The new dawn.

Hailstones ricochet from my glass ceiling. It's -1 and I'm cold, I hate February.

"While the rest of the species is descended from apes, redheads are descended from cats."

Mark Twain quotes (American Humorist, Writer and Lecturer. 1835-1910)


I thought I'd include that quote just because I like it.

I feel really fed up. I've heard the news today. Isn't that a Beatles song? Well anyway everything is doom and gloom. I only popped in to warm my paws, rest my ears from the cacophonous discordant racket of ice balls crashing on my roof. Apparently the earth only needs to warm another three degrees and we will all be swimming apart from the parts of the planet where we'll all roast, a scientist gave his valued judgement that it's all too late and we may as well all drive Ferraris' 'cos anything humans can do is all too little and too late. And if the flood doesn't get you the chicken flu will, and if the poultry virus doesn't kill a quarter of the population then the huge volcano at Yellowstone park is due to erupt at sometime soon, and if you were to survive all that the "holy" crusades are beginning...Humans what can you do...?

I'm going back to my box and wait for the new dawn.

The eternal graceful circle.

Good news of sorts the body of Felix the garden nursery cat has been moved. I would like to think the plantsmen recovered him, returned his broken body to his home, buried him amid the compost and the flowers so he may still nurture those baby plants in death, as he protected them in life from the gnawing teeth of the grey bodied Mickies when the young green shoots popped their vulnerable heads from the safety of the soil. The eternal graceful circle and the final chapter in the life of Felix: the garden nursery cat.

Felix, R.I.P

Sad news to report today: The garden nursery cat is no more. I didn't know him by name but he was a polite fellow who I knew enough just to say hello, nice day, etc . The last time I saw him -apart from this the very last time- was just after Christmas, he was carrying the roasted remains of that honourable American bird the turkey in his big black jaws. Today he was folded up and his beautiful black velvet fur was mud soaked and rain sodden. He had just been able to drag himself to the sanctuary of a front garden that nears the nursery, he may of struggled because the ground around him was scratched up and the grass compressed in a radius around him forming a halo of tangled green leaves. His right paw was reaching to his head, I hope not to conceal the newly wrought ugliness that was now his face -his right eye pushed from its socket and this side of his once handsome face torn and ripped, a bloody pulped mess of fur, bone and brain- but rather to hide this mess so that we who knew him would remember him for who he was, the handsome dude who shared his life with baby plants and the plantsmen. I didn't know his name so I shall call him by his proper name: Felix, R.I.P

Richard and Judy, and me.

Well that's it I'm officially famous! My name was mentioned on The Richard and Judy Show ( Friday 17th Feb) I am, as I write a household name. Richard was introducing an article about pet cemeteries and he said "for all Ferdi's friends." Well he did correct himself by saying,
"Freudian slip."
I, Ferdinand, Ferdi to my nearest and dearest, have reached and touched the deepest recesses of Richard Madeleys psyche. I am so proud that a man of his caliber should be such a devoted reader of my blog that I have embedded myself into his subconscious. I think though when he said Freudian slip he was just doing it to cover himself, he really (kind man that he his,) has given me free advertising so that others may know of Ferdinand the Fantastic feline.

This is a great competition for those humans with special cats and like to write, unfortunately there isn't a category for special cats who also write so I am disbarred, but I still appreciate that this will allow other felines to show off their skills via their human house mates.


Cat owners with a good 'tail' to tell about their fave feline have until 12 May to enter one of the award's four categories:

Hero Cat - Cats that save the day!
Brave rescue feline, Felix, proved he was the ultimate 'Hero Cat' when he alerted his celebrity owners, TV design duo Justin and Colin, to a potentially fatal house fire.
Ultimate Survivor - Tales of feline survival after those nine lives have been spent.
Best Friends - Where a best furry friend has radically improved the quality of human life.

For more information and an entry form, please visit www.cats.org.uk or e-mail rescuecatawards@cats.org.uk. Alternatively please call +44-(0)8702-099-099.

George Galloway libels Ferdinand

Iv'e just read my last post -pretty bad, I'm rambling, just goes to show what a state I was in. I was considering deleting it but I decided against it. It may be rubbish but it is a reflection of my condition on that day. How I managed to write any thing at all just shows my grit, stamina and determination.

Good news I'm back under my glass ceiling. Life has returned to normal...

Just because I wrote a slightly critical piece about George Galloway he has struck back at me using a national publication; The Sun. I quote.

And just in case you're wondering what the Respect MP has been up to since he came out of the house, the Sun pictures him emerging from a tanning salon in south London.

And as a reminder of the infamous moment when he pretended to be a cat, it wonders what colour his tan's going to be...Ginger Tom, maybe?

Ok so my name wasn't mentioned but is there another famous ginger tom who casts his critical over the human condition? No! This is just so sly, everyone knows who is meant but are they brave enough to name me? no.

Scarred for life

Well I'm back home. I have a new box: bright red, with peppers, produce of Spain in white lettering along the side. My wool blanket is freshly laundered. I have a new sleeping place, under the radiator in the kitchen. My plot to bribe worked well (I'm back home) and badly...

I was going to catch Martin (male human of the household) a gift of a large rat- ok part bribe part pressie, but I had misjudged the grey furry beings lack of desire to become an ungift-wrapped edible token of my good nature. The brute -and he was huge this rat- and his family turned on me, I could have lost an ear or worse an eye. I had just positioned Roland into a corner of the out house ready to spring - my whole body as taut as a trapeze wire when there was a sharp pain from my tail, I turned my head just for a split second and the next thing Roland was at my head and several other huge rodents were nipping at my ginger coated being. They drew blood. I shall be scarred for life. How I managed to escape owes much to my skill and high intelligence. After I finished running I clattered through the cat flap and shot under the tool chest in the conservatory, knocking over a couple of potted cactus enroute and so have a couple of the nasty phallic object's thorns embedded in various parts of my anatomy too boot. Dolly arrived first at the scene of devastation, quickly followed by Martin, and then Susan (female human of the household.)
Three pairs of eyes were peering under the trunk. Three pairs of distinctly different coloured eyes: one pair brown, one pair blue and then green. A kaleidoscope of corneas.

I was finally coaxed out from my safe haven with a promise of not being taken to the knackers and a saucer of sardines the tomato sauce scraped away. I was lifted from my glass ceiling abode to the pepper box that Susan had prepared earlier and my wounds tended with cotton wool balls soaked with dilute TCP.

The television is on in the living room, there is not much to see or do here in the kitchen, double glazing prevents sounds from the outside stimulating my auditory organs, but I am warm, I feel safe and I start to doze just as big Lil arrives with her size nine paws and does a double take at my ginger coat bundled up in a blanket in her kitchen. Lil being now deaf as a post has been unaware of the commotion or the medical emergency on her doorstep. She plonks herself down next to her Friskies and after having a snack counts the remaining ones eyeing me with a
"you can stay there mate but you eat just one of those biscuits and I'll I'll..."

I dozed, woke, and fitfully slept, I dreamed: Gertie with the darned cardie and the Friday fish supper. Gertie, leaving me, our life together. The day she left after I had followed her carriage to the end of the road. I knew she had died but I didn't understand it. Everyday I would wait outside her front door at the times she should be leaving for work and when she didn't arrive would return again at the times she was expected back from work. The door never opened. Each day there was a little less Of Gertrude. The smell of her became fainter and fainter.

On this last day of this episode of my life and as I stood by Gertie's door sniffing and sucking the air, Mrs Cratchet from number ten sidled up to me making strange cooing noises, in one hand she held a saucer, she moved closer, stooped lower, her large yellow teeth coming nearer,
"coo coo."
The saucer nearly under my nose disclosed overcooked chicken bits.
Suddenly her hidden arm shot out from it's hiding place revealing a long pole with a loop on the end.
"Not that hungry thanks."I wailed as I legged it to the underbelly of a rusting Bedford Rascal. Her tartan slippers with pompoms followed me to the shadow of the chassis. When I moved her pompoms would follow my movement from the parameter of the vehicle. Only the arrival of a removal lorry distracted the owner of the tartan house shoes. She and they made their way back to her front door and vanished only to reappear some few moments later minus saucer and the evil pole contraption.

She and I now shared an interest, the goings on at number twelve. Three rather large human males were carrying stuff in. A box followed by another box, by a chair, a sofa, table, and a bed, on and on it went this procession of human worldly goods. Mrs Cratchet making a mental inventory of every item. Number twelve's door closed, the van doors slammed shut and with much manoeuvring the lorry left the cul-de-sac. The tartan slippers returned to their own front door, and being forgotten I slipped out from my haven and stood for the last time outside the door of my old home. I sniffed and now there was no longer any trace of Gert, her scent, her perfume had been replaced by alien aromas. I understood at last what her dying meant..

The cat amongst the pigeons

I've tested my paw in the water of my home, a little less chilly? I snuck home, my box is bereft of it's blanket (did they think I'd vacated permanently? gotten squished under some black rubber wheel?) I'm sure when they realize I am not missing they will be very pleased to see my ginger being but I have only encountered Dolly and big Lil. Susan (female human of the household) will be much relieved that I am back in her life, but Martin (Male human of the household) may not be so pleased. So I have connived a plan. I will bribe him.

My present accommodation is seething with rodents of the Roland type. I will present Martin with the gift of a grey fur being. Which should persuade him what a generous kind-hearted cat I really am. Last time I cleverly dropped a surprise shrew in his wellie boot, and his joyous shouts could be heard from quite some distance, Jed the black and white moggy from number 23 said he'd heard these screams, reckoned someone was being murdered. I soon put him right, he's going to try it as soon as he can find a shrew and the wellies are available. He's had a bit of a run of bad luck: first a shrew then there was no wellie, then the wellies were placed just inside the door and just near the cat flap but alas no shrew was to be located, Ok so shrews aren't very nice tasting but humans eat allsorts of unpleasant things: Lemons! Pepper!! Dear oh dear! So a shrew is good but a rat will I hope be better.

Today in the news there is much hysteria about an Islamic cartoon or rather a cartoon about Islam. Islamists are no longer going to eat Danish pastries well I suppose that's one way of keeping the weight off. In England humans are not allowed guns which I've always thought a good thing I mean surprising as it must seem there are some humans who are very bigoted in their opinions and further would actually like to cause harm to ginger fur balls such as my good self. But with all this high dudgeon concerning said cartoon we could be raining pigeons, which I may add are a very fine meat, I don't really understand why all the guns are pointed upwards and the pigeons cop it, metaphoric infidels?

Anyway the beeb didn't show the picture of this now infamous cartoon, which I thought rather odd, but corrected itself later and now has protests outside its door. Now in my humble opinion. No I'll rephrase that in my opinion. No I still don't like that, I may change that later. But anyway if there is a god and he/she invented, made or created the world there can only be one. So no matter then (a rose by any other name) which road is taken to reach that god. Seems to me, as an observer of the human condition, there are spiritual and good people all across this planet and there are also horrible evil people across the planet serving their beliefs religious or otherwise to whichever of those characters best fits them. In Europe there is no law or belief that prohibits representational art and it has been a part of the European culture to lambast, lampoon, mimic, poke fun, satirize and be generally horrible to whosoever, and the higher up the position of power the more urine will be removed. This cartoon took place in Europe under that belief structure, so you don't like it tough (retaliate with a really funny joke) or you do great. I haven't seen the cartoon -every bodies still pussyfooting, it's on the news, it's not on the news , and I keep missing it, when it's on I'm out, when I'm in It's off, so I don't know if It's funny or not. But air guns are allowed in England so may be pigeon pie could be on the menu after all..

"I disapprove of what you say, but I defend to the death your right to say it."