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24.7.03
The tail of the shadowy cat
By Brindis
Many years ago, when I was a but a kitten, I studied at the Institute for Feline Antiquaries. Often I would retreat for a weekend in the rural backwaters, to visit some ancient cat burial mound in that obscure and (as many would justifiably argue) antiquated country, England. As a city dweller, I am accustomed to the culture of museums and galleries, but certain aspects of the countryside, such as the long shadows of evening when the crows fly to the gloomy woods and the trees turn into threatening yellow monsters, are printed indelibly upon my memory. On my last sojourn beyond the perimeters of Metropolia, I stayed in a country inn in Suffolk. The landlord, a retired farm hand who boasted of the times when he would catch a score of mice a day, allocated me a room in a dusty wing of his establishment and the first night passed uneventfully. The next morning I walked to a nearby site of interest, the Long Cat of Bonzo Hill, where the figure of a cat scratched onto a chalk hillside dominates the landscape. It is said to predate Stone Henge but as I have often argued, claw sharpening implements had not been discovered at that time, casting serious doubt on the argument. However, I digress. Close to this site was a strange white stone in the middle of a field, which aroused my curiosity. As I approached the stone I felt the strangest sadness, as though a close relative had just been lost. Despite my interest, it repelled me and I returned to the inn. Suddenly I became very tired and it was all I could do to get back to my bed and fall asleep without partaking of supper. During the night, however, I awoke with a start as I felt what seemed like a tail brushing against my fur. I had the most inexplicable desire to walk around the dilapidated old building. First of all, I went to the staircase, intending to go downstairs and seek company, but then seemed to be pulled in the opposite direction, towards a closed door at the end of the corridor. As I reached the door, the hackles on my back raised themselves spontaneously (something that has never happened since) and all of a sudden I froze to the spot as I heard the sound of a key on the other side of the door, turning slowly in the lock, as sharp tallons scratched on the other side. And then, very slowly, the door opened. My heart was beating like a chased mouse and I tried in vain to close my eyes. Everything after that is a blur. The shadow of a tail falling across the wall, a loud hiss, two white fangs closing around my head, pulling me into a gaping blood-filled mouth. I do not know what happened next, as I am old and my memory fails me. Perhaps it is better that way. But the next day I recounted the experience to the landlord over a bowl of mutton.
"Ah", he said. "Why you walks that way? You're lucky you're 'ere now."
He paused and drew breath, lowering his voice.
"That be The Shadow. He was 'anged for killing fowl, many years back."
I asked where this terrible punishment had taken place.
"Near White Stone", he replied.
"Do you mean that peculiar rock in the middle of a field?"
"Aye, there it be. Ye must ne'er go near White Stone. Many a cat has vanished near White Stone."
According to this country bumpkin I had visited a curious lump of granite and incurred the wrath of a dead cat! Absolute stuff and nonsense of course, but I made a solemn vow never to visit to the countryside again.
By Brindis
Many years ago, when I was a but a kitten, I studied at the Institute for Feline Antiquaries. Often I would retreat for a weekend in the rural backwaters, to visit some ancient cat burial mound in that obscure and (as many would justifiably argue) antiquated country, England. As a city dweller, I am accustomed to the culture of museums and galleries, but certain aspects of the countryside, such as the long shadows of evening when the crows fly to the gloomy woods and the trees turn into threatening yellow monsters, are printed indelibly upon my memory. On my last sojourn beyond the perimeters of Metropolia, I stayed in a country inn in Suffolk. The landlord, a retired farm hand who boasted of the times when he would catch a score of mice a day, allocated me a room in a dusty wing of his establishment and the first night passed uneventfully. The next morning I walked to a nearby site of interest, the Long Cat of Bonzo Hill, where the figure of a cat scratched onto a chalk hillside dominates the landscape. It is said to predate Stone Henge but as I have often argued, claw sharpening implements had not been discovered at that time, casting serious doubt on the argument. However, I digress. Close to this site was a strange white stone in the middle of a field, which aroused my curiosity. As I approached the stone I felt the strangest sadness, as though a close relative had just been lost. Despite my interest, it repelled me and I returned to the inn. Suddenly I became very tired and it was all I could do to get back to my bed and fall asleep without partaking of supper. During the night, however, I awoke with a start as I felt what seemed like a tail brushing against my fur. I had the most inexplicable desire to walk around the dilapidated old building. First of all, I went to the staircase, intending to go downstairs and seek company, but then seemed to be pulled in the opposite direction, towards a closed door at the end of the corridor. As I reached the door, the hackles on my back raised themselves spontaneously (something that has never happened since) and all of a sudden I froze to the spot as I heard the sound of a key on the other side of the door, turning slowly in the lock, as sharp tallons scratched on the other side. And then, very slowly, the door opened. My heart was beating like a chased mouse and I tried in vain to close my eyes. Everything after that is a blur. The shadow of a tail falling across the wall, a loud hiss, two white fangs closing around my head, pulling me into a gaping blood-filled mouth. I do not know what happened next, as I am old and my memory fails me. Perhaps it is better that way. But the next day I recounted the experience to the landlord over a bowl of mutton.
"Ah", he said. "Why you walks that way? You're lucky you're 'ere now."
He paused and drew breath, lowering his voice.
"That be The Shadow. He was 'anged for killing fowl, many years back."
I asked where this terrible punishment had taken place.
"Near White Stone", he replied.
"Do you mean that peculiar rock in the middle of a field?"
"Aye, there it be. Ye must ne'er go near White Stone. Many a cat has vanished near White Stone."
According to this country bumpkin I had visited a curious lump of granite and incurred the wrath of a dead cat! Absolute stuff and nonsense of course, but I made a solemn vow never to visit to the countryside again.
14.7.03
Hot Weather
By Paolo
As we are still in Amsterdam, I am enjoying the last days before our move to London. These days have been hot, sticky and difficult to live in. And being wrapped in a fur coat it is a serios inconvenience. I am surprised with the weather - this is my second summer in this city - it is as warm as in my beloved Italy, last year July was a rainz month.
Windows are wide open, but even so there is no air coming in. I am enjoying long afternoons dozing my head in the hot mist and dreaming of my next meal. However, I am not hungry but thirsty, and drinking lots of water I show a peculiarity: I use my hands to pour the water on my mouth. Our humans seem to be amuzed by this behaviour and highlight it to all visitors as an odd thing to happen.
I feel loved and beloved. My confidence has grown and I enjoy more the family life. And the routines I have created for myself. Master Brindis teachings are scheduled in short slots - he believes I cannot take long explanations - make my days eventful and enjoyable.
I am learning to be less shy and more friendly when we have visitors. I am still far away from the graceful moves of Master Brindis - he believes a friendly welcome is a great source of rubbing hand and extra food, like opening a new bank account - but my efforts are being rewarded and I am being known as Italian Paolo, beatifull Paolo!.
Last afternoon I had a dream, I can not bring my self to confess it to Master Brindis, but it bothers me a lot: I dreamt of having a shower - very cold one, with shampoo - and enjoying it. It must be the nice weather.
Until next time
By Paolo
As we are still in Amsterdam, I am enjoying the last days before our move to London. These days have been hot, sticky and difficult to live in. And being wrapped in a fur coat it is a serios inconvenience. I am surprised with the weather - this is my second summer in this city - it is as warm as in my beloved Italy, last year July was a rainz month.
Windows are wide open, but even so there is no air coming in. I am enjoying long afternoons dozing my head in the hot mist and dreaming of my next meal. However, I am not hungry but thirsty, and drinking lots of water I show a peculiarity: I use my hands to pour the water on my mouth. Our humans seem to be amuzed by this behaviour and highlight it to all visitors as an odd thing to happen.
I feel loved and beloved. My confidence has grown and I enjoy more the family life. And the routines I have created for myself. Master Brindis teachings are scheduled in short slots - he believes I cannot take long explanations - make my days eventful and enjoyable.
I am learning to be less shy and more friendly when we have visitors. I am still far away from the graceful moves of Master Brindis - he believes a friendly welcome is a great source of rubbing hand and extra food, like opening a new bank account - but my efforts are being rewarded and I am being known as Italian Paolo, beatifull Paolo!.
Last afternoon I had a dream, I can not bring my self to confess it to Master Brindis, but it bothers me a lot: I dreamt of having a shower - very cold one, with shampoo - and enjoying it. It must be the nice weather.
Until next time
8.7.03
Today's news at CNN http://edition.cnn.com/2003/WORLD/europe/07/08/russia.cats.reut/index.html
Fish-sniffing cat beats smugglers
Tuesday, July 8, 2003 Posted: 1057 GMT ( 6:57 PM HKT)
Fish in the Caspian Sea have become endangered since the collapse of Soviet rule.
MOSCOW, Russia (Reuters) -- Move over bomb-sniffing dogs, here comes Rusik, the fish-sniffing cat!
Russian police battling fish smugglers have deployed a cat to sniff out contraband, including Caspian Sea sturgeon which produce Russia's world famous caviar.
A police control post in the southern Stavropol region adopted Rusik one year ago and it now helps officers conduct spot checks on vehicles, the Itar-Tass news agency reported on Tuesday. The cat had distinguished itself with an outstanding nose for fish.
"The cat finds it in any hiding place," Itar-Tass quoted a police spokesman in Stavropol as saying, adding that Rusik was fed on confiscated fish.
Several species of fish in the Caspian Sea, on Russia's southern border, have become endangered since the collapse of Soviet rule led to a sharp rise in fish smuggling.
Fish-sniffing cat beats smugglers
Tuesday, July 8, 2003 Posted: 1057 GMT ( 6:57 PM HKT)
Fish in the Caspian Sea have become endangered since the collapse of Soviet rule.
MOSCOW, Russia (Reuters) -- Move over bomb-sniffing dogs, here comes Rusik, the fish-sniffing cat!
Russian police battling fish smugglers have deployed a cat to sniff out contraband, including Caspian Sea sturgeon which produce Russia's world famous caviar.
A police control post in the southern Stavropol region adopted Rusik one year ago and it now helps officers conduct spot checks on vehicles, the Itar-Tass news agency reported on Tuesday. The cat had distinguished itself with an outstanding nose for fish.
"The cat finds it in any hiding place," Itar-Tass quoted a police spokesman in Stavropol as saying, adding that Rusik was fed on confiscated fish.
Several species of fish in the Caspian Sea, on Russia's southern border, have become endangered since the collapse of Soviet rule led to a sharp rise in fish smuggling.
7.7.03
Internal Memo
From: Hugo du Chat Noir, Editor
To: Legal Department
The Scum is running another article about Paolo. We may have a case for libel if we can prove that Paolo is not a pussy.
THE SCUM
WHAT A PUSSY!
Posh Paolo, the cat from Italy who shot to fame as a so-called footballer, has written in the Feline Observer (F.O.!!!) that he is SCARED OF HUMAN FOOTBALLS. Our headline says it all.
From: Hugo du Chat Noir, Editor
To: Legal Department
The Scum is running another article about Paolo. We may have a case for libel if we can prove that Paolo is not a pussy.
THE SCUM
WHAT A PUSSY!
Posh Paolo, the cat from Italy who shot to fame as a so-called footballer, has written in the Feline Observer (F.O.!!!) that he is SCARED OF HUMAN FOOTBALLS. Our headline says it all.
Strawberries and Cream
The Summer is upon us and I am delighted to say that I shall soon be travelling to London to watch Wimbledon, that delightful game with the soft, bouncy balls, so much more civilised than cricket or human football, which use terrifyingly hard or large balls. I speak as one who was once incapacitated by a human football aimed straight at me by an irate farmer. (I once told Brindis about this incident during my lesson in rapportage, but was told that this was nothing besides having one's tail hit by a Land Rover in London.) So tennis would be my chosen sport, if I were a human, but alas I have only four useless paws so must be content only to eat the strawberries and cream and the smoked salmon sandwiches. Nevertheless one can learn from watching the game and adapting its wonderful philosophy to the constraints of cathood. My favourite player is Phillip-Pussy, a man who doesn't need silly tricks like spinning the ball or slamming it down at high speed but instead gently outwits his opponent with a wistful smile, bringing the game closer to chess than to hard physical exertion. Yes! After watching Wimbledon I have decided to take up chess, the thinking cat's tennis. I really don't know what I ever saw in cat football, which is actually a quite worthless pursuit (and as Brindis has repeatedly told me, exercise is very bad for cats). Marlene and I are taking chess lessons from Grand Master Brindis and I am hoping that I shall soon be assigned responsibility for the chess column in the Feline Observer.
by Paolo 'White King'
Brindis 'Black Knight' writes: 'Checkmate!'
The Summer is upon us and I am delighted to say that I shall soon be travelling to London to watch Wimbledon, that delightful game with the soft, bouncy balls, so much more civilised than cricket or human football, which use terrifyingly hard or large balls. I speak as one who was once incapacitated by a human football aimed straight at me by an irate farmer. (I once told Brindis about this incident during my lesson in rapportage, but was told that this was nothing besides having one's tail hit by a Land Rover in London.) So tennis would be my chosen sport, if I were a human, but alas I have only four useless paws so must be content only to eat the strawberries and cream and the smoked salmon sandwiches. Nevertheless one can learn from watching the game and adapting its wonderful philosophy to the constraints of cathood. My favourite player is Phillip-Pussy, a man who doesn't need silly tricks like spinning the ball or slamming it down at high speed but instead gently outwits his opponent with a wistful smile, bringing the game closer to chess than to hard physical exertion. Yes! After watching Wimbledon I have decided to take up chess, the thinking cat's tennis. I really don't know what I ever saw in cat football, which is actually a quite worthless pursuit (and as Brindis has repeatedly told me, exercise is very bad for cats). Marlene and I are taking chess lessons from Grand Master Brindis and I am hoping that I shall soon be assigned responsibility for the chess column in the Feline Observer.
by Paolo 'White King'
Brindis 'Black Knight' writes: 'Checkmate!'
Letters to the Editor
Hi Guys,
I want to tell all you readers out there about a new contraption for keeping your cat-restroom clean at all times. It is a mechanical scoop activated by a simple swish of the tail and can be ordered by mail from Yankee Cat Inc., New York NY 12321
Greetings,
Yankee Cat
Sir,
I must inform Yankee Cat that his contraption is entirely unnecessary. One need simply use the floor as a lavatory and within minutes the mess will unfailingly be removed and the spot disinfected by an obliging human.
Yours,
Brindis
Hi Guys,
I want to tell all you readers out there about a new contraption for keeping your cat-restroom clean at all times. It is a mechanical scoop activated by a simple swish of the tail and can be ordered by mail from Yankee Cat Inc., New York NY 12321
Greetings,
Yankee Cat
Sir,
I must inform Yankee Cat that his contraption is entirely unnecessary. One need simply use the floor as a lavatory and within minutes the mess will unfailingly be removed and the spot disinfected by an obliging human.
Yours,
Brindis
3.7.03
Rat Attack in my London Town House
By Brindis
Oh my Supreme Cat! My humans are very distressed, as my old London Town House has fallen victim of London Underground digging trouble. The fact is that rats have invaded us. No the house itself but the cellars next to it.
Since the news, Paolo has hidden under the Italian sofa – all Italians have a bit of Berlusconi in themselves – and keeps shouting that he wont go to London until the rats are gone from the house and we can have an all clear.
No reasons are valid to him: even the fact that we would not be living in that house never more but in a new one that is currently being redeveloped by us.
Ah, but coming back to the rats and the humans report. A specialist from the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea was yesterday at our place. Ozzy the name of this wise chap could have been called a nutter if his profession was not a rat-catcher. He is a man of resources as he understands rats and wants to live and let live.
The poison he has put all over the cellar will not kill the rats, but as they are very protective of their babies, take them away to hatch somewhere else.
I am upset about this, our stay with the Dutch has been long: 3 years, and to leave my old Town House in decay and to have a fellow as crazy as Ozzy in charge is deeply worrying.
Rat-catcher will come back on the 16th and hopefully rats will start to go away by then…
I need to take Paolo out, as he needs to go to the loo and for his afternoon lessons.
Keep you posted,
By Brindis
Oh my Supreme Cat! My humans are very distressed, as my old London Town House has fallen victim of London Underground digging trouble. The fact is that rats have invaded us. No the house itself but the cellars next to it.
Since the news, Paolo has hidden under the Italian sofa – all Italians have a bit of Berlusconi in themselves – and keeps shouting that he wont go to London until the rats are gone from the house and we can have an all clear.
No reasons are valid to him: even the fact that we would not be living in that house never more but in a new one that is currently being redeveloped by us.
Ah, but coming back to the rats and the humans report. A specialist from the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea was yesterday at our place. Ozzy the name of this wise chap could have been called a nutter if his profession was not a rat-catcher. He is a man of resources as he understands rats and wants to live and let live.
The poison he has put all over the cellar will not kill the rats, but as they are very protective of their babies, take them away to hatch somewhere else.
I am upset about this, our stay with the Dutch has been long: 3 years, and to leave my old Town House in decay and to have a fellow as crazy as Ozzy in charge is deeply worrying.
Rat-catcher will come back on the 16th and hopefully rats will start to go away by then…
I need to take Paolo out, as he needs to go to the loo and for his afternoon lessons.
Keep you posted,
This appeared in the Guardian on the 28th of June 2003
http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk_news/story/0,3604,986719,00.html
Postmen put a boycott on house where 'Danger Puss' lies in wait for them
Martin Wainwright
Saturday June 28, 2003
The Guardian
A cat in a quiet Hampshire town has triggered a Royal Mail boycott after drawing blood from seven postmen and women.
The 11-year-old spits, jumps at the throat and digs its claws into anyone trying to deliver to the address in New Milton, say staff. They are now refusing to run the gauntlet. Originally misidentified as a dog in injury reports, the burly black tomcat, called Purrdey, has continued his ambushes despite being tied on a leash.
"I've always thought of him as a lovely old fellow, but it seems he has a problem with postmen and women," said his owner, 79-year-old Alan Rice.
"I was very surprised when I went to collect my undelivered mail and the woman on the counter told me: 'Your cat has a very bad reputation in our office.' "
A postwoman was recently seen running from Mr Rice's garden two weeks after one of her colleagues had been driven back by the animal arching its back and spitting.
"This cat is dangerous," said Alan Booth, spokesman for the Royal Mail. "It is intent on drawing blood from any of our staff who try to approach the house.
"It leaps in the air as if it believes it's a tiger and lands on people, digging its claws in as deeply as possible. This cat has become well known among our workers, and frankly its behaviour is unacceptable."
Mr Rice's post is bulky as he is a councillor on all three tiers of local government, sitting on Hampshire county council, New Forest district council and New Milton town council. Committee agendas, minutes and scores of briefing papers have piled up at the local sorting office because Purrdey has prevented delivery.
"It's all rather embarrassing," said Mr Rice, a retired electrical engineer who has taken chocolates to the local sorting office to try to make amends.
"There's a warning up there saying 'Beware of Alan Rice's cat,' " he added.
Cats have occasionally stopped the mail getting through before: last year an animal named Boo Boo prevented deliveries in the Pontprennau area of Cardiff.
Other boycotts have been caused by geese, seagulls, and, in Gloucestershire, a particularly plucky pheasant.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk_news/story/0,3604,986719,00.html
Postmen put a boycott on house where 'Danger Puss' lies in wait for them
Martin Wainwright
Saturday June 28, 2003
The Guardian
A cat in a quiet Hampshire town has triggered a Royal Mail boycott after drawing blood from seven postmen and women.
The 11-year-old spits, jumps at the throat and digs its claws into anyone trying to deliver to the address in New Milton, say staff. They are now refusing to run the gauntlet. Originally misidentified as a dog in injury reports, the burly black tomcat, called Purrdey, has continued his ambushes despite being tied on a leash.
"I've always thought of him as a lovely old fellow, but it seems he has a problem with postmen and women," said his owner, 79-year-old Alan Rice.
"I was very surprised when I went to collect my undelivered mail and the woman on the counter told me: 'Your cat has a very bad reputation in our office.' "
A postwoman was recently seen running from Mr Rice's garden two weeks after one of her colleagues had been driven back by the animal arching its back and spitting.
"This cat is dangerous," said Alan Booth, spokesman for the Royal Mail. "It is intent on drawing blood from any of our staff who try to approach the house.
"It leaps in the air as if it believes it's a tiger and lands on people, digging its claws in as deeply as possible. This cat has become well known among our workers, and frankly its behaviour is unacceptable."
Mr Rice's post is bulky as he is a councillor on all three tiers of local government, sitting on Hampshire county council, New Forest district council and New Milton town council. Committee agendas, minutes and scores of briefing papers have piled up at the local sorting office because Purrdey has prevented delivery.
"It's all rather embarrassing," said Mr Rice, a retired electrical engineer who has taken chocolates to the local sorting office to try to make amends.
"There's a warning up there saying 'Beware of Alan Rice's cat,' " he added.
Cats have occasionally stopped the mail getting through before: last year an animal named Boo Boo prevented deliveries in the Pontprennau area of Cardiff.
Other boycotts have been caused by geese, seagulls, and, in Gloucestershire, a particularly plucky pheasant.
