The Get Out Claws

As Canterbury’s number one cat reviewer (Being the only one to ever review a cat in Canterbury), I see many cats. Big ones. Small ones. Fictional ones, angry ones, three-legged ones, two legged ones, two faced ones. Ones with eyes missing.

But when push comes to shit, there’s nothing better to gawp and point at than a common-or-garden domestic shorthair. And Scrubbles is no exception.

Image

Cat: Mr Scrubbles

Released: About 2008 probably

Type: Domestic Shorthair. Black and White.

Mr Scrubbles wears a constant expression of world-weary doom. A mask of a beaten soul; a dessicated, shrunken and withered pair of yellowed walnuts, sitting in each tired, pallid fucking socket.

Ostensibly five, he looks much older, primarily due to his thousand yard stare, and resigned, soporific face.

This makes him appear far older. They say you are as old as you feel, in which case Scrubbles has been hanging onto Gandalf’s cloak for the last five fucking years. This appears to also affect his agility, of which he has little. Passing through the house is rather like watching a brick covered in fur trying to swim through a bucket of pigswill. His mouse-catching skills are no better; I’ve not seen one attempt.

However, this is not entirely true of his history, when once, a dead mouse did appear on the kitchen floor. When questioned, Scrubbles remained stoic, merely fixing one with a taciturn gaze, like a murderer completely indifferent to their own guilt or lack of.

 

If there’s one thing to say about Mr Scrubbles, it’s that when the mood does take him, then he can show signs of life. Rather like when somebody lets off a single balloon at the world’s most boring funeral. He’s fond of purring, often using it as a constant conversation piece, and after each and every petting. This over-reliance on purring can appear tiresome, however, as are the constant morning head-butts, which can lose any charm, especially when carried out on a hungover recipient.

Not so much a wolf in sheep’s clothing, more a cat in a rather bored looking mask. Staring through a cat-flap into a wasteland. If he’s excited, he’s not showing it. He barely notices catnip unless it’s shoved into his fucking face.

Tepid performance, then. But some signs of life suggest that he could one day bounce back. The downloadable content includes a misery pack, like he fucking needed it.

 

6/10

 

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About neilstilwell

Abseiling into trouble, a sewer rat staring at the stars. Disgusting. You can assist my search for the one ring by buying a Kindle version of this diary from here. http://www.amazon.co.uk/frozen-fridge-Zoomeister-Diaries-ebook/dp/B00C426DD0/ref=sr_1_sc_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1366481719&sr=8-1-spell&keywords=a+frozen+turd+in+a+hot+frudge It has some other stuff in it, and a dreadful cover.
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One Response to The Get Out Claws

  1. Catfink1664 says:

    He looks like a handsome fellow

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