Pernicious critics have recently been casting doubt on Big Joe Hockey’s ability to garner media coverage. Well put this in your crack pipe and smoke it, leftists.

The shadow treasurer, Joe Hockey, has three cats – Bridge-It, so-called because it was rescued from the Harbour Bridge, Bluey, rescued from a giant python in Far North Queensland, and Shirley, rescued from a dogs’ home.

“Bluey is affectionate and he is my man,” Mr Hockey said. “The other two are stand-offish but Bluey hangs out and you can have a conversation with him.

“I’ve also got a fish tank in my office. I had a very large fish called Big Kim. I felt as long as he was alive we had a chance of winning elections and, sadly, it’s still alive. I used to threaten my staff when I was away from Parliament that if Big Kim died so, too, might they.”

That’s right – only halfway down a lazy SMH puff-piece about politicians’ pets, Joe gets six sentences of clear air on the vital topic of stray cats and humorously-named goldfish. And best of all, it doesn’t even look like they rang Wayne Swan.

Watch out Ruddy – Joe’s coming.

He’s done this before but this time it looked serious. Our last confirmed sighting of Napoleon was at 6pm on Monday when I considered locking him in the house for the night but let him out for a bit more play before dinner time.

On Tuesday morning he hadn’t returned so we were a bit worried but confident he was just having another night-long adventure. I got home yesterday evening and there was no sign of Napoleon and no dent to his fully stocked food bowl. As Napoleon has never gone away for 24 hours or longer I was extremely worried. I left for the podcast recording with a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Returning home at 9pm last night there was still no sign of Napoleon and by the time McBec and I went to bed near midnight we were ready to accept the worst. We said a prayer to Ceiling Cat and went to sleep. Tellingly, we took Napoleon’s bed off our bed before doing so.

And then at 5am this morning — 36 hours since last leaving the house — Napoleon announced his triumphant return by jumping on the bed and meowing loudly to share with us the almighty stink that he had collected on his excellent adventure. I think he chose to return at such a time because he knew that if a car hadn’t killed him I would, but in the wee hours I was tired and vulnerable.

But how can you stay angry with a cat that missed you so much it followed you around the house like a shadow all morning? (He’s sleeping on my lap as I type this.)

“Don’t be mad with me, Dad. I’m too cute.”

Mind you, if I was home from work today I’d put him in the shower cubicle, dump a bottle of shampoo on him, close the door and turn on the water for 20 minutes.

It’s been another bloody scorcher here in Melbourne with the temperature hitting a bee’s dick under 40 degrees for the third or fourth day in a row. But as much as it’s been uncomfortable for average Melburnians, spare a thought for those people amongst us who sport a full coat of fur and for whom it’s been so very difficult to cool off. Normally when I get home from work Napoleon comes running down the hallway to greet me but this afternoon he didn’t move from his spot between the couches where he lay panting and lifeless.

So I threw a glass of water over him.

“I have filed this away in my memory and will exact revenge when you least expect it.”

A couple of weeks ago McBec and I were laying in bed reading (exciting, no?) when we heard a bizarre noise coming from the hallway. It sounded kind of like this: sliiiiide, thump; sliiiiide, thump; sliiiiide, thump; sliiiiide, thump. Intrigued, I got up and went to investigate. I found Napoleon sitting on the floor, neck craned upwards, staring at a picture hook that had recently been made vacant by McBec’s neverending picture rotation game. Closer inspection of the wall indicated that Napoleon had been painting it for us.

The picture hook is circled and the section of wall indicated by the arrow has been enlarged below.

If you look closely inside those circles you’ll see sets of three vertical dirty paw pad lines from where Napoleon has desperately tried to climb the wall to “catch” the picture hook.

And just in case you forget what the gorgeous little shithead looks like here’s a picture I took of him chillaxing on the back porch yesterday.

Lazy Sunday afternoon

As most GrodsReaders know I love cats and none more so than gorgeous widdle Napoleon, but this is almost enough to make me give up and turn to dogs.

Aaarrrrgh! Run for your lives!

At least last time Napoleon got it in his bowl. Got home today and opened the door to this.

And then had to deal with this.

Who’d own cats?

Arrived home yesterday arvo, opened the front door to find this:

And then walked into the living area to find this:

It seems that I haven’t quite succeeded in converting Napoleon to vegetarianism just yet. At least he’s learned to eat in his bowl rather than on the carpet.

Not only do they run away, but they get sick too. One day Napoleon looks a little lethargic and is off his food, and the next morning he looks like he’s about to slip away to the big scratching post in the sky.

So you take some time off work, borrow your friend’s car, take the cat to the vet, hold him still while the vet shoves a thermometer up his arse, inspect the holes in your t-shirt from the cat’s claws that appear while the thermometer was shoved up arse, hold him still while the vet gives him a needle in the back of his leg, inspect the holes in your skin from the cat’s claws that appear while the needle was inserted in his leg, hand over your credit card for it to be violated, and further torture cat for next eight days with pills shoved down his throat.

And what gratitude do you get from the little shit in return? None. Not even a thankyou.

Took a photo of Napoleon frolicking in the flower bed last Sunday. Sent this cropped version to McBec at work just now to cheer her up.

Her response: He looks like a paedophile.

Great story in the paper about a cat-of-death in the USA:

OSCAR the cat makes his grand entrances just as life is about to leave.

A hop onto the bed, a fastidious lick of the paws, then a snuggle beside a nursing home patient with little time left.

“He’s a cat with an uncanny instinct for death,” said David Dosa, assistant professor at the Brown University School of Medicine and a geriatric specialist. “He attends deaths. He’s pretty insistent on it.”

In the two years since Oscar was adopted into the dementia unit of the Steere House Nursing and Rehabilitation Centre in Providence, he has maintained close vigil over the deaths of more than 25 patients, according to nursing staff, doctors who treat patients there and an essay written by Dr Dosa, published in yesterday’s New England Journal of Medicine.When death is near, Oscar nearly always appears at the last hour or so. Yet he shows no special interest in patients who are simply in poor shape or even patients who may be dying but who still have a few days.

I am the angel of death

(Do you like the way I surreptitiously managed to sneak in a Friday Napoleon post by disguising it as bizarre news commentary?)

UPDATE: I Can Has Cheezburger? has a lolcat take on the death cat story.

New episodes of Lachlan Connor, Independent are in the can and the first will hit GrodsCorp on Tuesday. But in the meantime check out this teaser:

Adam asked for it:

Speaking of Catblogging, how is little Napoleon going anyway?

So now you must all submit to the cuteness of Napoleon.

ps/- School holidays start tomorrow so there may be a little more action round these parts for the next two weeks.

Here’s the little dude giving a familiar figure a piggy-back ride.

Here’s the little dude sleeping on his back.

And why not check out the brand new flickr group: Cats called Napoleon.

Just when you thought I wasn’t going to inflict regular cat photos upon you.

Napoleon has learned to climb trees. Unfortunately he’s not too good at getting down from them yet.