The Brimstone Protocol

Your Mission, Brimstone (should you choose to accept it), is to leap into the void suspended only by silken strand, aiming for that scrotty Poinsettia on the table down there (obviously decided to make this one last two Christmases…). 
 
Now – you`ve fulfilled the first part of your caterpillar duties admirably – your eating-and-eating has been unsurpassable and now it`s time to glue your enormous self to a branch and pupate for a while. You`ll be fine – just pretend to be a leaf. 

I have to tell you though, Brimstone, that when you emerge you might see some changes... perhaps most noticeably, Wings – this is perfectly normal. And you must use these to Take Off and find yourself a mate, because binge Eating, Brimstone, is no longer your duty; as a butterfly your duty is to Multiply.

Well, my work is done now, and I will self-destruct in thirty seconds. Turn away, lad – it won`t be pretty.

I Accept my mission, Captain, and I`m ready to do my best. Oh Yuck! He wasn`t joking… Oh well:

Wheeeeee! Out of the way - Here I co-! Oh sod it…

And so it was that a couple of weeks ago a green and wiggly thing abseiled past my ear, missed the poinsettia and stopped half way past. 

 

A moment`s ponder, then it started gently swinging till it manoeuvred itself onto one of the leaves. Then looped its way over the edge and disappeared.

Next day after in-depth Googling, I recognised a Strange New Leaf stuck to the stem.  `Twas surely a Brimstone Butterfly Pupa! (Don`t like to think he`s a Moth – we have curtains we care about…)

The thing is, How did he get to the ceiling, and right above our poinsettia, thereby avoiding myriad deathly kitchen landings: the white-hot-plates of the cooker, the bottomless evil waters of the sink and oh lord! the disgusting piles of fester in the cat bowl…

One could postulate that, nibbling contentedly on nearby clematis, he was carried away by a moonlight shadow and whisked through the window to the ceiling on a fierce updraught.

He`d made it by whatever magic, and I monitored his progress (of staying stuck to stem) for Two Weeks. Between two and four weeks I knew he`d Burst Forth, so with careful surveillance I would see him briefly in full flutter then urge him outside to fulfil his destiny.

Nooooooh! He`s Gone. This morning he wasn`t stuck to his stem; nor was he in the pot, on the table or in the cat fester. ( And SpartaCat no longer has the oomph to catch a Brimstone with or without wings).

I never imagined I`d be So Devastated by his disappearance.  Is he coping; how are his wings; will we ever see him again…?

Cruel for Cats

‘Is he OK now, your cat?’ she asked, hurrying across the road as we came home the other day.

Well, not really… but he’s always been like that.

It transpired, though, that this woman had noticed a cat hooked by the claw in one of our front net curtains.   (Yes all right - Nets!   But we’re a handspan from a very busy pavement, and I like to keep our sordid goings-on to ourselves, thank you)!

Anyway, probably-Scully had apparently been struggling to unleash herself for aeons, and the concerned cat-lover had come over and rung the bell to alert us. With no answer, she’d crunched across our bit of gravel to the window to
sympathise. 

And Loh! With one bound the cat was free!

Instant terror at the unexpected Looming of anyone Not-Us had instantly done the trick!     
(We're hoping to get her down and reunite her with the toe very soon).

So that’ll be another on our little-sweetie-cats’ long list of sufferings since we cruelly transplanted them to this Completely Unsuitable dwelling. With practically NO garden! 

Scully doesn’t even deem our patch worthy of a stroll in.

Mulder has valiantly found he fits snugly into an old black cooking pot by the weeping cherry. (With which he seems to feel an empathy).
Gazing out from the tree's sad danglings, he dreams tormentedly of the old days – the neighbour’s vegetable patch (his loo of choice), the stream at the bottom of  the garden full of sparkly swimmy things, the bushes overrun with tiny tasty rodents…

Now both poor dispirited specimens resort to sleeping (all day) in the sun-drenched bay window, grumpily accepting generous comments of passers-by, for surely they are ‘so sweet and gorgeous, Mavis - probably very young don’t you think…?’

In fact, Mavis, they’re seventeen and molly-well coddled...

Hark! Could that be the agonised howl of a cat desiring to come in immediately? Or that, the pained expression of one desperately needing a dollop of whatever we’re having for tea instead of Not flaming kittychunks again? And could we STOP plumping the settee back into shape, because they’ve spent hours getting the cushion concavity just right…

They seek solace in a hitherto unknown diversion  – TV.   If George and I are watching, we now squeeze onto the settee with both cats. Mulder particularly loves David Attenborough or Anything with birds - his head follows their flappings like a tennis match.

But it’s slightly worrying that only their heads are getting exercised; in the past they always worked hard to stay in shape...

What can we do to reinvigorate their lives, once more to see their merry, appreciative faces prancing in from The Tree and CookingPot for dinner?

It might take a while...

And Now! (at last - I couldn't make it work...) for the results of Canary Islander's painstaking Research (see his comment May 2nd):-

Splendid, CI - Thank You!

Cat Worrying

Does your cat worry? Does it get tense… ? Nervous headaches?

Or is your cat just bonkers?





Recently we were out gallivanting all day and half the night – (I know - call us WILD!!) – so feeding times were in disarray.

Arriving home we found Mulder-Cat glaring at us from the top step, the protest giblets of a vole arranged at his feet. Scully, trapped inside with only KittyCrunch to nibble, burst to freedom as we let ourselves wearily in. We found that she had enthusiastically emptied her bladder with only her head inside the covered cat tray: ‘Looks nice in there – think I’ll have a pee…’.

But why? She’d never done it before – did she have something on her mind; had she drunk too much KittyMilk and not quite made the little jump required? Was it retaliation for being shut in or – most terrifying – was she… Confused?

After all, the cats are fifteen now – brother and sister twins. Wikipedia says that’s 76 in cat years. And that a cat’s expected lifespan is twelve to fifteen years… have they been reading it too?

In fact Mulder has always been confused. Not incontinently - he just forgets everything he’s ever learnt…

His morning patrol begins with an ecstatic Surge out of the back door then a screech to a halt as a leaf settles close by… A tentative sniff and poke of every plant pot, step, and car wheel - if he’s not careful, any one of them could take a bloody big swipe at him!

Both cats have always been rationally scared of things like traffic… Or the vacuum cleaner - I mean who wouldn’t be concerned about a voracious roaring tube that could have had my flaming ear off, that could!  

Next door’s new puppy was also understandably scary - it got into our garden and bounded joyously after Scully to say Hello. D’you know, she’d never managed to climb the maple tree before… And it was a Hell of a long time before we could make her let go. 

But recently, they’re scared of anything, including us – getting them to come across the threshhold for FOOD is like trying to entice them across a lake of piranhas. Have they forgotten who’s been feeding them for fifteen years? What do they think we’re putting in it – fur-balls?

We started to wonder if there was an evil spirit in the (very spacious & comfy!) room we shut them in at night so they don’t wake us up. We’d usher them in and they’d shoot up onto a table, or perch death-defyingly on the mantelpiece. (Did anyone ever see that film of olden times where they force a maid back into the attic with the fearsome phantom? Our cats had that same stricken look).

So, they chose to stay out, and during the whole summer we only caught fleeting glimpses of them as they snatched a quick bite from under the outside table. Didn’t they Love us any more…? (‘Course not – they’re cats).

A couple of weeks ago, though, the night-time temperature dropped to zero. We noticed them hanging around on the steps as darkness deepened, doing the cat equivalent of nonchalant ball-kicking – 'well… if you really want us to come in I suppose…'

And once I’d achieved that first Grab round the throat and Haul into living room, they remembered all their old habits! One on my knee, one on the floor by the radiator, the brush-before-bedtime, the consoling tin of tuna after worming…

It’s been wonderful – real cuddly pets again - perhaps we would take them when we moved after all!

And then they go and Spoil it All by crotting in the conservatory plant trough. I'd just RePlanted that plant trough!

Actually, anyone have shed-space for a couple of daring vole-hunters...?

Everybody needs...

They’re all moving! In this time of financial crisis and House Market plummets, everybody else in our little clutch of outer-village dwellings is moving away. What are they not telling us?

In fact, old Philippe died fairly decisively… the man opposite changed his job… next door but one wants to be near her grandchildren… and two doors down – well, it’s just too sordid to talk about (any more)…

People don’t seem to move as often in France as in the UK, maybe because it’s such a faff. When you leave, you empty the house completely – curtains and rails, handy picture hooks, light fittings with bulbs (although they did leave us a solitary 40w on a scary bit of wire).

George and I landed in this unrecognisably bleak shell one freezing December night straight from final solicitor’s signings to find also that gas, electricity and water were switched off. With our furniture arriving next day, we got wine, water, candles and edibles from the village shops (mercifully open till 7pm), toasted our little cave and shared a sleeping bag, wearing every jumper we’d packed into the one case.

Next morning, our great big van arrived at seven thirty, having demolished a string of Christmas lights negotiating the village. (Perhaps nobody would know it was us…). There followed a frenzy of organising gas, electricity and water – the wherewithal for tea being paramount if we wanted our stuff unpacking...

With daylight we found not only our two cellars, but keys thereto, and the nice man from the water company patiently explained where the stop tap was. (Had we been able to see it the night before, we could apparently have unleashed that utility right away). Once we did unleash it, the water from the kitchen tap went into overdrive-flow and wouldn’t stop – switched on or not.

We then had visits from gas and electricity; French utilities insist on coming to inspect new customers for unfortunate tendencies and out-of-date equipment (which they find), then they tell you to get hold of a private contractor because they wouldn’t touch that apparatus with a barge pole.

In spite of all this, though, most seem to approach moving house with a gallic shrug; presumably they’re resigned to spending several months unscrewing everything because they know the place they’re going will also be devoid of content. Unless you count twenty years-worth of empty wine bottles, rusty garden implements and a gestapo greatcoat that we unearthed later.

Our current neighbours are exuberantly friendly and I’m sure we’ll miss them, but it’ll be exciting to see who’ll take their place. Our estate agent noted with hilarity that English people always ask "what are the neighbours like?" What’s so funny?

Admittedly, you have to try and glean true meanings behind the inevitable “lovely”, "salt of the earth" (or baffled “Pfouff” in France), but pleasant neighbours are a huge bonus. Even Unpleasant, you’ll have to communicate with them sometime, if only to borrow an emergency plaster or to extricate your cat from their dog…

Oh lord, the pets! Now how are they all going to get on?...

Grumpy Old Bun

Feeling gloomy and neglected in the dismal springtime, our aged houserabbit Olly had a cunning plan: pretend to be ill and get pampered to death.


And our aim was exactly that because, just like Roland before him, he suddenly lost almost all the use of his back legs. Like Roland therefore, he wouldn't last much longer; we must make his final days very happy. We began showering him with favourite greens and oats, letting him select only the colourful bits of his dry mix, and giving him constant attention until his body gently gave up.


It is two months now. His appetite is greater than ever, he loves the pampering, and he has perfected methods of making demands; he only has to raise his head and glower and we rush over to proffer a banana chip and stroke his furry brow. If we have misunderstood his demand, he growls like a bear. If we hold his parsley incorrectly, he snarls and gives us a nip. From time to time he even manages to convey a martyr'd, "No, you go - I'll be alright..."


We're uneasy about inviting anyone to the house since, in spite of daily dunking of his nethers, the fragrance of bun is all-pervading. (You can always tell when someone's trying to hold their breath).


What do we do? Two months ago we had the trauma of imminent loss; now we have the trauma of perpetual hanging-in-there.

Oh damn! He'll probably leave us out of his Will now.

Whither, Frangipani?

George has just returned from his daily inspection of The Frangipani Project.

Always a disappointment.

It seemed a good idea at the time. We'd had a thrilling visit to the local Garden Festival – trampolines, chess-piece plants, musical features, squirting water features, huge bouncing balls just like that ancient cult TV series whose name I’ve forgotten... (except, not self-propelled).

Inspired and channelled irresistibly to the Shop, we wandered round for hours like kids at Christmas. So many wonderful books, plants, ideas and amazing garden stuff to transform our own bit of green – how to choose?

In the end I plumped for some amusing and imaginative greetings cards, and George got a packet of Frangipani Seeds. The picture on the box was beautifully colourful, and you can use its vivid flowers to make those rather fetching welcome garlands - so redolent of its exotic native climes, and a joy for anyone in the grim Arrivals Surge at Paris-Charles de Gaulle.

Unfortunately, George’s hours of sowing and devoted caring for these seeds in a specially-recycled plastic kiwi fruit container, has borne neither fruit nor frange. Maybe six months isn’t long enough for them to hit the surface.

To deepen his gloom, today’s inspection included a frenzied tussle with our first snake of the garden. In fact it was Sabrina-Cat who was tussling, and the poor snake was probably a baby, being only six inches long and half an inch in diameter. So it was the cat who George was trying to belabour about the ears with a big stick.

Since arriving in France, we’ve often been warned about the vicious vipers who love long grass and can’t wait to leap out at you and take a chunk. First forays into our undergrowth were therefore tentative, but a wise friend said just warn them you’re there and they’ll run off. So we stamped our feet, sang hearty songs and thrashed around with garden hoes. This was ludicrously exhausting in a 40 degree summer, and we decided to let them go ahead and bite. They’ve never been tempted.

Until now – seemingly tantalised by the half-buried perfume of George's Project. Do snakes eat frangipani seeds, or will they fiendishly lie in wait for the first juicy shoots to peep through?

Or will the cats just dig it up and piddle all over it as usual? Whither, Frangipani-Project?. And to what end?

Tick Trauma

Removal of Ticks

Step 1: Decide that the curious lump you’ve been idly stroking from time to time on Algenon-the-Cat’s neck should perhaps be investigated in case (god forbid!) it’s a Tick.

Step 2: It’s a TIIIIICK! And so is the Curious Lump on his left flank.

Step 3: George goes on the Net to find out what to do about it, having received and forgotten masses of advice on the subject since we’ve lived here (all of which was conflicting).

Step 4: Find masses more conflicting advice. Decide to pull the bloody thing off.


Do we have ticks in England, our Old Country? I don’t remember ever hearing about them, let alone worrying that one might be lurking in wait for our armpits as we strolled across the fields to the pub.

But they certainly live here in this green and pleasant zone of the Loire - we know people who’ve been afflicted!

What to do? Some say you have to twist them out ANTI-clockwise. Others say it MUST be clockwise. Or “touch it with a lighted cigarette”, or “NO, that’s last thing you should do – splosh it in alcohol”…

So today we seized the disgusting tiny grey wineskin of a thing by its neck-end with a pair of tweezers and gently tugged. Algenon howled like a werewolf, freed a paw and sliced my finger open.

Little tinker.

After another tug the tick’s horrid little hooks became apparent and we went on unleashing thousands more hooks until I managed a successful twist (in all directions) and it suddenly jerked out.

Where the hell did it go? There followed a sort of juggling-with-red-hot-potato interlude trying to catch the thing without touching it.

We managed eventually, and did the same with the second tick. They’re currently both festering at the bottom of a cup of meths – Hah!

So… how d’you know when they’re dead, then?

Rabbits we have known

Gave the rabbit a toxic-powder dousing this morning. It's to keep his fur beautiful and free of tiny creatures, but he hates it so we don't do it enough so he looks like an old carpet. A happy old carpet, though.

We've had house-rabbits for years because they're funny and fiendishly clever. We used to have one who slept across our bedroom doorway all night, popping up and downstairs to his litter tray as necessary. When the cats first met him, one of them took a swaggering swipe across his nose and he bit her briskly and deeply on the ankle. Since then, rabbits reign.

When we came to France we had two. They hated each other because we had been wrongly sold a baby male to keep the existing male company when his female died. Naturally the old male took great offence at this pointless interloper, and they spent a year ripping each other into bloodied pieces.

However, our move to France involved an agonising ten-hour drive with two cats and two buns in the back of a very tiny car, George and I snarling at each other every time we got lost and me hyperventilating my way down the wrong side of the road. When we finally got here the rabbits were too miserable even to heave themselves out of the travel-boxes.

But next morning... they were so thrilled to have come through this hideous trauma together that they fell rapturously in love, and were inseparable till the elder died last year.

We've decided not to get another, so Final Bun spends a lot of his time companionably doing whatever we're doing. Every so often he flings himself on his back with eyes closed and legs waving in the air - a sure sign of bunny delight.

He likes it when we do it, too.