Rain Rain Go Away

Rain Rain Go Away

Recently we’ve enjoyed a rare spell of dry weather, most unheard of and typically short lived.
Today we witnessed a return to the British Summer we all know and love, more commonly considered the fucking monsoon season.

As I left for work this morning, the cats fixed me with a withering stare as I gleefully chuckled “Out you go, enjoy the bastarding summer!”
Suffice to say that the cats did not┬átake me up on my offer of freedom and soggy frolicks and instead, hastily retreated back to the warmth of their beds – but not before scowling at their breakfast offerings and attempting to bury the bowls, like the piles of shit they clearly considered them to be.

This evening, as I donned my waterproofs and began to rustle my way back to the car park, I began to wonder what the Trio had been up to throughout the day.
After trying to poison them and enjoying a jolly laugh at their expense I could only cringe inwardly at what may await me back at the house upon my return.

Before I left I had hastily laid out the revolting green “cat towel” in the style of an unsightly red carpet at the back door, in an attempt to somewhat lessen the trails of filth they trample through the house and spread about the furniture when such weather occurs.
Frankly I needn’t bother as, sidestepping the towel upon entry, they make every effort to avoid contact as though to merely touch the towel would reduce their paws bloody stumps.

As I dodged the flooded pathways and trudged my way through the relentless downpour, my thoughts turned ever darker. What could possibly be worse than streaks of filth smeared upon every surface in my home? What could be worse than returning to find their mud encrusted bodies curled up on the ironing pile?
I’ll tell you what’s worse – their warm, dry, little bodies stretching sleepily as they crawl from their hidey holes after thirteen hours of blissful, uninterrupted slumber.

Cue a night of terror as the furry little pricks begin charging in and out of the cat flap, shrieking loudly at me as though somehow it’s my fault that the rains have descended. They launch frantically at my lap every thirty sodding seconds, returning only to angrily dry their filthy, sodden bodies on my legs/arms/face/chest and any other part of me they can reach, before dashing out into the night once again.
I could lock the cat flap early to prevent the inevitable sodden frenzy but this would only result in Clive smashing his head into the cat flap and wailing angrily until I’m ready to drop kick him down the garden and over the neighbour’s fence. I find it somewhat staggering that he has yet pass out from oxygen deprivation while undergoing such hysterics.

As if all of this weren’t torture enough, I can further look forward to a night of endless “Midnight Thunder” as they take turns to yell loudly, mashing catnip into the stair carpet and butchering one another violently on the end of the bed, in their efforts to expend energy pent up from a day of rest. I should only be so lucky.

Perhaps I’ll just divert my course and stay at the local Premier Inn tonight. Better yet, I’ll build an ark and float my way merrily down the river of shit that is my life.

Clive

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