There’s trouble brewing in our back garden. Right now it’s under control, a Mexican standoff in which the participants watch one another warily, plotting and planning their next moves. But any time soon the uneasy peace could descend into open warfare. And if that happens, the fur could really start to fly.
Regular readers of this blog will know that ownership of our garden is claimed by two local cats. Milky Bar and Malteser love to hang out here, to snooze, to play, to hunt insects and to do a bit of casual birdwatching. We think they must live in the same household because, while they are clearly not close friends, they are tolerant of one another’s presence. That, however, is where their generosity of spirit ends. No other cat is welcome in our garden.
Over the years a few others tried to muscle in. Flake, Titan, Toblerone, Mars Bar, Minstrel and Yorkie have all passed through, but none has stayed for long. Milky Bar and Malteser have seen to that, and have remained unchallenged here for ages.
But that could be about to change. A few weeks ago a new cat appeared, walking purposefully along the fence that divides our garden from those of our neighbours. He’s a big bruiser of a ginger tom, a no-nonsense sort of cat who looks to be more than a match for Milky Bar and Malteser.
After checking out the terrain the new arrival – who we called Ginger Nut – leapt down from the fence and inspected the garden in great detail. Luckily our regular feline friends were elsewhere, so a confrontation was avoided. Ginger Nut quickly sniffed out that other cats had been here before him, and communicated his presence by liberally spraying a few bushes. It was like a gold prospector staking a claim, announcing to all and sundry that this is his patch now and he’ll have words with anyone who dares to disagree.
A few hours after Ginger Nut left, Malteser arrived. Cats have a good sense of smell, and he soon detected that his territory had been invaded and, indeed, desecrated. He responded with a spraying frenzy of his own, as if to say anything you can spray, I can spray better / harder / higher! War had been declared.
Since then, Ginger Nut has been back several times. He’s clearly a bit put out by Malteser’s resistance, but hasn’t given up hope that his attempted coup d’état will ultimately be successful. One day he appeared on the fence while Malteser was lazing in the garden. Mrs P and I watched anxiously from the kitchen window while the pair of them sized each other up. A fight seemed inevitable, but on this occasion Ginger Nut backed down.
I’d like to think that this will be the end of it, that Ginger Nut will take his territorial ambitions to another part of our estate. But I have my doubts. He looks like a tough nut, much bigger and bolder than any of the other cats who’ve contemplated staging a coup. I’m worried that one day he’ll attempt to prove his prowess by giving Malteser – and Milky Bar – a thumping. If that happens the outcome is far from predictable, but it’s certain that fur would fly. Let’s hope it never comes to that!
It’s been a tough year. While catching Covid was the worst thing that happened to us personally in 2022, from a national and international perspective it’s been unrelentingly grim. In a year in which the UK lost its queen after 70 years on the throne, political turmoil and financial crisis have stalked the land, the National Health Service is in meltdown, social care is collapsing and many folk can no longer afford to heat their homes or buy enough food to feed their families. Misery rules, OK! And overseas, events in the Ukraine reinforce the sense of instability and imminent jeopardy.
Are we downhearted? Well, to be honest, from time to time I am! But one of the things that has brought me a degree of comfort and solace in the dark times has been the company of cats. Two cats in particular, Milky Bar and his buddy Malteser.
Regular readers of this blog will know that although Mrs P and I have no cat of our own, Milky Bar and Malteser, who live somewhere on our street, regard our garden as part of their territory. And Malteser also lays claim to our house, although he graciously allows us to continue living here so long as we allow him access whenever he feels the need!
We see Milky Bar most days in summer, but rather less often at this time of year. He’s a beautiful chap, although getting on a bit in years and growing stouter around the tummy. His hobby is snoozing, and he’s pleased to indulge in it at every opportunity. He regularly beds down in a nest he has built for himself under an azalea bush, but when he craves sun rather than shade he stretches out on the little wooden bridge that crosses the narrowest part of our garden pond. Here he can soak up the rays while keeping one eye open to watch out for dragonflies, which he’ll catch and eat if the fancy takes him.
Milky Bar is an aloof and somewhat cautious cat, but clearly trusts us to respect his personal space. Occasionally he will approach, softly miaowing and offering himself up to be stroked But mostly he keeps his distance, happily observing what is going on all around him. He watches with interest whenever he sees me doing the gardening (or is he in shock? I don’t do much gardening!), and allows me to approach within inches of him without stirring. We enjoy one another’s company, both understanding that there are boundaries between us that must be respected.
Of course there are times when I wish Milky Bar were more affectionate, more gratuitously friendly. But that’s not his style, and his mere presence in the garden is always enough to raise my spirits.
Malteser, however, is altogether more forward. He visits every day, and is normally to be found waiting outside the door when I go downstairs to make an early morning cup of tea at around 6:30am. I open up, and he dashes in. We greet one another in the time-honoured fashion, but pretty soon he gets on with business, sitting himself down in the kitchen and waiting to be fed.
The cat treats we buy are called Pawsome Pockets, “crunchy pillow treats with a soft centre.” Available in beef, chicken and salmon flavours, Pawsome Pockets are evidently very tasty, and Malteser loves them. But his meal is invariably interrupted by Mrs P, who comes downstairs to join us. Malteser breaks off and strides across the kitchen, greeting her with loud purrs and fond nuzzling. Mrs P takes over feeding duties, and the purring gets even louder. Malteser’s in heaven, and Mrs P looks pretty damned happy with life too!
When his breakfast treat is over, Malteser throws himself on to the kitchen floor, rolling on his back and inviting me to rub his belly and fondle his ears. I’m happy to oblige. As soon as I’ve done my duty he dashes upstairs to the Study. We follow, and spend the next 10 minutes entertaining him, playing “chase the ball” or “pounce on the piece of paper.” By this time his purrs are so loud that the windows almost rattle in sympathy.
And then suddenly, and for no obvious reason, he evidently decides that enough is enough. He trots downstairs and waits beside the door to be let out. We are in no doubt that within a few minutes he will be visiting another of our neighbours, demanding attention and treats from them too. He’s that sort of cat.
Malteser may return two or three time during the day, for treats, belly rubs, playtime and lots of attention. Sometimes he simply uses us as a convenient short cut, entering by the back door them marching immediately through the house to the front door, where he demands to be let out again. And we, being desperate to please him, do just that.
While he is with us, Malteser brightens up our lives. So thank you, Malteser, and Milky Bar too, for making a difficult year a little less difficult. And come again guys, as often as you like, in 2023: the company of cats will always be welcome here.
And while we’re on subject of thanks, I’d also like to thank anyone out there who ever reads or comments on this blog. Your continuing interest has certainly helped keep my spirits up throughout this miserable year. How can I ever thank you? I don’t think you’d like Pawsome Pockets, and I guess it would be inappropriate – and maybe a bit creepy – to offer you a belly rub, but it’s my absolute pleasure to wish you a Merry Christmas, and Happy & Healthy New Year. Have a great time, guys!
Our next-door neighbour Jim sadly died at the start of the year. Jim was a great guy, always up for a chat and a joke. He loved gardening, and you could often see him weeding, pruning and primping his immaculate little plot. But with a love of gardening came a loathing of cats, because of the unspeakable things he claimed they did to his flowerbeds. Milky Bar was always persona non grata at Jim’s.
Since Jim passed, his property has remained unoccupied, and Milky Bar has taken full advantage. A few days ago we spotted him curled up on the roof of Jim’s shed, lapping up the weak November sunshine. While Jim was alive such behaviour would have been unthinkable. Our lovely neighbour would have been up and at him, cursing colourfully and swiftly driving the unwelcome intruder away. Now, however, different rules apply, and Milky Bar has claimed squatters’ rights.
Of course, Milky Bar has claimed squatters’ rights in our own garden for several years, although “snoozers’ rights” might be a more accurate description. Every corner of our little garden has been explored, and most of them have been slept in.
Now, I’m not saying that Milky Bar is lazy. He will sometimes chase an insect and may even stalk the occasional pigeon, but his ambition seems to be to spend as much of his life as possible dozing peacefully, wherever the fancy takes him. Recently we’ve noticed he’s putting on a bit of weight, and is looking quite stout around the middle. I can only assume this is a consequence of his personal fitness regime, which involves countless hours of horizontal, eyes-closed “exercise”.
Milky Bar is very good at dozing, and plainly likes to dedicate his days to a hobby at which he excels. If dozing were a sport in the feline Olympics, Milky Bar would be up on the podium, gold medal dangling proudly round his neck. But he’d be fast asleep, naturally.
Milky Bar isn’t unique amongst cats in his love of sleep, although he is a particularly fine practitioner of the art. Here’s what American writer, critic, and naturalist Joseph Wood Krutch (1893-1970) wrote on the matter:
Cats are rather delicate creatures and they are subject to a good many different ailments, but I have never heard of one who suffered from insomnia.
If you suspect I’m exaggerating and may be maligning our four-footed friend, I would draw you attention to the photographic evidence accompanying this post. Mrs P always keeps her camera handy, just in case some rare bird or butterfly alights in our garden to say hi. This never happens, of course, but her photographic skills are engaged almost daily as she documents Milky Bar’s activities. Or maybe that should be his “lack of activities”?
What amuses me most of all is Milky Bar’s sense of entitlement. He clearly believes it is his right to sleep wherever he likes, whenever he likes and for just as long as he likes. But I suppose this should come as no great surprise, for as the late Terry Pratchett (1948-2015) – one of the wittiest writers ever to grace the English language – delighted in pointing out…
In ancient times cats were worshipped as gods; they have not forgotten this.
But to be clear, I have absolutely no problem with Milky Bar’s sense of entitlement. He’s welcome to spend time in our garden whenever he wishes. The last 18 months have been very difficult, courtesy of Covid-19 and the measures needed to help mitigate its effects. But a visit from Milky Bar has always raised our spirits, even on the darkest of days.
It matters not one bit to me that, for most of the time he spends in our presence, the little fellow is fast asleep. It’s plainly very exhausting being Milky Bar, and the best way of recuperating is to snooze the day away. And who can blame our brave little soldier for taking care of himself in this manner? After all, it’s a cat’s life. It’s a wonderful life.
We’re in the garden room, enjoying a mid-morning cup of tea and nibbling on biscuits, chatting idly about this and that. Suddenly Mrs P stops mid-sentence, points through the window and yells animatedly “New cat, new cat!” I peer out and there he is, a handsome tabby with white boots striding confidently along the top of the fence that divides our garden from our neighbour’s to the rear.
He works his away around the fence, then hops down on to the compost bin and into the garden. Immediately he goes into overdrive, sniffing here, there and everywhere, and spraying liberally, advising any that dare follow of his visit.
Mrs P grabs her camera and fires off a few shots through the kitchen window. The cat seems blissfully unaware of our presence – or maybe he’s a bit of an exhibitionist – and after exploring the nooks and crannies of our little estate he settles down, cocks one leg in the air and starts licking his bum. No dignity, no style, no shame. But we forgive him because he’s as cute as a field full of fluffy kittens.
Having secured photographic evidence of the visit we turn our attention to another urgent matter: what are we going to call our new guest. It’s become a tradition at Platypus Towers that all visiting cats will be named after brands of chocolate or some other confectionary item. Don’t ask me why we do this for, like most traditions, the truth of its origins are lost in the mists of time. Suffice it to say that this little ritual has served us well for many years.
Many cats have dropped by since we retired, have had their photos taken for posterity and have been duly christened. There’s Milky Bar and Malteser, of course, both of whom still visit daily and think of our garden as their second home. Other cats have been and gone: Flake, Oreo, Titan, Toblerone, Mars Bar and Minstrel to name just a few. All named in honour of our favourite confectionary items. So what on earth are we to call out latest visitor?
After much debate we settle on “Yorkie.” For overseas readers unfamiliar with the brand, Yorkie is a chunky chocolate bar, much loved by macho male truck drivers if a controversial TV advertising campaign is to be believed. But Mrs P and I enjoy them too, so it seems entirely appropriate to name our new feline friend after them.
Having thoroughly explored and scent-marked our garden, Yorkie takes his leave. We may never see him again, of course, he may simply be passing through on his way to the Promised Land. But I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s seen potential in our humble little garden, and won’t be able to resist getting to know it better.
So, beware, Milky Bar! And watch your back, Malteser…there’s a new kid on the block!
Next Saturday, (8 August), is International Cat Day. To mark the occasion, this post tells the story of a cat who first came into my life almost 60 years ago.
Mum and Dad twigged early on that I was crazy about animals, so when I was about eight years old we got a cat. It was a Siamese, and boasted an impressive pedigree. The neighbours thought we were getting above ourselves, way too big for our boots. Why couldn’t we make do with a tabby or a basic black-and-white job, just like everyone else down our street, they demanded peevishly.
In truth, however, the choice of a pedigree-toting Lilac Point Siamese had little to do with social pretentiousness. Rather, it was a simple matter of financial logic. “Our Mo,” as we called him, had a slightly mis-shaped (square-ish) head, meaning he would never win prizes on the show circuit. As a result we got him dirt cheap, and could therefore afford to eat for the rest of the week!
I can clearly remember my excitement, dashing off to school the next day to tell my class teacher, Miss Milbourne, about our new arrival. Miss Milbourne was a formidable battle-axe, at least 120 years old by my reckoning at the time, and built like a World War 2 American tank.
“Please miss, please miss,” I whined, “we’ve got a CAT!”
“Hrrmph,” Miss Milbourne grumbled moodily, “cats!” How is it that some people can invest so much contempt in a single word, a word just four measly letters long? The subject was never mentioned again.
Despite Miss Milbourne’s evident disapproval, I quickly came to worship Our Mo. There was so much to admire about him, including an uncanny ability to catch birds in mid-air and a visceral hatred of dustmen (aka “trash collectors” in North America).
Our Mo quickly learned how to open the living room door, leaping up to the lever handle and pulling it down with his paw to release the catch. After this it took him just a second or two to hook his paw around the edge of the door – which would now be slightly ajar – and ease it open. This neat trick enabled him to take himself off to bed whenever he felt like it.
When we first had him, Mum tried to persuade Our Mo that if he wanted to sleep on my bed it would have to be in a sturdy paper bag. I don’t think that lasted a week, and pretty soon he’d abandoned his paper bag and was lying wherever he chose. Often that would be in my bed, his head on the pillow facing mine, purring softly and twitching as he dreamt.
In his younger days Our Mo was a bit of a bruiser. He would regularly exact violent revenge on any other cat encroaching on his territory. One woman from across the road complained that we should teach our cat some manners, and do more to keep him under control. Even at my tender age, I recognised this was a preposterous suggestion. Cats will be cats.
Anyway, Mum and Dad didn’t like this woman much, and the fact that our cat was regularly able to give her cat a good pasting was a source of great vicarious pleasure. The only cat Our Mo ever tolerated in our garden was the next door neighbours’ elderly moggie, who was apparently given special visiting rights on the understanding that he knew who was boss.
Our Mo also terrorized the local wildlife, and as well as birds would regularly bring home mice and shrews. We’d have preferred him to leave nature alone, but like I say cats will be cats, however much we might wish they’d tone it down a bit.
One morning Our Mo laid a fully grown rat outside the back door and stood proudly beside the corpse, waiting for his hunting talents to be admired. Dad must have been at work because I can remember Mum getting very distressed. I was told to stay indoors, the cat was chased off with a flea in his ear (a bit of a change from where his fleas could normally be found!), and the next door neighbour was summoned and told to bring a shovel to dispose of our cat’s unwelcome trophy.
Once, and only once, Our Mo met his match. One day he came in from his adventures drooling at the mouth, sneezing violently and looking very sorry for himself. He was in a terrible state, and it was quickly decided he had to go to the vet.
This in itself was a bit of an ordeal. The vet’s surgery was several miles away and we had no car, so he had to be taken by bus. We didn’t have a pet carrying basket. I don’t know if they were even invented in those days, but if they were we wouldn’t have been able to afford one. So instead, Our Mo had to be taken in a zip-up shopping bag with just his head sticking out of the top.
Siamese cats have a loud, plaintive miaow at the best of times, but the stress and indignity of travelling by bus in a shopping bag with just your head poking out provoked a non-stop vocal protest that sounded for all the world as if he was being tortured. We couldn’t wait to get off the bus and away from the accusing eyes of our fellow passengers, who plainly believed an act of unspeakable animal cruelty was in progress.
The vet examined our cat thoroughly, thought for a bit and asked if we had toads in our neighbourhood. Mum gave me a stern look, and I had to admit that although there were none on the riverbank that backed on to our garden, one of my collection of pet toads – my second best specimen, known as Walter – had gone AWOL a few days previously.
The vet’s diagnosis was that our cat had encountered Walter in the garden and had tried to dispatch him with a swift bite to the neck. However, he explained, toads are blessed with special glands to help them cope with just this sort of emergency, glands that can release a noxious irritant producing a swift and massive allergic reaction in the attacker. Case solved. The cat was given a vitamin shot and instructed to rest. I was given a telling off and instructed to keep better control of my outdoor menagerie in future.
Talking of trips to the vet, Mum was a very proper lady who had certain standards, and one day she decided that Our Mo’s feet were unacceptably smelly. The wretched creature was dragged off to the surgery again, where the long-suffering vet had to sniff his paws. Poor man, seven years training to be a vet, and he ended up snorting a cat’s feet to earn a living!
To make us go away the vet advised that we dip Our Mo’s paws in TCP (a particularly stinky disinfectant) every night, which resulted in them stinking of TCP instead. Definitely a case of the cure being worse than the illness. The neighbours thought we were completely out to lunch, and in this instance you have to see their point.
Our Mo cat died when I had just turned 18. I have no brothers or sisters and was a bit of a loner, so when the cat’s kidneys failed and we had to have him put down it felt as if a great chasm had opened up in my life. I can remember the three of us – Mum, Dad and me – hugging each other and gently sobbing in the living room. He was truly one of the family, a real character, and we missed him dreadfully.
A few months later I went to university. I’ve always thought that it was probably a good thing that Our Mo had already passed on when I left. He would never have understood why I wasn’t at home any more, and would probably have pined. Mum and Dad knew he was irreplaceable. They never had another cat.
* * * * * * *
Follow these links to read about some other cats who’ve crossed my path over the years
Click here to read about Sid, one of the friendliest cats I’ve ever met, as dapper as a card sharp at the opera, who broke our hearts in 2014
Click here to read aboutMilky Bar, a cheeky chap who is the undisputed king of our Derbyshire suburban Serengeti
Click here to read about Malteser, an unmitigated rogue who visits us whenever he needs a snack
Regular readers of this blog will be aware that ownership of our garden is claimed by two visiting cats. Although Malteser and Milky Bar are pals – we think they live together in a house further up our estate – they are very different characters. Throughout the pandemic Milky Bar has been content to abide by the government’s tough Covid restrictions. He obeys the rules on social distancing, keeping at least two metres away from us at all times and never coming indoors for a bit of illicit socialising. Milky Bar is a model citizen, and deserves a knighthood.
The same cannot be said for Malteser. If the local constabulary knew what Malteser’s been up to in recent months they’d have fined him £200. Multiple times in fact, probably every day. Such is his disrespect for the law he would most likely have ended up in chokey. Malteser is an unmitigated rogue.
OK, I admit it, Mrs P and I have encouraged Malteser’s wayward ways. When travel opportunities were drastically curtailed by the pandemic and we found ourselves pretty much confined to our house and garden for months on end, we decided it was a good time to develop the relationship with our ‘borrowed’ cats.
Recognising that the best way (the only way?) to a cat’s heart is through his stomach we invested heavily in packets of Vitacat Filled Pockets, which the packaging explains are crunchy pillows with a soft centre. They’re available in beef, chicken and salmon flavours, and guaranteed to tickle the fancy of the fussiest felines.
To start with we stood in the doorway leading out to the garden and tossed pillows onto the patio in front of our feline friends. After a cautious investigation both cats wolfed them down greedily. Milky Bar pronounced himself happy with this arrangement, but Malteser soon calculated that there might be more to be gained by getting up close and personal First, he approached us on the doorstep to have his ears rubbed and back scratched. Within a few days he was brave enough to follow us indoors, stopping off first in the utility room to stare, transfixed, at the washing machine. Pretty soon he found his way into the kitchen, taking pillows from our fingers while purring loudly.
It’s a ritual now. The centrepiece of any visit from Malteser is feeding him by hand. Mostly we sit on a kitchen chair and hold a pillow in front of him. He stands on his back legs, putting two paws on our knees to give himself extra balance while he reaches up for the tasty treat. A couple of quick crunches later the pillow has been swallowed and a few crumbs have been dropped unceremoniously onto the tiled floor. And then he looks imploringly into our eyes, eagerly awaiting a repeat performance. All the time he’s purring as loud as a chainsaw, making sure we know that his continued affection depends on a steady supply of pillows.
Having plucked up sufficient courage to cross the threshold Malteser soon decided he might as well explore the rest of the house. He particularly likes the stairs that lead up to the bedrooms, study and library. His idea of heaven is to roll on his back on the stairs, showing his belly while inviting us to fondle his ears. Honour having been duly satisfied, he climbs another three or four stairs before rolling on his back again and demanding we pay him further homage.
Upstairs there’s a whole new world for him to explore. In Mrs P’s study he likes a game of attack the piece of scrap paper, balls of which he obviously perceives as mice that need to be swiftly despatched to rodent heaven. He’s also fascinated by the door, which he tries to hook open with his paw. Then he’s off to have a sniff around the bathroom, and would happily drink from the toilet if we’d let him.
Malteser also enjoys visiting the library, particularly now we’ve set up a bed for him on the old sofa. If he’s in the mood he’ll snooze there for an hour or so, while Mrs P and I get on with the rest of our lives. It’s good to know that he feels so comfortable in our house, trusting us totally.
But he remains his own cat, beholden to no one, and when the time is right he makes it clear that he wants to leave us. And leave us he does, trotting off into the garden and over the fence with scarcely a backwards glance. We’re under no illusions: Malteser is an advocate of free love, and although we are doggedly faithful to him we’re certain he has relationships with other households up and down our street. But we can forgive his dubious moral character, recognising that his frequent visits have made the Covid lockdowns more bearable.
And anyway, we know Malteser will be back before too long. A cat and his tasty pillows can’t be separated for long, particularly if a couple of mugs are available to feed him those pillows by hand.
Pillow Talk : An ode to Malteser during lockdown (with apologies to UB40, a wonderful 70s/80s reggae band from Birmingham, England)
Cat in mi kitchen what am I gonna do?
Cat in mi kitchen what am I gonna do?
I'm gonna feed that cat that's what I'm gonna do
I'm gonna feed that cat
It’s Christmas Eve afternoon. We’re sitting in the garden room, listening to music and watching the midwinter sun die slowly in the western sky. Overhead, gangs of starlings flock back to their roost, chattering noisily to one another as they pass. Then, to our right, a familiar clatter. It can mean only one thing: our good friend Milky Bar, the visiting cat who calls our garden home, has leapt onto the rickety fence that separates our property from Jim’s.
Yes, there he is. But something’s wrong. Normally the fence panels, although barely a couple of centimetres wide, are no challenge to a young, athletic cat blessed with a fine sense of balance. Today, however, he’s struggling, jerkily swaying to the left and then to the right, like a drunken tightrope walker in a tornado. Indignity – and possibly serious injury – seems just seconds away.
But when we look more closely we realise he’s already injured. Milky Bar’s standing on three legs, holding his right front paw clear of the fence. It looks badly swollen, and we can tell by his demeanour that he’s in a lot of pain.
Maybe he’s broken a bone in a freak accident? Perhaps he’s ripped out a claw fighting with a cat that dared invade his territory? Or has an infection set in, sending poison coursing through his frail little body? This look serious.
For several minutes Milky Bar maintains a precarious balance on the fence, before finally taking a leap of faith into our garden. As he lands a shockwave runs through his whole body, and he immediately snatches his damaged paw back into the air. He just stands there looking stunned and dishevelled, apparently unable to take another step. The boisterous, confident cat we know and love is gone, and he looks so fragile that a gentle puff of wind could topple him.
We discuss what to do. If we knew where he lives we’d go fetch one of his family, but Milky Bar’s domestic arrangements have always been a mystery to us. We agree that if he doesn’t move on after a few minutes we’ll bring him into the house, keep him warm and give him some food. We’ll even try to track down an emergency vet, though on Christmas Eve in the middle of a pandemic that could be tricky.
Finally, after an agonising wait for all parties, Milky Bar gathers himself and hobbles off slowly towards the area of the estate where we suspect his family lives. He looks so sad, so crushed, and we fear that we may never see him again.
* * *
We spend a restless night, haunted by the prospect of losing another “borrowed” cat. It happened once before when Sid disappeared suddenly and without trace, and we can’t bear the thought of history repeating itself.
Christmas Day dawns and we work our way through the familiar routine: opening presents, phoning family, whacking a turkey the size of a small ostrich into the oven. It’s business as usual, but our spirits are subdued as we worry about Milky Bar’s fate. We scan the garden every few minutes, but he’s nowhere to be seen. We fear the worst.
And then, when we’ve all but convinced ourselves that he’s not coming back, Milky Bar appears. He’s limping badly and his paw is still swollen, but at least he’s made it through the night and must be feeling a bit better to venture away from home. A couple of minutes later he leaves, but we reassure ourselves that he’s on the mend.
We don’t see him again for the next couple of days, and our anxieties start to return. In particular we worry that infection has taken hold, perhaps because his family were unable to find a vet to give him some urgently needed antibiotics during the festive holiday. But still we check the garden regularly, hoping for good news.
And finally, at last, our borrowed cat re-appears, cheekily peering up at us through the kitchen window. We can tell immediately that he’s feeling much better. The sparkle’s returned to his eyes, and he’s moving more freely.
To reward his courage we offer our brave little soldier some cold roast turkey, tossing it onto the patio in front of him. Milky Bar’s on it in a flash, tucking in greedily and looking cuter than ever. Clearly, this moggie’s got his mojo back.
Then, to round off a perfect day, Milky Bar’s pal Malteser also puts in an appearance. Never one to turn down food, he wolfs down some turkey too.
Having filled their faces, the two cats swagger off in search of their next adventure. But hopefully this time Milky Bar will take a little more care. It’s been an anxious few days, and we could do without a repeat performance any time soon.
* * *
Postscript – do you want to know more about Milky Bar and Malteser? Follow the links below for earlier posts featuring the feline superstars
Last week I wrote about Milky Bar, who for the past eleven weeks has happily defied the Covid-19 lockdown to hang out in our garden whenever the fancy takes him. Milky Bar is handsome, cheeky and full of his own importance, king of all he surveys, but somewhat aloof and distant. Social distancing comes easily to him.
We are also visited on occasions by a second cat, who we call Malteser. There’s a clear hierarchical relationship between them, and although Milky Bar tolerates Malteser, there’s no doubt who’s the boss. Malteser seems wary in the presence of His Majesty, and prefers to visit us when he’s elsewhere. He’s a nervous soul, not given to public demonstrations of affection. Until last week, that is…
… It’s a warm, balmy day. Gazing out of the kitchen window I spot Malteser sitting next to the pond, tail waving gently as he watches flame-coloured fish idling in the shallows. A net protects them from unwanted attention, but Malteser’s not bothered. “Look but don’t touch” is the rule here, which suits him just fine on a sun-drenched afternoon.
I call for Mrs P and together we admire our visitor. After a couple of minutes, with the cat showing no signs of wanting to leave, Mrs P grabs her camera.
We open the door as quietly as we can, and Mrs P fires off a few shots. The shutter clicks and Malteser looks up, head cocked at a slight angle as he considers his options. Should I stay or should I go? he asks himself. I try to reassure him, speaking his name softly, telling him that we are his friends and mean him no harm.
Our eyes meet. The moment of truth. Mrs P and I hold our breath, trusting he will do right by us. We are the accused in the dock, awaiting a verdict, hoping for the best, yet fearing the worst.
And then, unexpectedly, Malteser stands and trots towards us. I fall to my knees, ready to greet him. He miaows, then presents his head and softly butts my hand. I rub his ears and fondle beneath his chin, and he responds with a purr. We two, cat and man, are together in heaven.
I break off, remembering that somewhere we have a small packet of cat treats, tiny triangles of biscuit, suspiciously brown and allegedly flavoured with chicken. They were originally bought for Milky Bar, who rejected them contemptuously as being unworthy of his attention. The treats have languished unloved at the back of a cupboard for nearly two years, but now, as I offer them to Malteser, I can see he’s less fastidious than his friend.
He tucks in greedily, taking treats direct from my fingers while giving me gentle love bites. After many months of social distancing, Malteser’s evidently concluded that we can be trusted. He’s thrown caution to the wind. Our relationship has moved to a new level, offering comfort and companionship to both parties.
So, Milky Bar, you need to “up your game,” as the football pundits are wont to say. You have a serious rival for our affections…Malteser’s just a handful of strokes, a few purrs and a couple of cuddles away from being our new Best Friend Forever!
The UK media has been ablaze in recent days, ordinary folk – of whom I’m one – furious that people who should know better have apparently re-interpreted the lockdown rules to suit their own needs. Resentment at the cavalier behaviour of an individual in the Prime Minister’s inner circle, and the latter’s decision to condone that behaviour, are seen by many as proof positive that “there’s one rule for them, and another for us.”
For god’s sake, we deserve better than this.
But of course, there are those amongst us who have made no secret of the fact that it is their intention to defy the lockdown at every opportunity. Take Milky Bar, for example.
Milky Bar is a cat who lives on our estate, a cat who believes that our garden is in fact his garden, a place to hang out, booze and snooze whenever life gets on top of him – which is nearly always, it would appear. It’s also where he can hunt dragonflies, a distressing habit that I wrote about last year.
From the day that the UK’s lockdown was announced, Milky Bar has made it abundantly clear that as far as he’s concerned it’s business as usual. The Prime Minister limited citizens’ exercise outside the house to just 30 minutes per day, but in a brazen demonstration of contempt for those who claim the right to regulate our lives Milky Bar has opted to defy the lockdown. He continues to visit whenever he chooses and for as long as he pleases.
The perimeter of our garden is defined by a wooden fence on two sides and a brick wall on the third. Milky Bar’s arrival is invariably announced by an almighty clatter as he leaps up on to the wooden fence from Jim’s garden next door. From this vantage point he surveys his domain, checking out our garden for dragonflies, unwary birds or other opportunities for mischief.
He often drops by for a drink. We have two ponds, and he likes dipping his paw into the water, licking it dry, then repeating the sequence. Sometimes he does this for several minutes at a stretch. It’s not a very efficient way to drink, but it gives him – and us – ample satisfaction, as well as ensuring he has the cleanest paw in the neighbourhood.
But there are times when he prefers his drinking water flavoured with birds rather than fish, on which occasions the birdbath comes into play. Standing up on his back legs, with his front paws on the edge of the bowl, he can drink contentedly while at the same time keeping a beady eye on the birdtable, just in case…
One day, the local blackbird makes a near-fatal error of judgement. He can’t have missed Milky Bar, lapping water from the birdbath. Perhaps he’s calculated that the birdtable’s very high and no self-respecting cat would try climbing it. Whatever the reason, he decides to drop in to fill his face. Foolish blackbird!
As soon as the blackbird lands, Milky Bar’s on high alert. He immediately stops drinking and creeps stealthily towards his intended lunch. Suddenly he charges, launching himself at the birdtable, scaling it frantically like a furry Edmund Hillary. Feathers fly, avian curses shatter the suburban calm, but happily no blood is spilled.
It’s unclear who’s more embarrassed by this episode, the blackbird or the cat. However, Milky Bar is not one to dwell on a momentary loss of dignity and having conquered the summit he quickly decides that he should be rewarded for his endeavours. Shrugging off his mistake, he proceeds to eat bird food instead of blackbird … he’s a very, very strange cat, but cute as hell.
It’s been hot and dry here for several weeks – last month was the UK’s sunniest ever May since records began – and watering the plants has become a nightly ritual. Unfortunately the hosepipe is knackered and the lockdown has prevented us replacing it, so we’ve had to resort to watering cans.
But one person’s misfortune is another’s pleasure, and Milky Bar has just discovered the exquisite joy of drinking direct from a watering can. Maybe the water, fresh from the tap, tastes even better than the fish- and bird-flavoured alternatives? Whatever, since we started leaving the watering cans full overnight he’s been in heaven.
But of course, drinking, chasing birds and eating dragonflies are mere distractions. Milky Bar’s main reason to visit our garden is to snooze. He’s very good at snoozing. There are lots of places that are just right for forty winks, plenty of bushes offering shade from the midday sun while still giving good views of the birdtable…if he can be bothered with his feathered friends, that is.
He also enjoys laying out underneath the washing that we’ve hung out to dry, the sheets that waft in the breeze gently fanning him as he dreams of dragonflies. And recently he’s discovered that, behind the shed, I have an old dustbin (translated for my trans-Atlantic buddies, that’s a garbage can!) in which I store compost. Sleeping on top of the dustbin, hidden between the back of the shed and the fence, offers all the comfort and privacy that this idle cat covets.
So there we have it. The lockdown has brought misery to some, irritation to many, and inconvenience to just about everyone. But for a select few it’s simply an irrelevance. For those lucky souls life’s going on just as it always did…Milky Bar’s doing just fine.
Postscript: Milky Bar, blogger extraordinary. New followers of this blog won’t be aware that around six months ago, when I was busy preparing for Christmas, Milky Bar stepped in to write my weekly post. He had a lot to say for himself in his Guest Blog, and took great pleasure in hurling insults at me. However, I’m a generous soul and have forgiven his youthful indiscretions. You can read what he had to say by clicking here.
When I started this blog one of my first posts was about Milky Bar, a cat who visits our garden most days. I’ve been quite busy since we got back from New Zealand, what with Christmas coming up fast and me not having bought a thing yet for Mrs P, so I invited Milky Bar to write this week’s post on Now I’m 64.
But just to be perfectly clear, I take absolutely no responsibility for anything he says.
Hello everyone, my name’s Milky Bar. At least, that’s what Old Man Platypus calls me, but what does he know, eh? Him an’ his missus are weirdos, that’s for sure. They gives names to all the cats what visit their garden, call ‘em after types of chocolate! That’s why I’m Milky Bar, see. An’ then there’s Malteser – he’s a good pal of mine, knows who’s the boss – as well as Minstrel, Oreo an’ Mars Bar. Not to mention Toblerone, of course.
Toblerone! I ask you, what kind of person calls a cat ‘Toblerone?’ Poor little mouser, no wonder he don’t show his face round ‘ere no more.
But what’s in a name anyway? Old Man Platypus thinks callin’ me Milky Bar gives him power over me, thinks if he shouts out my name I’ll come runnin’ like some lapdog. But I won’t. Cats don’t do that sort of thing, not this cat anyway.
Like I care about him, which I don’t, obviously. I just sit an’ watch him makin’ a fool of himself. Laughs at him I do, all this “Ooh, what a lovely cat you are, Milky Bar” an’ “Ah, what a little cutie you are, Milky Bar.” Yuk!
I think he secretly wants me to move in with him at Platypus Towers, like some mistress or his bit on the side. No way, José. I mean, if he’s serious about this relationship he needs to work at it, buy me stuff an’ all. You know, he’s never once opened a tin of tuna for me, or bought me a packet of Dreamies! The man’s a total waste of space, that’s what I say.
One time he accidentally drops some pellets what he feeds to the goldfish in his pond, then watches to see if I’ll gobble ‘em up. Maybe he reckons I won’t even notice, that I’ll think them pellets was meant for me. Me? Fooled by some lousy fishfood? I don’t think so!
I’m tellin’ you, Old Man Platypus ain’t got a clue. If I was writin’ his end-of-term report I’d put “Must try harder” an’ give him a D-minus. But only if I was feelin’ generous, like.
What makes it worse is he can be a good bloke when he wants to. There’s this rabbit what lives in an ‘utch at the bottom of the garden. Ugly thing it is, ears like a donkey. But Old Man Platypus thinks it’s wonderful, calls it Attila the Bun. Attila the Bun, get it? No, neither do I.
Anyway, Old Man Platypus is always out in the garden talkin’ to that rabbit, tellin’ him what a fine fellow he is. Like the rabbit can understand him, I mean rabbits ain’t clever like cats, are they?
An’ every day he gives this Attila a massive pack of fresh food. I tell you, that rabbit eats like a king … if kings eat carrots an’ kale an’ cabbage an’ cauliflower an’ celery an’ spinach an’ sprouts an’ watercress an’ lettuce an’ beetroot an’ broccoli an’ rocket an’ apples an’ pea shoots an’ pears. Not to mention mixed leaf salad, whatever that is.
So that’s why I don’t come on too friendly with Old Man Platypus, ‘cos he ain’t serious about me. I mean, if he was serious like, he’d cut back on stuff for that wretched rabbit an’ give me a nice big bowl of tuna. Or salmon, of course. At a push I’d even put up with cod, but no, even that’s too much trouble for Mr Parsimonious Ratbag Platypus. Fishfood, that’s the extent of his generosity where yours truly’s concerned. Huh!
Madame Platypus ain’t much better. Always creepin’ up on me and pointin’ her camera in my face she is, tellin’ me not to move an’ to look straight into the lens an’ to tilt my head on one side so I look extra cute, an’ never, ever to blink.
Sometimes her camera lens is clickin’ away like a flamin’ flamenco dancer playing the castanets. How’s a cat supposed to sleep with all that goin’ on? I tell you, if I had any credit left on my cell phone I’d ring up the cops an’ get her arrested for disturbin’ the peace.
OK, I admit it, she said I could have some of her photos for this blog. Good job too, means you can see what a fine lookin’ feline I am, most ‘andsome mouser in the neighbourhood. So Madame Platypus has her uses, only don’t tell her I said so. I mean, we wouldn’t want gettin’ above herself, would we?
An’ to be fair – me, I’m always fair, of course I am – Old Man Platypus has his uses too. He likes watchin’ them Mice-With-Wings, puts out food for ‘em on a special table, even has a water bath for ‘em.
Typical, ain’t it, food’n’drink for his little feathered friends, and nothin’ for yours truly. But I forgive him ‘cos I loves drinkin’ from that water bath, I do. On a good day you can taste ‘em in the water, them Mice-With-Wings!
Old Man Platypus don’t do much gardenin’, says he’s got a bad back, but really it’s just ‘cos he’s an idle bugger. So, ‘cos he don’t cut back the bushes there’s places for me to hide an’ watch the Mice-With-Wings. Luck me, eh?
I caught one once I did, big as a rat it was, more like a Rat-With-Wings. I tell you, there was feathers everywhere. Tasted OK too, though ‘cos I’m a cosmopolitan kinda cat I prefers tuna. But that day I felt real great, goin’ back to my roots, showin’ the world just how it’s done. Milky Bar, King of the Urban Jungle, that’s me.
Anyway, I’m gonna stop now. This bloggin’ business is hard work, so I needs a snooze. An’ some tuna. Are you gettin’ this Old Man Platypus, do I have to spell it out, I needs tuna. That’s right, T-U-N-A … TUNA!
An’ I needs it now, so be a good chap an’ nip down to the shop an’ buy me some. About a dozen cans should do nicely. Until next week, that is.
Postscript: If you’ve enjoyed The World Accordin’ to Milky Bar, please click on “comment” and tell Old Man Platypus. If enough people tell him they like what I’ve written maybe he’ll let me have another go! With love from your new Best Friend Forever, the cat what always gets the cream (but never any tuna), the one and only Milky Bar. 😺
And now, a message from Old Man Platypus: Milky Bar isn’t the first cat to claim ownership of our garden, although he is the rudest. Old Man Platypus indeed! Click on the link below to find out about Sid, a much politer cat who used to visit.