Cats, according to "experts", moult twice a year.
This is, of course, utter bollocks.
My cats moult more than twice a year. I can’t give an exact figure because I haven’t counted precisely – as bizarre as it seems I really do have better things to do – and I’m not around them all the time. But my initial findings indicate that my two little darlings moult … every single second of every single day of the year. I’m sorry I can’t be more scientifically accurate here but I’m not a scientist so I do have a reasonable excuse.
You might imagine that my cats must look like Mr Bigglesworth but they don’t. They are as large and furry now as they were back when they were as large and furry as they are now. If you think about fur constantly falling out at the rate that the fur of my cats constantly falls out – that’s a large rate, by the way, and definitely in the upper quartile of any graph of cat fur dropout rate and no mistake – then you might also imagine that my cats would have both long hairs about to fall out and very short hairs growing to replace the ones that have just embarked on the path of cat fur seppuku. But this isn’t the case either. The fur on each cat is uniformly approximately five centimetres long (I’ve thrown in a metric measurement just to confuse Americans; I think it’s equivalent to about one hundredth of a rod though.) From this I can conclude:
- cat fur grows when I’m not looking at it.
That probably didn’t warrant a bullet point.
My cats love me because my mother had an affair with a merman – possibly – and I’ve inherited the clam gene. By that, I mean that I occasionally have clammy hands. Back off girls! I’m taken. As well as meaning I do everything possible to avoid shaking hands with anyone – although that’s also because I don’t want to pick up any toilet hand infections outside my own carefully-controlled laboratory experiments – it also endows me with the power to remove cat fur from cats with one sweeping stroke of my palm. Actually, that sounds rather disgusting now I’ve read that back. Anyway … my cats think "Ooh, my loose fur is itchy and I need it removed now!", leap upon me, wait for me to finish screaming about retracting their claws before touching bare flesh, forgive me for my tirade, and grant me the priceless honour of rubbing their backs, heads, tummies (but not too close to the naughty bits or it’s time for another tetanus shot), and tails before heading off for something clean to lay upon, wash themselves, fall asleep, and drool all over. I, of course, am left with a hand that wouldn’t look out of place on a werewolf or, sometimes when the cats are really moulting, Robin Williams.
When I’m not around to manually remove the fur it has to come off by other means. Nature would like it to fall off, much like all the skin in your bed providing a feast for the sharp-fanged microscopic beasties who crawl over your body and in your ears when you sleep, but the wily cat (not Thundercats-related) is far too advanced along the evolutionary conveyor belt to use such a barbaric and inefficient method of shedding. Instead, a biological matter transportation system permits the feline species to disperse its furry outer covering almost anywhere.
Almost anywhere, yes, but the favoured places appear to be:
- on your food,
- in the back of your throat when you’ve not eaten any furry food in some time,
- on the television screen so that you panic that there’s a crack,
- on freshly washed-up glasses,
- up your nose, preferably during washing-up so as to force you to stick a wet finger up your nostril.
As if the matter transportation wasn’t enough, cat fur can also cloak itself and phase in and out of our existence. The practical use of this ability is to make humans think there is something touching their face but be both totally invisible and totally impossible to remove. The end-result is a spaz-attack of hand-waving, rubbing, blowing, head-shaking, and growling that leads to the need to wash the face. And this allows the cat to reclaim the chair it wanted all along.
So, I’ve got cats with vast amounts of fur and I’ve also got vast amounts of fur with no cats. That adds up to a veritable mountain of fur at my disposal. What to do? What to do?
Block Up Vacuum Cleaner
But I’m already doing that anyway. I was going to say "But I’m already doing that daily anyway" but then I laughed to myself and thought "Who the hell am I kidding? Daily? Hahahaha! Daily. That’s a good one."
By ignoring the cat fur problem I will eventually achieve 100% coverage of every floor in my house.
The benefits are many and include lowering heating costs through better insulation, reducing the number of splinters and/or nailheads that leap out at my passing feet (I’ll get around to finishing the flooring when I’m damn well ready, okay! Everyone knows you leave the flooring to last. As do you with all the other jobs too), aiding with death-by-fire prevention by filling the air with the most disgusting smell should any of it ever catch light, and helping to lessen the impact on the knees during the crawl up the stairs, to the bedroom, to the toilet, to the bedroom, back to the toilet, half-way along the hall before back to the toilet, back to the bedroom, and back to the toilet after a heavy night’s drinking.
I don’t know how hard or easy it is to spin thread and weave but if women can do it then it must be easy. Haha, just kidding, don’t hit me.
I don’t have a cotton field in my garden (I’m going for the natural "weeds, weeds, weeds" look) and I do not keep a farm of caterpillars in my dungeon to spin silk (because the slugs are in the way) but I do have – and I may possibly have alluded to this fact elsewhere – an abundance of nature’s next best thing: cat fur.
Consider a suit made from cat fur: soft to the touch, tabby-coloured to aid in hiding among the undergrowth when stalking Venezuelan rebel coffee filter company directors, acceptable to naked animal rights protesters (which means you can invite the good-looking ones around), and you never, ever have to buy a lint roller because you’re all hair anyway!
I’m sure people will get over the stigma of having fleas lay hundreds of eggs in their suits eventually. Or a new industry of human flea collars could spring up! Wow! It’s good for the economy and good for the ecology. I think I see a Duke of Edinburgh award around the corner.
I’ll just bet that somewhere in America there’s a "World’s Biggest Tumbleweed" exhibit. Probably next to a gas station on a long road between Relatedtoeachotherville, Georgia and Banjobanjotooth, Alabama.
Tumbleweeds in America are commonplace, no matter how big they are, but here in the land we call Blighty because of all the blights (?) the tumbleweed is a fantasy figure that only appears in movies. Look! There he goes as Clint Eastwood steps out of the saloon! Look! He’s behind Charlton Heston trying to fend off the damn, dirty apes! Here he is again! And if his speed drops below fifty miles per hour both Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock will make a great celebrity paste!
I propose to build the world’s largest tumbleweed constructed entirely from cat fur. It’s a cash cow. Fame and fortune await.
I’m not a fan of poetry. Let’s be honest: it’s all crap. I’ve said it. You know it. Goths use it. I do know, though, that some of the least crap of the crapfest that is poetry comes from having a muse. I can’t tell you how I know this because you’re simply too stupid to comprehend but – this is quite important – it’s a fact! And facts are truth.
I’ve considered whether I can improve my social status among the gothy people. Why I’d like to do this is a secret for now and all will be revealed in a much later post; when I lure them all in and spring "the surprise" you’ll know is all I can say.
To that end I’ve decided to use cat fur as my muse. Just because it’s handy.
Where Trent’s voice cannot penetrate
From the well of souls in my well
Where my thoughts become like tar
Or my despair stands rampant
You emerge blacker than the black
And you have strength that I lack
Should I embrace you and offer up my neck
Saving the strangers from my fate?
Or should I turn aside
Set you free
Let you run
Leave me alone
And make someone else’s face itchy?
Ooh, ooh, it’s a whisker
Tell me what you think. I can take the criticism.