Tybalt the Famous

Tybalt is a modest cat. He is laid back, he is kind, he is friendly once he knows you, and polite if he doesn't. He is tall and handsome, and this morning he pinned Pandora down and gave her ears a jolly good clean.

And now he is FAMOUS!

You may remember back in June that the artist who painted a portrait of Tybalt and his dear departed sister Lily, contacted us to ask if we were agreeable to their images being made into a jigsaw puzzle. Well, of course, we agreed. We're not proud, we'll snatch at any chance of fame, vicarious or otherwise. The portrait man said a jigsaw puzzle company had shown interest in the painting, but couldn't guarantee they would actually use it as a jigsaw. It was all very much a 'project in progress.'

There was a bit of faffing as I had to take the original portrait to a photo studio to be scanned, and then it winged (wanged, wung?) its way to Ireland and then back to England, to a company called The Wentworth Wooden Jigsaw Company Ltd. And nothing more was heard.

Until Saturday, when Andy got an e-mail from the artist saying he was sending us our complementary jigsaw puzzle!!

And yesterday it arrived!!

It's a very good quality product, which is excellent as Tybalt  is very discerning and wouldn't want to be involved with, or endorse any old tat. It is 'a finely cut wooden jigsaw' featuring 'whimsy pieces' made 'using wood from forests managed on a sustainable yield basis.' And it's 'Made in England', and the pieces are presented in a nice cotton bag inside a high quality box. We are thrilled! Because this is just the kind of product that fits in with the morals and ethics of Much Malarkey Manor. (Can a jigsaw puzzle have morals and ethics? Well, this one does!)

The whimsy pieces are tiny cats!

'Why isn't there a jigsaw with me on it?' asks Pandora.
'Well, because you weren't around when this portrait was painted,' I say. 'Give me back that piece now; you'll make it all soggy licking it like that.'
'What do you mean, I wasn't around,' says Pandora.
'You weren't born,' I say, wondering if now is a good time to discuss eggs and sperm and the miracle of birth.
'But I've been around for YEARS,' says Pandora.
'No, you haven't,' I say. 'And put that other piece of puzzle back, too.'
'I have too,' says Pandora. 'Look, it says so, in Andy's 'Sky At Night' magazine.' And she opens the pages to reveal an article about something called the Twilight Pandora.
'That's not about you,' I say. 'That's to do with stars and the universe.'
'I AM the universe,' says Pandora, importantly, before skidding on the magazine and falling off the table.

I pick her up and wait until she's finished doing that cat lick thing that cats do to show their humans that they meant to do something stupid like fall off a table.

'The Twilight Pandora is the Pandora who wrecks stuff in the kitchen overnight,' says Pandora. 'Like eating flowers and plants and emptying the tea-towel drawer.'
'Oh,' I say. 'I see.'
'And Twilight Pandora is gazzillions of years old and should be on a jigsaw puzzle.'
'Right,' I say.
'You don't believe me, do you?' says Pandora.
'Not wholly,' I say. 'But as it's Christmas and it's going to be difficult for you to accept that Tybalt is famous on a puzzle and you aren't, I'm prepared to meet you half way and call you Twilight Pandora.'

And here are a couple of pictures of the finished product. We're saving it to make tomorrow, when the aged aunts, grannies, and my children and baby bug grand-daughter come for Christmas Eve party-do. Exciting stuff are parties here at the Manor!

A Deputation on the Doorstep

A deputation appeared on the doorstep of Much Malarkey Manor this morning, the size and shape of one cat flanked either side by a chicken. They each bore a demanding look of their faces. I thought, I bet they haven't come to discuss curtain material for the Oriental Salon.

'We've come to ask about our employment in the Manor once it is built and ready to go,' said Mrs Poo, who'd been elected spokeshen by the other two because, I assume, she looks the most menacing. (It certainly wouldn't have been for her diplomatic skills.)

'Employment?' I said. 'I assumed you were going to lounge around doing nothing and cluttering up the place much as you do now. Ahahahahahahahahahahaha....ouch! Was that entirely necessary?'
'I find a sharp peck to the knee cap excellent at bringing a halt to hysterical laughter,' said Mrs Poo, wiping her beak on the bottom of my skirt.'
'We just wanted to know why Mrs Miggins, Mrs Pumphrey, Phoebe and Pandora have all got jobs lined up and we haven't,' said Tybalt.
'They volunteered,' I said. 'They are motivated. They want to be involved.'
'So do we,' said Mrs Slocombe. She looked slightly hurt in the way only a bonkers mad chicken can look.
'Well,' I said, 'Andy and I are more than happy for you to have jobs in the Manor. The more hands, paws and claws to the wheel the better.'
'You're going to have to help us out a bit here,' said Mrs Poo. 'What kind of things could we do?'

I thought for a moment. I could do without thinking. What I really wanted was a glass of water and a lie-down. I'd just finished making and decorating Leane's birthday cake which involved much chocolate of the Maltesers, chocolate buttons, chocolate flake and Smarties variety and there was quite a bit leftover which I felt obliged to eat. And I now felt decidedly ikky.

'Okay,' I said, 'I'm planning to start a reading group and a writers' workshop and I need a roving reporter to go into the field at Titbury von Streudelheim and Down-In-The-Dumps to report on events there. Oh, and a butler.'
'What's a butler?' asked Tybalt.
'Someone who buttles,' I said. 'Actually, you'd make a good butler, Tybs. You've got the right uniform for it.'

Tybalt looked down at his black and white fur, the markings of which gave the appearance of black trousers and jacket and a white shirt.
'What do you mean?' he said.
'Well, you know, the black and white livery suit effect,' I said.
'Are you saying,' said Tybalt, 'that I look like a penguin?'
'Heaven forbid,' I said, 'but now you've mentioned it...'

'I could be a roving reporter,' interrupted Mrs Slocombe before claws were drawn and nasty scrapping ensued. 'I have a wild and roving eye.'
'You certainly do,' I said. 'How's your shorthand?'
'Probably not as short as it could be,' said Mrs Slocombe,' but I could practise.'
'That's the spirit!' I said. 'Now, just Mrs Poo to sort out.'
'I ain't butteling,' said Tybalt, but I merely smiled at him and patted his little furry head. His fate was already sealed.
'I was hoping for something a bit more high profile,' said Mrs Poo. It was then that I noticed she was wearing a double rope of very large pearls and mink stole.
'Is that real fur?' I said, in what I hoped was a disapproving tone.
'Listen,' said Mrs Poo, pulling the fur closer to her neck (and shoulders, if chickens had shoulders), 'if a mink tries to sneak into Cluckinghen Palace and steal our eggs, then I think it gets what it deserves, don't you?'

I sighed. She was right, of course. An English hen's coop is her castle after all.

'So I'd like to apply for the role of Lady of the Manor,' said Mrs Poo.
'I am sorry but that position is already filled,' I said.
'By whom?' said Poo.
'By me,' I said and I closed the Manor door, because the builders had just poured new concrete in the Main Hall and I didn't want cat fur and chicken feathers mussing it up.

Do you know, I could have sworn I heard raucous laughter as I walked away.

Fame at last!

I can't remember if I've mentioned Tybalt's sister before. Her name was Lilith and she was black and white, too, and cute as a button. We often had long conversations as she was incredibly vocal. She had some bad habits like sitting in the kitchen sink and then walking around leaving damp kitty buttock prints all over the shop, and perching on top of the kitchen cupboards, then flinging herself down onto the kitchen table - WHALLOP!- when you least expected it (and generally when you'd just rested a cup of tea or other some such liquid or wobbly material on it). Every morning she would sit on my lap whilst I had breakfast and remind me not to eat all the muesli in my bowl as it was her custom to polish off the last teaspoon herself. Sadly, a circulatory problem we knew nothing about led to her sudden and untimely death just over a year ago. I won't go into details, save it was a very traumatic time and Lil is greatly missed.

At the time she died, Andy revealed he had sent photographs of her and Tybalt to a pet artist in order to have a painting done of the two of them for my birthday. Given the circumstances, he asked the artist to go ahead with the painting immediately as a memento of Lily. The painting now hangs in our living room and is much admired by all.

And now, it seems, Lilith and Tybalt are going to achieve fame via the medium of jigsaw puzzle! The artist who painted the picture has contacted us and said that a jigsaw company has expressed an interest in using their portrait as a jigsaw. We have been consulted re: whether we are happy for this to happen and although it won't bring us riches, if the company goes ahead, it may well bring us a free jigsaw puzzle!

'A free jigsaw puzzle?' said Tybalt, when I told him the news. 'What good is that to me with my lack of prehensile thumbs?'
'Aren't you just a teensy bit flattered you are going to appear on a jigsaw puzzle?' I said.
'I suppose I could chew on the puzzle pieces,' said Tybalt, ignoring my attempt to flatter his ego. 'I like chewing bits of cardboard.'
'You won't be allowed to chew it,' I said. 'It's going to be an heirloom.'
'I'd be more impressed if I was asked to play the role of Felix in that cat food ad,' said Tybalt. 'Tis often remarked I look like the cartoon cat what already plays him.'
'Who already plays him,' I correct because I can't stand poor feline grammar.
'Then I'd get free cat food,' said Tybalt.
'You don't like tinned cat food,' I pointed out. 'You'll only eat the dried stuff.'
'This is true,' said Tybalt. 'The vet says it's good for my teeth.'
'Besides,' I said, 'to appear in telly ads you have to do as you're told. And that's not likely to happen is it?'
'I am very well behaved,' said Tybalt.
'When it suits you,' I said. 'You're a bit naughty about sitting in the kitchen sink and drinking from the tap, aren't you?'
Tybalt sniffed. 'I don't know why you get so huffy about it,' he said. 'You never minded when Lily did it.'
'Lily was different,' I said. 'Lily was cute and delicate. You gobble at it like a pig at a trough.'
'Well, that's charming,' said Tybalt. 'The vet also said it was good for me to drink fresh running water because I'll only eat dried cat food and I need to take care of my waterworks, whatever that means.'

Tybalt's waterworks have become a minor bone of contention of late. I have, on occasion, caught him weeing in the semi-squat position as opposed to the full squat, meaning there have been one or four accidents over the top of the litter tray. This necessitated us going to the pet store last weekend to buy the highest sided litter tray we could find. Unfortunately, the highest sided litter tray available was called, inaptly, the Boutique Little Powder Room tray and came in either pink or black. Would have suited Lily down to the ground. Now I know Tybs can be a little camp sometimes, but fortunately he can't read (he can write but not read - it's a rare talent) so he doesn't know that his new loo is really designed for big fluffy Persian type cats who want something that little extra special. And as he 'd need a step ladder to be able to wee over the side of this tray, it serves the purpose for which it was purchased.

I am thrilled my cats are going to be immortalised on a jigsaw puzzle. I'm also thinking 'That's Christmas presents sorted for this year. Hampers all around containing eggs, homemade jam, a bag of root vegetables and a jigsaw puzzle of Lilith and Tybalt. What more could family and friends want?'

Cats, stoats (or possibly weasels) and a birthday newt

I shall start today's blog with a joke that amused my Auntie Pollie enormously when I told it to her yesterday...

Ahem...

'How do you tell the difference between a stoat and a weasel? A weasel is weasily spotted but a stoat is stoatally different!'

This was in response to Auntie P's revelation that she had seen a stoat, or possibly a weasel, in her garden, she wasn't sure which. I hope the joke has proved useful for identification purposes.

'I knew a weevil once,' says Tybalt. He is sitting on the chair next to me and staring really hard.
'A weevil?' I say. 'I was talking about weasels.'
'Were you? I do apologise,' says Tybalt. 'I think my hearing must be going, what with me being older and all that.'

Tybalt has been behaving very oddly this week. There has been an excess amount of door banging occuring. He has taken to sitting perilously close to the seedlings in Growing Facility Number Two (the 'conservatory'). He's been eyeing up my tray of baby basil plants as though it would make a very good cat toilet. (This thought was causing me so much angst in the middle of the night that I got up and moved the basil to the greenhouse in case Tybalt did decide to poop on my seedlings whilst I was blissfully asleep upstairs.) He's also taken to dribbling on my head in the evenings when he sits behind me on the back of the sofa.

'It's because I'm thinking of cake,' he explains. 'Thinking of cake always makes me dribble.'
'Okaaay,' I say.
There is a silence.
'You're being incredibly thick today,' says Tybalt. He jumps off the chair and stalks off, banging the cupboard-under-the-stairs door as he passes. I check my biorhythms.
'Ha!' I call after him. 'You are WRONG, Mr Smartypants! Intellectually, I'm above par today. But I am a physical and emotional wreck,' I say, only not quite so loudly.

What is bugging that cat, I think. I drift into the garden to water the plants in the greenhouse. Some runner beans are showing their shoots and the leeks are also starting to emerge. And, to my surprise, so are the sweet peas, which I was expecting to come up ages ago. I was getting to the point of thinking they were a dud packet.

And then I suddenly realise. I forgot Tybalt's birthday! It was on Saturday, the same day as Chris's. In fact, it was a deliberate move to give Tybalt the same birthday as Chris so I wouldn't forget it.

'Oh cripes!' I say.
'What?' says Mrs Miggins, who has been standing with her beak pressed up against the glass because she is desperate to get inside the greenhouse and demolish every plant she can.
I explain the situation.
'Oh,' says Miggins. 'Door banging?'
I nod.
'Threatening to knock your seed pots over?'
I nod again.
'Tut, tut, tut,' says Miggins. 'Still, never mind. He's only a cat.'
'You wouldn't like it if I forgot your birthday,' I say.
'True,' says Miggins. 'But I'm a chicken. '
As if that makes all the difference.

What do I do, I think. I have to make amends. I'll make him a cake of course. His favourite - banana and catnip with cheese and pilchard icing. I look frantically around the garden for a potential birthday gift. A jalapeno pepper seedling? A hanging basket planted with strawberry plants? An egg? Two eggs? Mrs Miggins reappears. She is holding something wriggly in her beak.
'Here,' she says, spitting the wriggly thing into my hand, 'give the cat this. He'll like it. Trust me.'
I look at the contents of my hand.
'Are you sure?' I say.
'As sure as eggs is eggs.'
'Are eggs,' I correct.
'Whatever,' says Miggins.

Inside the house, I apologise profusely to Tybalt for forgetting his birthday. I promise him a cake by lunchtime, a pool table for his bachelor pad under the stairs by the weekend and then I hand over the wriggly thing in my hand.

Tybalt looks at it. His eyes mist over. He pats it with a gentle paw.
'It's a newt,' he says. He and the newt gaze at each other. It is love at first sight. Tybalt's first pet.
'I thought you were old enough to be responsible for a pet,' I say. 'Now you are six. Or whatever that is in human years.'

Tybalt looks at me and smiles. 'I shall call him Tiny,' he says. 'Because he's my newt.'