Twice a day for twelve years, Smudge would diligently scratch my lounge or dining room rugs, and then roll over expecting me to pat his belly. Being told off did not stop the scratching, so I resorted to squirting him with water and used a herbal spray on the rugs, but the defiant moggie was not deterred. Recently, I found two rugs on sale to replace my old ones.
At first, spraying the new rugs with an unpleasant, herbal spray caused Smudge to abstain from his daily ritual. However, the smell even put me off from being in the room. Luckily, after 20 minutes it dissipated. The smarty paws was now on the look-out for alternative scratching material, and much to my horror and consternation, the bedroom mats are constantly shredded.
Smudge has always had his own small rug in front of the lounge room heater. Currently, it is treated the same as the bedroom ones.
By scratching, I know the big mog is marking his territory, but there is a scratching post inside and a huge gum tree outside for sharpening his claws.
The evil fluff-ball is testing me and I caught him yesterday, heard him first, ripping fibres… His pupils were dilated and he was manically working those claws. Yes, it was one of my new rugs. I chased him off—this was unacceptable behaviour—but as usual, it didn’t make any impression and later he was trying again.
Numerous drafts of my story lie on the floor. Smudge is sitting on the last one, which I attempt to retrieve as I need to check something. He’s unimpressed and doesn’t move, as I have been keeping him awake with my noise and the light. Eventually, he relents and curls up in the tub chair.
It’s after 2.30 am, so I complete my bathroom routine and fall into bed. However, sleep is absent as I can’t get comfortable and thoughts continue to roll around in my head.
At 6.00 am the mantle clock chimes and I gasp and raise my head, disturbed by a weight on my body. Smudge has plopped himself horizontally across my chest. It’s hard to breathe when a 4.5 kg furball has pinned you down. I manage to turn slightly hoping that he’ll slide off, but he clings on with extended claws. ‘Owhh!’ I’m now fully awake and push him off.
In an attempt to ignore my tormenter, I wrap the doona around my body and bury my face into the pillow, but Smudge hasn’t given up and whacks me in the head. I turn around and his face is 30 cm away from mine, his pupils dilated. After a few seconds of eyeballing each other, he looks away and jumps off the bed. Finally, I’m left in peace… but later I’m woken by a loud, rumbling sound. There are workmen outside operating an excavating machine and Smudge is back on the bed again.
Me lounging on the bed without the human. So much room!
Lion’s paws! What’s wrong with the human? She had flopped onto her bed and crawled under the doona for a few moons, bringing up some kind of fur balls, heaps of them, which is strange ’cause she doesn’t have a glossy coat like me.
When I want breakfast, I usually whack her face with my paw. Normally, she’d roll over, but this time she opened her eyes and made a racket, coughing into sheets of litter-type stuff. Her whole body shook—I know how she feels. I nudged her cheek with my nose, but she just lay there, so I thought I’d better snuggle up and keep her company. Who knew when my next feed would be, but she did manage to get up a couple of times to do her business and leave me some dry food—crunchies. The first time up, she left the back door open.
I could come and go whenever—have some fun, but I’d thought I’d better stay and wait till the human was back to her annoying self again. It was comfy lounging on the rugs on top of the doona, except it was irritating when she was honking her nose and bringing up fur balls.
Finally, the human was up. ‘Come on, let’s play.’ I dashed off down the hall, but she lagged behind. ‘Hurry up!’ Instead of chasing me, she went to the food cupboard and made some breakfast. ‘Hey, where’s mine?’ Now that the human was better, it was time for her to attend to my needs.
The human has left me a new object to play with. It’s bigger than me, has strings attached and makes scrunching sounds when I dart in and tumble around—so much fun! When I get in, she is ready to snap and flash that annoying thing in my face, so I dash out before she can get a good piccy. ‘Click’… She got me, but that’s not my best side.
When the sky booms and heaps of water falls on the ground, I’ll spend most of the day wrapped up in a rug on the human’s bed, as it’s chilly outside. At night, she’ll turn on the big heater box and I’ll sprawl out in front hogging the warmth, rather than curling up on my human armchair. Later, when a patch of my fur gets a bit toasty, I’ll move.
The human continues to stay up late working, so I have a new technique to get her up in the morning.
Step 1: I press my right paw into her cheek and extend my claws. She usually grunts and shakes her head, moving away. After a couple of times, the human rolls over, burying her face into the pillow.
Step 2: Next, I plonk myself near her head and position my front paws over the edge of the bed, crouching down. I then flick the tip of my tail under her nose. This causes her to gasp and scratch her nose. The human is now up, ready to get me breakfast.