Over the course of the last year, Maisy’s repeated use of a shortcut across the garden has resulted in the erosion of a *Maisy Tunnel*, through which she can dart at phenomenal velocity. I tried taking a photo of her rocketing through, but I think I’m going to need stronger light and a higher shutter speed for this one.
Maisy has a infra-red catflap. When we first got it, she was terrified of it – each time she approached it, there’d be a tiny click as the mechanism unlocked, and she’d run a mile. Eventually she settled down, and things were good for a while.
Then there were a few hitches. Firstly, she lost her collar one day, necessitating the purchase of a replacement key ((as seen here and here)). Secondly, the keys wouldn’t always work, which led to many, many battery changes to try and find the source of the problem. By the time she lost her collar for the second time, she’d already figured out a way to bypass the lock on the catflap. So now we let her roam the neighbourhood *sans* collar ((though she is microchipped, I hasten to add)).
So may I introduce to you: the Maisy Method.
Maisy has some very cat-like traits (well, she is a cat, after all) but sometimes she surprises us. For instance, I thought that cats hated it when you tried to put a blanket over them. Maisy, however, loves it. In fact, the other week I was sat on the sofa watching TV with a blanket over me for warmth. Maisy climbed into the space beneath my armpit and sat there in the dark until Karen came home.
Maisy has an assertiveness problem. She’s not been defending her turf with quite as much success as we were hoping that she would. Instead of claiming this garden as her own, it feels like every time she goes out to use the facilities, she’s paying the neighbour’s cat 20p for the privilege.
The other night, I was sat on the sofa with Maisy on my lap. In the conservatory, I heard the sound of some foreign animal attempting to enter through the cat flap. Maisy launched herself off of my lap and ran to the top of the stairs, where she nervously sat down. This location was clearly chosen because it is as far away from the conservatory door as possible, while still maintaining line-of-sight.
A few weeks ago, she left a dead mouse on the patio. At the time we assumed that she had killed it and brought it back as a gift, but I’m wondering now if our initial assessment was incorrect. It seems likely that the mouse was actually chasing Maisy back into the house, and then slipped on the edge of a paving slap and broke its neck.
Maisy’s problem, if you wish to call it a problem, is that she likes to sleep. Any time not spent curled up on the Poang, or under Bernard’s bed, or on a chair in the conservatory, is time wasted. She has no work ethic whatsoever.
Maisy has spent most of the afternoon rolling around on the floor, sticking her arse in the air and making peculiar growling noises. This is the feline equivalent of standing in the middle of the shopping centre shouting “what does a girl have to do to get some DICK round here?”
So, yeah, it looks like she hasn’t been spayed after all then.
I know, I know, “she’s going to be so embarrassed when she grows up and reads this.”
She’s spent most of the afternoon sleeping under the stairs, but hey, she’s a cat.
We don’t know much about her history, as she was “discovered” and handed in to a vet, and was then passed on to TVAW. They estimate that she’s about 18 months old, and they think that she’s probably been spayed, but they can’t be certain. Bernard took an instant shine to her, and vice versa.