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The Ginger Peril
When Ginger Fred gave birth to six kittens she changed her name to Freda. I took one of the kittens home. A tiny ginger ball of fluff with a very long tail. When Arianne saw it she was affronted. A common cat of farming stock in the same house as a pedigree Abyssinian ! We'd see about that ! Stretching out seductively on the floor, she twitched her paws. "Come to me..........just to me...." The ball of fluff naively came. Pounce ! Ferocious growls. Arianne ripped out the kitten's throat and kicked frantically at its guts while maintaining meaningful eye contact with me. Consternation. Intervention. Phew ! A bluff ! The kitten was unharmed and unfazed.
My response was to show Arianne that she was still top cat and most loved. I lavished attention on her and ignored the kitten as much as possible. Difficult. The ball of fluff fell over the bannisters. Mountaineered up the Christmas tree. Climbed the bookshelves. Swung like Tarzan from the net curtains and shredded them on the way down. Arianne was not amused. I was entranced but worried. What would Arianne do to him while I was at work ? Nothing lethal it transpired. It was all bluff and she gradually learned to ignore him. Meanwhile the ball of fluff got shut in a cupboard overnight, was spectacularly sick after eating a large chunk of cheese left out by mistake and fell into the loo creating fears that he had gone round the S bend.
Over time I took to calling him the Ginger Peril which got shortened to GP or Jeep. Sometimes also Jeepy Peepy, Cuddles, The Ginger One, Ginge, Big Boy, Fatty Lumpkin and a host of other aliases. But trouble was always his middle name. As he grew up he took to sporting a single gold earring and a leather bomber jacket. A Harley Davison appeared outside the cat flap. Over time he developed a bit of a beer belly. That's the sort of cat he was.
Arianne never became reconciled. Occasionally, when driven beyond endurance, she smacked him round the chops, but mostly he remained beneath her notice. Except when the Doberman from next door appeared on the scene. But that, as they say, is another story.
My response was to show Arianne that she was still top cat and most loved. I lavished attention on her and ignored the kitten as much as possible. Difficult. The ball of fluff fell over the bannisters. Mountaineered up the Christmas tree. Climbed the bookshelves. Swung like Tarzan from the net curtains and shredded them on the way down. Arianne was not amused. I was entranced but worried. What would Arianne do to him while I was at work ? Nothing lethal it transpired. It was all bluff and she gradually learned to ignore him. Meanwhile the ball of fluff got shut in a cupboard overnight, was spectacularly sick after eating a large chunk of cheese left out by mistake and fell into the loo creating fears that he had gone round the S bend.
Over time I took to calling him the Ginger Peril which got shortened to GP or Jeep. Sometimes also Jeepy Peepy, Cuddles, The Ginger One, Ginge, Big Boy, Fatty Lumpkin and a host of other aliases. But trouble was always his middle name. As he grew up he took to sporting a single gold earring and a leather bomber jacket. A Harley Davison appeared outside the cat flap. Over time he developed a bit of a beer belly. That's the sort of cat he was.
Arianne never became reconciled. Occasionally, when driven beyond endurance, she smacked him round the chops, but mostly he remained beneath her notice. Except when the Doberman from next door appeared on the scene. But that, as they say, is another story.
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