Clive – Bringing Home The Rain… and more

Clive – Bringing Home The Rain… and more

The British summer is in full swing and, once again, it’s been raining for over 24 hours.
The cats have spent many of these 24 hours guarding their posts by the cat flap, where they stare out into the abyss and shout angrily at me to bring an end to this ceaseless downpour.

If only they knew how I dream of being sprawled on a beach, somewhere hot, where the never ending blue skies stretch on for weeks and months, as I slowly scorch myself to a withered crisp and savour each and every bastarding minute of sweet, sweet sunshine.

Alas, I live in sunny Scotland where it rains for 364 out of 365 miserable, shitty days, where “Taps Aff!” is screamed to the heavens as half of the population strip naked to the waist, streaming into the streets the moment the sun peeps out from behind the clouds for that one, glorious day each year. Oh if they knew, if they only knew; But they don’t.

They sit there, howling their misery as if my ability to purge the putrid filth from their litter trays somehow bequeaths to me, magical godlike power over the weather.
Eventually their desire to explore the outside world overcomes their displeasure at the soggy deluge and they muster the energy to brave the elements.

Typically, they average an outside time of approximately five minutes, before darting inside to furiously shriek about the unacceptable conditions, dry themselves on my trousers and head back out for round two.
Clive is the exception to this rule. While, some days, he will indulge in this frantic game of wet vs dry, more often than not he disappears into the wilderness for hours at a time. Where he goes is anyone’s guess but when it rains he often vanishes, coming back hours later to shovel down food as though mere minutes have passed.
Often he times these disappearances to coincide with bedtime.
It’s my belief that he has a dry hiding spot in the garden where he hides, watching me as I dash in and out of the house in my slippers, crying his name and shaking Dreamies as he chuckles at the sheer misery playing out before him.

Last night I gave up. I set the cat flap to one-way lock so he could come in at his leisure and I retreated to the comfort and safety of my bed, with its fluffy pillows and feather duvet, oh so welcome on evenings such as these.
Several times I awoke with the familiar panic as I realised Clive still hadn’t returned. I tossed and turned, contemplating a late night pyjama excursion but sleep overcame me and I fell into a restful slumber. Until 4am.

I was awoken by the all too familiar sound of Clive as he shouted sweet nothings into my ear, pressing his soggy arse into my cheek as he reversed his chocolate starfish into prime position.
“Oh my fucking goddddd” I groaned, rolling away from his offering.
Clive, ever persistent, pursued me across the bed, his shouts increasing in intensity as he feverishly shrieked his desire to join me under my cosy duvet.

I wriggled down and tucked it under my chin, adamant that he couldn’t soil my sheets, but he persisted.
Then I opened my eyes, a mistake. As they adjusted to the darkness I saw his outline in the shadows, peering down at me. He immediately spotted I was aware of his presence and began purring violently, wriggling across the pillows and poking me with his paw.
“Christ almighty, alright!” I cried, lifting the duvet to free me from what would otherwise be hours of incessant crying, interspersed by prods and pokes.
The purring escalated as Clive wormed his way under the duvet, collapsing into a sodden lump as he prepared for an intensive grooming session.

As I slowly slipped back into the welcome embrace of sleep I was startled awake once more.
After drying himself on my duvet, sheets and even my fucking pyjamas, Clive had decided he was ready to find a better spot to spend the rest of his night. He shot from under the duvet, stamping his rejection onto my face, as he leapt to the floor and bolted from the bedroom.
I grunted in frustration, relieved to be free from the bedraggled parasite, but irritated at the wet patch he’d left behind.
As I readjusted myself I suddenly felt something slimy pressed up against my cheek.
Freezing in horror, I recoiled, propelling myself from the bed.
“What the actual fuckety fuck?!!” I screeched, launching for the light switch.

Harvey, previously unaware of the drama playing out in the bed, stared up at me with a look of disgust as Bailey bolted from the room in terror.
Only as the lights came on did I realise the sheer scale of the shit show that had unfolded upon Clive’s arrival.
Thick, black mud was encrusted on every surface of the duvet cover. As if the duvet wasn’t enough, Clive had massaged half the fucking flower bed into the pillows, distributing small pebbles liberally throughout the sheets and to top it off, the unknown slimy thing that had triggered this crisis? A slug. I shit you not. A great hulking, slimy, monster of a slug.
“Mother of God!” I wailed, as I glanced at the clock, groaning at the realisation that my alarm would be sound its hateful siren in less than two hours.

Unwilling to contend with the slug ridden sludge pile that was now my bed, I accepted defeat and sloped into the guest room to sleep out my last two hours in relative slug-free comfort.
I slipped beneath the fresh, clean sheets and sighed, letting the images of my ruined bed fade from my mind as I began to drift off to sleep once more.

“REOWWWWWW” shrieked Clive, as he launched onto the guest bed.
“Fuck my fucking life” I wailed, as I slithered under the duvet and prayed for morning.

#LivingTheSlugLife #OhGodWhy

Clive and Slugs

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