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One night stand.

A person who is interested only in one night stands or even just casual sex with the same person is called a wombat. Which co-incidentally is what that thing on the left is called.
“Why?” you ask. “Because” I reply, “a wombat eats roots and leaves”.

If you’re a bit slow on the uptake, then let me explain…..’to have a root’ is slang for ‘to have sex’.


Chewie’s story.

I’m really not too thrilled to be writing this, but Claudia asked so here goes. It’s a sad story with no happy ending.

Chewie’s real name was Rorshach after the guy who invented the Ink Blot test because (although I don’t have any pictures to show it), his pattern was perfectly symetrical along his spinal axis. We we called him Chewie because, a) it was easier than Rorshach (we could have gone with Rory), and b) every time you picked him up he would be dripping with Bentley’s saliva, hence Chewie; which was short for Chew toy.

Exhibit A.

When he came to us from the RSPCA he was only about 6 weeks old and really timid, it took us days to get him out from under the bed. But when he did come around he was amazing! The most pleasant natured and fun loving cat I’ve ever had, and make no mistake, he was my cat. Nearly every time you walked down the hall, he’d jump out of a doorway and put a full-nelson on your leg and ride you the rest of the way.

But what was the most fun was that he’d chase a ball all day long, and more importantly he’d bring it back. I’d scrunch up a sheet of paper into the size of a large marble and flick it all over the house, he’d find it wherever it was, bring it back and drop it at your feet. I once got him to do it 36 times before he got bored.

He loved to curl up in the crook of my arm and watch TV with me, he was just the most affectionate cat. And placid, you could do anything without him reacting. Some cats will jump ship when they sense the slightest of movements, Chewie would just stay there until you got up and he’d just slide down and end up on the floor.

Exhibit B. It’s normally not this crowded.

Bentley and Chewie got on great, they would play hard and sleep hard. Which suited Bentley fine as he was too shit-scared to go near Tigger (with good reason). However, being a Beagle he needed a playmate (this was before Buddy showed up).

Exhibit C.

Okay, brace yourselves. When Chewie was 17 months old we bought the property here in the bush, and I agonised between leaving him on the Coast with MDW or bringing him up here. In the end I left him on the Coast as I was concerned about the snakes and also the wide open spaces; he was still very young. Plus there was a strange mother cat with a new litter here and I didn’t want trouble. Buzz and Booey came from that litter and the mother and the other kitten ended up as barn mousers on another farm (as opposed to the house cats B&B are).

Leaving him was OK because at that stage I was going back to the Coast regularly and saw him a lot. Then one day MDW rang me in tears to tell me that she had come home from a 3 day conference to find Chewie curled up dead in the corner of the downstairs living room. At first she just thought he was asleep, but found that he was cold when she went to pat him. When she hung up I called a friend to go around and comfort her, he also buried him. Before you jump to conclusions, he had plenty of food and water, and Tigger was fine.

There are three possible causes of death and without an autospy we’ll never know which it was (the people from CSI, Crossing Jordan, NCIS and Criminal Minds will all tell you the same thing). It was either a parasite tick (we almost lost Tigger to one), a spider (the area is known for its record numbers) or a re-occurance of the Fluti he had recently been treated for. Whatever it was, it took a beautiful little cat from me.


What’s happening to me?

I used to be such a free thinker, revelling in my abstract thoughts and flights of fancy. But lately I find myself unable to think in anything other than complete sentences (and sometimes even paragraphs); structured and gramatically correct.

I can no longer lie under my warm covers in the morning waiting until I’m sure the sun has been up long enough to take the chill off things (btw it was -2C last night ), but instead I have to get up and check for comments.

And why can’t I see what is happening around me in everyday life without estimating how many lines that would be? Help me! I got the blogaddiction.

Is there a blogger’s anonymous? I know there are anonymous bloggers but I don’t think that’s the same thing.