Weaver From Hell

 I’m overdue with flea treatment 

Well Bun is sorted at least, that’s the easy job. Bloody Hell she’s over me like a proverbial rash 

No it’s Weaver’s turn 

And like Maggie Thatcher “ Weaver’s NOT for turning” 

She knew something was afoot after I had sat down on the sofa today, gently waving a piece of chicken at her. I was whistling which probably gave me away, but I had to do something, an hour had already gone past with me pretending to doze on the bed, ready to give her neck a squirt is she forgot herself and walked within touching distance. 

The flea spray pippette had been secreted in the folds of my jumper, but the bad tempered cat had already figured this subterfuge out and deliberately swiped my paper sculpture of the Sagrada Familia from my desk top, before staring at me with narrow eyes.

She a Nazi and  knows just how much I love that little keep sake.

I threw a tiny bit of chicken at her and she gave me one of her now famous fuck off looks and ignored it 

The Mexican Standoff had begun. 

That was around twelve noon. 

It’s now almost four and I still have to corner my most bad tempered of pets.

I did get close, just the once , after I had lulled Weaver into a false sense of security by pretending to watch Antiques Roadtrip in the arm chair, a piece of meat, lazily dropped on my jumper front

This time she managed to take the chicken piece AND bite me and still have time to smack Roger a vicariously evil blow on the bottom as she ran outside.

She’s been outside ever since, mentally flipping me off, as she watches the kitchen activity with all the look of disgusted serial killer.