Perhaps I’m a tad biased, but I’ve always said that our canine colleagues lack a little something, empathy wise. But then, nature will out, won’t it? And take-away is a treat any day of the week. That’s all.
Too soon to revisit Selfieville and its strange inhabitants wherever they may find themselves? I think not. And the sooner little Brutus realises that, like Hermia in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, he may be little but he’s totes fierce, the sooner he can flee that rather gorgeous flytrap of an island and get his own Dogagram account.
Unless, of course, his human frenemy, Tasty McMeatus is about to become his very closest chum, if you know what I mean.
Here on Mars, there’s little space for large kitchens, but the space we have we dedicate to delicacies close to the hearts of all self-respecting Martians: tuna toast, tuna pie, tuna salad, tuna bake (very hot this close to the Sun), tuna fritters, tuna pizza, and so on, and occasionally, a lovely side of totally, totally Martian red Truss tomatoes with deep-fried tuna steaks. Bon appetunatit!!!
I used to collect ribbons as a kitten. Pretty, colourful little strips of fabric they were, fun for all occasions and useful when rounding up and lassooing the occasional recalcitrant canine. Now the Folympics have (has?) discovered them in all their lengthy and glorious annoyingness. We in the feline fold, salute and respect your endeavours. Did they actually have ribbons at Rio this year? Well, they did at the Folympics and that’s all that matters, Ginger.
As a young and impressionable kitten, I was always ready to look up to my older brother, Second Last, who had an affinity with fireworks for some reason. He hadn’t even been dropped on his head as a baby.
What merry japes we enjoyed under the old weatherboard Queenslander (actually it was just a mining house from Mt Morgan, transported down the hill and set up in a flood zone – luckily it was eight feet off the ground). Second would get out all of our toy soldiers and Matchbox cars and build a wooden fort (with removable roof) in which to house them. Yes, he could do wonders with a few rudimentary tools and no opposing thumb and forefinger – a genius at work, though admittedly the tail played a role.
Finally, he’d tell me to hide behind the nearest stump while he lit up a few lines of Tom Thumbs and a Penny Bomb or two before removing the removable roof and pegging them in there with the soldiers and cars. Needless to say, our dear and long-suffering mother, Mrs On Mars, would hear the robust and playful commotion beneath the house and run down to warn us, yet again, that one day one or both of us would lose an eye, or an ear, or paw, or toe, or tail – well, you get the picture. And that was just going to be from dear Mother’s emphatic attentions. Fortunately, we never did (lose any bits – she loved us, really), and everyone lived happily ever after – boom, boom!!!
Speaking of which, here’s the original I Don’t Like Mondays from the Boomtown Rats when they were very, very young.
You knew it was coming – the path to pineapple paradise, and flummery. Who, I ask, doesn’t enjoy a good flummery? No-one, that’s who. Here’s a recipe from Greg’s Kitchen on You Tube that almost perfectly replicates my darling mother’s Pineapple Flummery. Paw-lickin’ good, no, paw- and tail-lickin’ great.
Ohm, or oh, and there might be a smidgin of nirvana along the way.
When I was a very small cat, I remember being placed upon a grand piano one evening in the games room of my Aunt Felicia’s pub. Luckily for me, the lid was down. Everybody was drunk and, with one minor slip of the paw, a kitten could have easily ended up as catgut, or worse, in that very large musical instrument.
I was exhorted to sing by all and sundry (the sundry being a couple of passing pub rats up from the cellar for the night), though I stood there in my flannelette pajamas (Shrank’s brand, for those in the know) and red and white chenille dressing gown, hardly appropriate attire for a debut concert.
I don’t remember if I sang, or not, but I think a lovely evening was had by all (and sundry), and it was arguably the only time in my life that I knew what it felt like to be that tall. That tallish, then.