazement at my purrowess. At least, I think that’s how it went. The big stripy fellow was quite desiccated by then, so I was just tossing him about a bit for show…as you do…

Then, just as a sort of wee insurance policy in the event of Things Turning Nasty, I did that uber-cute rollover we innocent kitties do so well (and better than dugs because, and here’s the clincher, we don’t smell).

I think it worked…

Though you never quite know with bipeds. Funny critters.

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Look at these poor suffering prisoners! Immured at Cambo House near Crail, their lot in Liff is Hard Labour day in, day out. Their poor snouts are worn to the gristle with digging roots shoots and leaves. Their never-ending task – to clear weed-knotted ground of brambles, dockens, hogweed, creeping buttercup, bishop weed (or ground elder, depending on your foot orientation) and other nasties.

They need your support and sympathy!

Free The Tamworth Two!

mpu is sixty-two

happy birthday mpu

DISCLAIMER: No resemblance between an mpu and a pig is intended or implied in any way whatsoever.

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That Jeelie, she’s just moitherin‘ me to put her Pride&Joy into my blog again, and it a mere dug too! Well, don’t say I’m not good to you is all. Bloody dugs comin’ in here and takin’ up purrecious space…mutter, mutter, mutt…

So anyway, there he goes, off into Butterfly Heaven, trot-trot-trot, through the Meadowsweet, without a care in the world…

But not for long, because he wants to know what the rest of us are doing (well to be strickly honest like I always am, I wasn’t actually there, but they told me all about it afterwards, like)

“Well come on then,” sez he, “Let’s get a move on – things to see, smells to smell and so on…”

So they did. And so did he…

Sometimes he was just a blur…unless you’d rather blame Her-in-Charge of Catcam, but I wouldn’t if I were you…

Now, me’n’Marmers really really get this bit. This is Interestin’ Smells of Somethin’ or Other. It might be a Woozle…

Then again, it might just be a dug’s mammy and nuncle…

Me’n’Marmers had to stifle a bit of a snortygiggle at this one…poor poor Paddy, hobbled by Sticky Willie! (Paddy’s mammy would like you to know that white bit in the middle is a front paw and not one of those distant memories that some of us have…it’d be quite impurrressive if it was:-)

Freed from bondage, Paddy trots off towards the light and more butterfly clouds…

That without which a walk is but a poor poor thing indeed…

Back in CookieCutterCott and inexplicably attached to mpu’s slippered foot. We purrefer laps ourselves, but it is a dug after all….

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…brought to us by the St Andrews Preservation Trust Limited – Hidden Gardens of St Andrews 2010. The pu’s, accompanied by Ancient Australian Friend, followed the Trust’s map around 11 of 12 gardens on Sunday, in purrfect weather.

No thanks to the Tourist Office, who, having run out of tickets, were unhelpful in the extreme, sending their hapless victims (without clear directions) to one of the gardens (in Guthrie Place) which was not selling tickets; but many thanks to the denizens of the year-round Christmas Shop, who had run out of street maps, but sent our dogged trio to MacGregor’s “Where we get sandwiches at lunchtime”, who had also run out of street maps, but whose very helpful waitress went out into South Street to point out the whereabouts of said Place. On arriving, and discovering lack of ticket availability, a very kind couple gave up one of their maps and Trio got well-ticketed at the Museum…at last!

10/10 to people of St Andrews, 0/10 to paid peeps at Tourism. I hope I have made that very very clear…

So. To start at the St Andrew’s Preservation Trust (I feel a Kate Rusby song coming on) Museum, here we are in the D’Arcy Wentworth Thomson garden, which had tea and biscuits, a plant stall and a book stall, and where AAF found a copy of Rebecca, which she rather wanted to read, in order to refresh her memory after having just finished Susan Hill’s sequel .

There was a Storyteller too, but she was on a break, and there was only a pile of colourful cushions to show where she had been. To be honest, Going Around Gardens isn’t really a Small Person’s Thing…

Onwards to a smallish-but-purrfectly-formed garden, where AAF posed for the camera…

…closely followed by mpu

Now, it has to be said that, for as long as 46 South Street continues to open its deeply secret self to the public once a year, there will never be any dispute as to the winner of The Most Marvelous Secret Garden Ever In The History of Secret Gardens Contest. Entering through the front door of the house, in a busy town street, going through the hall and finding yourself in a really nice garden…

…and thinking that was it, you then walk into another bit…

…which is wild, with mown paths and old fruit trees…

…followed by more cultivation (by which time you think purrhaps you have entered a horticultural Tardis)

…followed by a glorious sitootery with rose-festooned arches and stone paths overflowing with floriferousness

Eventually it was time to leave ‘this long garden dating from the original Mediaeval Town Plan of St Andrews’ to go and admire other smaller delights.

Just look at the utterly purrfect pinkness of these peonies, in a garden recently revitalised under the guidance of Colin MacBeath of Quercus Nursery, a magical plantsman’s paradise luring in the depths of the Rankeillor Estate – where not one single smelly candle, garden gnome, nor any other piece of faffery gets in the way of plants plants plants.

Sorry, got a bit carried away…

Thence to a terraced garden with ponds, fountain and rill…and cascading roses

And, finally, The Burgher Kirk, 136 South Street – another gem of the Preservation Trust and the teeniest garden of them all.

mpu exits onto South Street, almost back where they had begun, footsore and hot, but with a remembered riot of colour to recall when winter’s icy grasp gets us by the short-and-curlies once again…but not yet…

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Whaat???

Whaat???

This is what happens when you’re a famous feline. The Paparazza insists on dogging your every pawprint. Sometimes it feels like there’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

However, I have my get-out claws. Feline Run!

After this purrticular intrusion into my Zen-like contemplation in the Sunroom of Transience, I felt the need to exit the purremises in search of solitude. Not as easy as it sounds…

First of all I wander out into the sunny garden, but still she haunts me, so there’s nothing for it but to go for my un-patented escape tunnel. As I slink under the fence, disappearing bit by bit like a Cheshire Cat in reverse, nothing remains but the tip of my fluffy tail.

Meanwhile, Marmers is wandering aimlessly about, doing a bit of bird-watching, humming a tuneless little hum, when he too decides to take time out. Just as my tippy-tail is slipping out of sight, he spots it and follows me down into the foetid jungle. Is there no escape?

If you’re curious enough to view the following Slide Show, I hope you notice what an extremely tight squeeze it is, as he forces his fat furry form down my purrivate bolt-hole

In the end I gave up and rejoined the patarraza, leaving m’Marmalade Chum to find his own way home. I am not my plump chum’s keeper after all!

Kingdom Cat’s Great Escape

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