FraserWords

I had been anxious for several hours. It had been a good day. Productive work; kids had a day out with uncle and aunt at the zoo; pleasant meal hearing all about it; family game of charades in front of the fire; then the boys took themselves off to bed.

Management had not pointed out any of my many failings for several hours. The boys had not fought. Nobody had ripped us off, failed to deliver a promised service or return a phone call or answer an e-mail all day, which was a world record. I had purposely avoided the news, so was not in a state of fury. Nothing had broken. It had not even rained. Belle the mad collie slept peacefully in her basket. Captain Pusstasticus had not, to our knowledge, slaughtered any innocent animals and was curled up on the foot of Jamie’s bed, disguised as a cuddly toy lest Management spot him.

Oh dear. All families know that these are the dangerous moments. Contentment is the gateway to terror. Clearly, something was going to go horribly wrong.

Well.

It started with a noise from Tom’s bedroom, as if machine gun bullets were slamming into a rubber wall. On his bed we discovered Tom, like an extra from The Exorcist, circled by spatters of smelly vomit, bubbling and dribbling down every vertical surface, pooling on the duvet, his clothes, the lampshade – everywhere. To an objective, and noseless, observer, it would have made a fascinating study. How could that much material have fitted into so small a boy?

As we surveyed the scene of devastation, each secretly wondering who was going to draw the short straw and have to scoop up a crying but sick-covered Tom for comfort, Jamie, Belle and Captain Pusstasticus appeared at the door. The cat stalked off in disgust, tail vertical. Jamie said “Cool!” then “Ugh!” and went back to bed. Belle weighed up the situation carefully, wondering how much trouble she would be in if she started licking up the sick. She caught my eye and, unusually for her, accepted my best “Better not” look.

A few hours later – how we chuckled! – we’d scraped the ordure from the boy and his room and settled him back into a remade bed with a mattress stolen from Jamie’s bottom bunk. The washing machine was in interstellar overdrive.

But the Coconut Eating Crab, the malevolent deity that rules our fates, had not finished his or her sport with us. The bastard.

In the early hours of the morning, I was jolted into wakefulness by a low, vibrating, sinister growl in my ear. It sounded like an aroused Eric Pickles had clambered into bed with me. As you can imagine, I shot from under the duvet with the speed, noise and fearfulness of a rocketing pheasant.

There was no portly Tory wearing nothing but a red rose clamped between his teeth, thank the Crab. I shrank into that poised stillness we assume when trying to locate the source of a noise. There! Outside the window!

I looked out. Captain Pusstasticus was below, in full battle array, ginger hackles pointing skyward, huge belly vibrating, fat backside swaying from side to side. He looked like Mick Hucknall preparing the pitiless torture of another ‘song’.

There must be an invader on our territory and Captain Pusstasticus had heard the sound of trumpets. Clearly, he was going to batter the beJesus out of what or whoever it was, or, worse, he was going to sit on it. With a final flourish of his tail, Captain Pusstasticus charged into the undergrowth.

Almost as quickly, the cat reappeared, legs horizontal, eyes fixed, bolting for the tall timber with all due despatch. Captain Pusstasticus fears nothing but missing a meal, so the extremity of his retreat could only mean there was something like a grizzly bear in our bushes. A sandy blur shot from the undergrowth in hot pursuit, the whole slice of action soundtracked by the sort of outraged squealing you only hear when a band of Daily Mail readers are threatened by Bulgarians reducing the value of their properties.

I mounted an immediate rescue mission. Captain Pusstasticus may be a cross between Mr Creosote and a terrorist, but he is our puss and we love him. But somebody was ahead of me.

Stirred by the squealing, Belle the mad collie was flying across the fake wooden living room floor, white-tipped tail waving, barking the alarm for all she was worth. She reached the doorway into the dining room and performed an immaculate four-paw skid around the corner. Her back paws then scrabbled for grip, tip-tapping on the laminate, going round in circles like Wile E Coyote in the Road Runner cartoons. Eventually she achieved purchase and bolted through the kitchen and down the back staircase to the back door.

All the while the horrified screeching sounded from outside, a fury of anger and recrimination. Quick as a sleepy sick-speckled middle-aged man in his sagging underpants could manage, I unlocked the door and Belle sounded the charge. Fearlessly, she sped into the dark, body-swerving to avoid a head-down Pusstasticus aiming for the safety of the door. She gave nor asked for quarter as she unearthed the mystery monster, which wisely decided the tide of war may have turned against it. It fled up the hill, followed by a howling Belle snapping at its ankles. I think it was a fox. If so, it was a scared fox, a fox prepared to sign a petition supporting the restoration of hunting rather than face Belle again, or, worse, me in my underpants.

But I had no time to think of this. Captain Pusstasticus is a clever cat, and knows the advantage of height in a crisis. The highest thing in sight being my head, he extended his razor claws and ascended. My agonized screams added to the night’s soundtrack. My blood added to the skidmarks of sick. Captain Pusstasticus sat on my head, a furry ginger deerstalker. If Benedict Cumberbatch had a picture in his attic, this is what it would look like.

The barks disappeared into the distance. I set to prising the cat from my scalp, a proposition he did not welcome or assist. Once finally lowered to the ground, he surveyed the situation, decided that safety had been achieved by Belle’s courageous attack, casually picked a few fragments of scalp from his claws and went to sit by his food bowl, glaring expectantly at me.

I stood outside the door in the chilly black for what seemed an hour or two, whistling for Belle. Eventually, as frostbite began to assault the billowy portions, she appeared, tongue out, panting. Despite the Arctic cold, I made a big fuss of her. She had served with valour and distinction. She licked me, a tasty hors d’oeuvres of blood and vomit. Then she went and sat by her food bowl, glaring expectantly at me.

I fed the animals. Then, aware that I was not going to be welcomed into the conjugal container in my unsavoury condition, far less encouraged in any attempt at beastliness, I repaired to my usual haunt at the furthest end of the house, the refuge of the unsatisfactory partner; my office room and its welcoming warm soft double bed.

I snuggled under the duvet, mercifully free of lustful cabinet ministers, quiet. I felt the bump of Belle nudging my feet to one side as she settled herself at the foot of the bed. I heard the purring of Captain Pusstasticus from his cushion at the top of the chest of drawers by the radiator.

As I drifted into the welcoming arms of dreamland, I thought: “That’s the last time we have a pleasant evening.”