Catnip

The neighbours at our first house might have been a better choice to adopt.  They put out food for all the neighbourhood strays, but they called me Egon (as in “where’s ‘e gone?”), they had no rhubarb, and there was too much competition over there.  They had a house full of other cats.

There was a posh cat over there only allowed outside with a leash clipped onto a long wire.  (I wish someone had thought to similarly restrain that nasty Siamese feline.  He used to partake of the neighbour’s largesse as well; and was most possessive about it all.)  Anyway the posh cat was my friend.  You had to feel sorry for him, he was no lap cat wuss, but he did have posh fur.  And the leash did mean I could strut past him into their house and rummage in their box of cat toys.  Most of it was uninteresting plastic things that rattled, bundles of fake fur and odd bits of string.  However somewhere in the bottom was the most enticing smell; something you’d want to eat...

... and  breathe....

.............and roll in..........

.........................and bounce at............

............................................and rub all over your face.........................and lick off again.

My new house has it in the garden.  Amazing. It grows.  I can pretend to ignore it, or I can sleep on it.  I like rolling in it and ripping and stripping bits off it. Mr B’s daughter called me a druggy.  I’ve no idea what that means but I’m sure it’s good.

At Christmas time when the garden goes back underground, a packet of my delicious weed turned up in the house.  It was somewhere near the top of the tall bookcase.  I could smell it.  It was calling to me.

They have shut it in the fridge since I emptied the bookcase contents onto the dining room floor and licked all the writing off the packet.  What did they want to go and do that for?

My Weed