Thread: Invasion of the Pussies

Not that one!

It's not pleasant arriving home to the smell of cat piss everywhere around the home. On the shoe rack and shoes, motorbike, outdoor cooking area, the cars and area where my daughter plays. I've watched one feline piss on an area followed by another 2 minutes later, then another and another after that. I'm an animal lover but I'm about to commence moggie atrocities! Cat's are scrapping literally out of the lower bedroom window but the stink is getting out of control.

So please, can anyone recommend a peaceful and friendly solution to my dilemma. And before anyone criticizes the action i will take, and I will, I'm merely protecting my territory and young. Cat piss is not healthy!

Thus far I've tried limes scattered in places, works on the odd one.

Might I refer the right honourable gentleman to an answer I gave some time ago

Ahem...

"My wife, she loves our cats. Absolutely adores them. They are provided with two thoughtfully prepared meals daily and are never left wanting for strokes, cuddles, or indeed, light conversation.

It’s really rather a shame, then, that I, totally, with every last morsel of my being, despise the abhorrent bundles of misery. Given the choice I’d rather keep a pair of sexually-active baboons, in my underpants.

As you might imagine, this difference of opinion has resulted in much friction. While my better half will invariably greet their early morning screeches for sustenance with a pat on the head, a peppy verbal exchange and a generous serving of rice infused with slow-poached mackerel, I, on the other hand, will offer them a colourful volley of language followed by playful punt towards the distant horizon. And so begins the bickering…

A quick disclaimer: cats do not always land on their feet. They sometimes land on their heads, which is a pleasing conclusion after a tremendous boot to the bollocks has been administered.

I didn’t arrive at this cat-detesting juncture without just cause, mind you. It took me a good few years to fine-tune my hatred, but I got there in the end.
Perhaps the turning point, the most significant factor which converted plain old disapproval into an unalloyed, seething hatred for these creatures, was a series of events that transpired one Sunday evening.

I was sitting on the balcony enjoying the sunset with an ice-cold bottle of local beer and a book. The house was currently a shrine to the much revered Sunday roast. Baking trays clattered, saucepan lids opened to reveal a bubbling assemblage of seasonal vegetables, used utensils dropped with a splash into the washing-up bowl, and a meticulously manufactured pepper sauce traced a path from the kitchen and out on to the balcony, gloriously scenting the air.
My excitement for this pending feast began to pique, and I licked my lips in anticipation. A full Sunday roast dinner awaited my undivided attention. A cut of the finest beef, a stack of impeccably executed roast potatoes, an assortment of leafy greens, peas and carrots, an intricately grafted gravy, and the pièce de resistance, my wife’s take on Yorkshire puddings, which although would probably deeply offend Auntie Bessie, still brought that element of je ne sais pas to the table.

And so it came to pass that ‘Dinnertime’, the best compound noun in the history of linguistics, was called.

Fantastic news! The arrival of my food had coincided with the last page of the chapter I’d been reading.
“Give me one-hot-minute.” I said to my wife. “Pop it on the table. I shall be in forthwith.”

After speed-reading the final few paragraphs of the chapter, I closed my book, took a large gulp of lager, and hurried into the dining room ready to attack my roast dinner.

But it quickly became apparent that I wouldn’t be attacking my roast dinner today. No, I would instead be attacking the fucking cat who was standing in it! Using the roast potatoes and the Yorkshire pudding as a vantage point, the heinous moggie was gnawing vehemently at the cut of premium roast beef, its front legs knee-deep in gravy.

An almost tangible aura of hate filled the room. The ceiling rained hellfire. The walls blazed an angry red. I was on the brink of either a massive stroke or mass-murder.
Fortunately, although it was touch and go for a good few seconds, the former didn’t occur, leaving the latter my only choice of path.

With an animalistic roar I embarked on a feline genocide campaign. Proceedings commenced with the violent removal of the roast dinner perpetrator. Grabbed by the throat and escorted to the balcony, it was launched, pursuing a path with flailing limbs, over the garden wall – I’m sure it was still chewing mid-flight. In my honest opinion, it was lucky. If I wasn’t such an affable chap, I could have quite easily lopped its head off with an axe.

I then went into my bedroom and liberated a shotgun which I’d acquired for such eventualities. Granted, it only cost 50 pence and shoots plastic pellets, but is capable of inflicting a satisfactory sting to its recipients, so I chambered a round, lit a cigarette, and basically morphed into a fat Terminator.

“What are you doing?” My wife inquired.

I was tempted to shoot her in the leg. She likes cats. She was fair game. But I forewent instigating a year-long domestic feud and simply uttered “I’ll be back.”

Outside on the garden bench, with a leg cocked at an impossible angle, another cat sat, about to succumb to my wrath of Sunday roast retribution.
I fired off a round aimed at its head. It missed, the pellet having been gathered by a gust of wind. I took another shot. Again, the target wasn’t hit. I decided that a more proactive means of exhibiting my fury should be employed. Using the shotgun barrel as a handle, I made towards the vicious bastard, who by this time looked to have consumed its head with its anus, with a view to issuing a devastating blow to the midsection. I brought the weapon down. Too late. The cat had obviously heard my approaching breaths of rage and jumped out of the way just as the shotgun met the table and smashed into a hundred pieces.

With this, it was deemed absolutely essential that I immediately vacated the premises. Two minutes later I was frantically consuming alcohol at the local shop and regaling my tale of woe to an amused crowd of regulars. Apparently such adversities never seem to befall them – after all, anything with four legs and heartbeat invariably ends up in the pot, doesn’t it?
Do they eat cats in Thailand? Or is that just China?
Either way, Pad Krapow Meow has a delightful ring to it."