Whenever McBec or I go out the back to hang up washing Napoleon comes galloping over from wherever he is to join in the fun. Napoleon loves hanging out the washing. He plays with the pegs, runs back and forth, and flops down to watch the proceedings right underneath your feet. But for some reason washing time is also a cue for him to do number ones in the garden bed beside the clothes line. Being forced to watch Napoleon go through the convoluted process of weeing (sniff around, dig hole, turn three times, sniff hole, position, wee, turn around, sniff hole, scratch around hole to cover it up) has revealed something a bit shocking: our cat is an idiot. When he’s finished the business he spends a good two or three minutes scratching the dirt around the hole in an effort to fill it in but never actually fills the hole! All he does is move a whole bunch of dirt around without actually putting any in the spot he’s aiming for.

So I ask you, GrodsReaders with cats, is our Napoleon a little bit special or are all cats this dumb?

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

It’s been bloody hot in Melbourne ever since I got back into town on Boxing Day. Yesterday hit 41 degrees at about 5pm, dropped to about 30 degrees at midnight for the New Year’s celebrations, and didn’t go below 28 degrees all night. With the house already super-heated from the past couple of days there was absolutely no chance of getting any sleep. McBec and I moved to the spare room which has a better breeze from the window but neither of us managed more than an hour or two of proper sleep. It’s the only time I’ve ever wished for an air conditioner in my house. I normally cope with the heat quite well but this was ridiculous.

But spare a thought for poor Napoleon. He’s been walking around the house for the past two days looking like he wants to die. He spent last night at the foot of our bed making pathetic meow noises. I’m sure the RSPCA would’ve had no objection if I shaved his fur right off.

Last night was nice, though. Shunning boozy New Year’s party plans McBec and I went to a posh Italian restaurant, ate awesome food, drank awesome wine, and then went to see a movie. We were home by 11:30pm and read books in our underpants as the clocked ticked over to 2008. How romantic.

What did you peeps get up to?

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.

Got glasses today and, holy shit, what a difference they make. You don’t realise just how screwed up your perception of the world is until you know what it could be like instead. In order to illustrate this point I will blatantly rip-off an idea by Samuel Gordon-Stewart.

Here is Napoleon now:

And here is Napoleon yesterday:

I’d post a piccie of myself with the specs on but the GrodsMailServer wouldn’t be able to cope with all the invites for one-night stands and marriage proposals.

Here’s the little dude sleeping on his back.

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