I have no children but I do have two babies. They are both female chocolate point Burmese cats. Almost everyone knows a Siamese, but not many people are familiar with the Burmese breed, probably the closest relative of the Siamese. That’s me guessing on the closeness of their genetic ties since they are both oriental sounding, both talkative and social, both intelligent and both end in an “-ese” :)
Burmese are short-haired, but their coat is super soft. They are often described as a “brick wrapped in silk” because they are much heavier than they look. If you pick up a Siamese, they feel like a feather-light scrawny bag of bones. A Burmese is solid but not fat. They are much clumsier than a Siamese but they think they are very smooth operators.
Burmese are referred to as the “dog cat” due to their social and loving nature. They talk and shout a lot and demand a lot of affection. My one cat even plays ball. She brings the ball to me, drops it at my feet and expects me to throw it for her. If I don’t engage her, she’ll take the ball to the top of the staircase, drop it to the floor, and then bash it down the stairs, chasing after it, just to return to the top and repeat the game.
I call them my kittens even though they are now 6 years old. Their official names are Pixel and Mimo, but I never use those names. Pixel is called “bigcat” and Mimo is called “babycat”. Their big Siamese friend from down the road goes by the name of “biggestcat”. And then there’s their nemesis, “strawberry shortcake”, an evil nasty ginger male who is constantly invading their garden and beating them up.
Today strawberry came a-visiting while they were playing outside. I’m alerted to his presence after a loud crashing smash as kitten’s body collides with Trellidor as we try furiously to get inside away from the nasty boy cat. I charge downstairs to see four big eyes, two fluffy bottle-brush tails and a big bully cruising the garden. So I grab the first weapon I can find which is a tennis ball and rush outside.
Strawberry sees me and bolts. I take aim and fire the projectile. My hand eye coordination skills are disastrously bad and the ball flies off at a tangent disappearing into the dense jasmine hedge. Sod, I’m not going in there to get it. Ginger nimbly scales the neighbour’s adjoining wall and disappears from sight. Oooh, this is war. I’m gonna get me that cat!
So I climb the wall. It’s a mere 1 metre high, child’s play for my 1.8 metre frame. I balance on the top of the wall and survey the battle field. No ginger in sight. Where did the little shit go? No matter… I’m going in recce-style. So I gracefully disembark from my perch, and land left-foot first on the uneven grass. I hear a grinding ripping tearing gristly sound as my foot rotates under me and I go crashing to the ground. After the blackness and nausea dissipate I survey my surroundings; no ginger in site. Today the little bugger won. But next time strawberry… next time… your ginger ass is mine!
I hobble back to my sanctuary in search of a dish cloth and some ice.