They're out to get me....................
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One ginger little shit was even industrious enough to drag a half-eaten bag of fish and chips onto my lawn. It then had the temerity to "meow" at me, which to my cat-hating mind sounded a lot like, "Where's the salt, Rob?"
After checking that we were alone, I did, of course, explain to the cheeky russet-rascal that my garden was not a motorway cafe and politely asked him to leave.
"Soon as I've finished this, squire!" its little wink seemed to say before it dived into the leftover supper, not budging until every scrap was consumed.
Now, as we all know, domestic felines are the inferior cousins of the big African cats, and while browsing the web one day I came across something that I felt sure would rid me of my infestation once and for all.
"Big Bubba's Powdered Lion Stools" declared the ad in bold, brown type. "Buy two for only Â£8.99 each and recieve this handy bear suit absolutely free." There was even a free sieve in which to sow your purchase, ensuring an even coverage.
"Wow!" I exclaimed, recalling with distain how the feline shitting machines not only littered my garden with Tracker bars, but also marked their territory with that awful, stinking spray of theirs.
I almost marked my own territory out of sheer excitement as I pictured their furry expressions suddenly plummeting from nonchalant, arrogant roost-ruler to terrified, domesticated pet upon their first whiff of Big Bubba's terrifying scent.
Laughing, I passed over my debit card details as though they were a dose of gonorrhoea that might be instantly purged by my purchase. A cat free existence beckoned and the rest of the evening would be spent in anticipation of that blissful state.
TheRapists would recieve not one, shiny penny from the Kosy coffers. Big Bubba would see to that.
* * * *
It is three nights hence.
A dark, grizzly bear emerges from the front door of number eleven Psychodelia street and lumbers out into the garden.
In one paw it holds a large bucket of Big Bubba's Powdered Lion Stool; in the other a sieve.
Without preamble or fear of detection (of course not, its a bear..............Grrrrrrrrr) the animal dumps the contents of the bucket into the sieve and begins dispensing it to the gardens many nooks and crannies.
Finally satisfied -and with both buckets empty- the fearsome beast wipes a forearm across its craggy brow, takes a long, long drag on its cigarette and roars its satisfaction into the night.
Trembling at the living room window, Mrs Bear stands with the frying pan at her shoulder, a copy of the yellow-pages on the table and studies the section marked TheRapists.
* * * *