Spring is in the air, and that means one thing, our daughters’ cats embark on their annual killing spree.
What with the abundance of mice and birds scuttling and flapping about, world-class hunters Marleyboo and Mr Robbie are like kids in the proverbial sweet shop.
The government’s recent cack-handed and poorly executed badger cull could have been a roaring success if David Cameron had picked up the phone and called me to hire our natural born killers.
Most mornings our back garden looks like the cutting room floor of a particularly macabre Disney animation, with fluffy mice and feathery birds served up as offerings by our children’s doe-eyed tom cats.
It’s a tricky one. Do you dig pit after pit to bury the bodies, or leave the occasional rotting corpse on show as a warning to other rodents to stay away, a deterrent to keep off our patch?
Half-eaten birds and mice turn the boss’ stomach because she grew up in a concrete jungle and didn’t see a blade of grass until she was 19.
But country bumpkins like yours truly opened their bedroom curtains most mornings in the 1980s to see the entrails of wild rabbits spread across the back lawn like some voodoo ceremony after our psychotic Manx cat had returned from a successful nocturnal hunting trip.
But if you believe what you read on Facebook then you’ll be seeing me and Marleyboo on the TV news very soon. I can’t remember the last time I saw Facebook, after a while you grind your teeth down to stumps reading update after update from attention-seeking girls you last saw at school in 1986 which elicit responses like ‘You OK hun?’, ‘You’re beautiful’ and ‘Stay strong, babe’.
Anyway, the Facebook addict boss told me a neighbour posted a picture of a rotund cat which turned up at her house most days wanting to be fed.
The lady wrote that the cat looks heavily pregnant and always wants feeding. So the boss looked at the picture and there he was, our fat, castrated tom cat Marleyboo.
If he’s pregnant then I own the rights to his life story. See you in Hollywood.