There is a ginger cat who likes to sit on my front porch. Sometimes I see him flopping around on the sidewalk, or walking along the stone wall in my front garden too.
I don't like him at all.
He is trying to weedle his way into the good graces of Softie. He has met her at the front garden wall for several days, chatting her up and flopping over on his side to show her his belly. Each time he visits, she gives him a scratch behind the ears, speaks kindly to him and strokes him from head to tail. She is too dim to realize it is all subterfuse to get inside my house and take over.
I don't think he even realizes I am inside, waiting to swipe him upside the head and show him what's what.
Softie and the British One call him "Gordon," ostensibly because he bears a strong resemblance to a former Saints football manager. I don't care about that. What I care about is this ginger cat has crossed the line, and I need to get outdoors and slap him about a bit.
"Gordon" left a slaughtered black mouse on the front porch for Softie. That is MY job, and one I am not going to hand over easily. I would have gladly--and proudly--slaughtered the mouse for Softie, had I been able to get outside and do some hunting. She doesn't need some skinny ginger upstart giving her succulent gifts such as that. He is encroaching on MY territory, and something must be done.
If there are mice about, I need to find them. Softie hasn't had a proper gift from me in a long time. I do love watching her jump around and scream.
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