My name is Dotty…
Hello, my name is Dotty. My housekeepers are Fi and Ed. We all share a house in Tyndrum, which is cool, because there are lots of fields next to the house.
I don’t know how old I am, I have lost count. Multiplying the number of years that Mum adopted me by cat years, means I have run out of claws to count.
Mum adopted me from a friend that lives in Carstairs. That was one of the reasons why I am called Dotty. Another reason is I have really cute dots on my nose, elbows and a rather flattering goatee on my chin….. You can only imagine my Mum’s surprise when I grew large pom-poms, which were promptly cut off by the vet in Oban. For long enough, I really didn’t like the vet, until I discovered that if I am crammed into a cat box, with a furry rug, there is always a good reason. It’s generally a good excuse to stick my long legs out of the cat box and scratch the living daylights out of my Mum’s left arm as she changes gear in the Honda.
I would just like to say at this point, I don’t think there are many of my cat chums that are part of the 100 club.
Mum always gets spiky when people call me ‘she’ or criticise the fact my name is Dotty. I do have a first name, it’s Completely. It’s a bit of a mouthful though, so that’s why I get called Dotty by my housekeepers. I do tend to get the claws out when people call me ‘she’ or ‘her’…. so be warned.
My favourite sport has just recently been confirmed by my Mum. I have been totally busted. I like to go and see my neighbours: Shuggie and Dougie. I can’t understand why it has taken Mum so long to realised that I go down on a daily basis and wind up Shuggie and Dougie (and as it happens, THEIR housekeepers are related to my Mum and Dad, but for a cat, that’s complicated). I go down and stick my head through the cat flap and yowl until I get their attention. I know I have been naughty when Shuggie and Dougie’s Dad chases me away with a pump action water pistol. Mum only discovered recently that I went there when I left my paw prints in the snow. When I am feeling really brave, and the housekeepers aren’t in sight, I sneak through the cat flap and chase my neighbours around their kitchen. When the housekeeper with the deep voice comes out and shouts at me, I get scared when he says “Get out you little $hite…” I jump through the cat flap and bound back to my territory.
My territory is just ace. I have fields and trees all around the house. I find mice, moles, birds and as I have discovered, big raptors with long talons and big wings can find me. That was a sore one. After the flight with the raptor, I was taken to the nice lady in Oban and I even stayed overnight. I had scratches over my eyes, and big holes in my fur. I didn’t even have the energy to scar Mum’s left arm on the way in the fast car.
I like to chill, big time, and there are lots of places to get peace in the house:
I particularly enjoy the rug in the hall – it’s normally reserved for all the catches I bring into the house. I be-head mice and play with birds here until the feathers are all over the place – especially places where my housekeepers can’t get the scary, noisy, sooky thing to ….. that makes such a noise, but it does clear up (most) of the feathers….. What I do like to do most is this:
I am sure my housekeepers don’t notice me. It’s great leaping out and grabbing their ankles and making general mischief.
Did I mention that? I love to run along the hall and rugby tackle my housekeepers’ legs. It’s great sport. Generally it results in me getting a pouch of food (Doh). I have to say, I went on strike recently. They were feeding me this horrid stuff. I ended up sticking my nose in the air whenever they dropped it into my bowl. I think it was because it had a cute picture of a cat that looked like me on the cover – I think his name is Felix or something. I don’t care. It stinks. I am a Whiskas cat. How gutted was I when Mum ran out of Whiskas and had to feed me that rubbish. I was hoping that they would get the hint and open some of that lovely stuff – it comes in a tin, and I get fed it about once a month when I am a good boy. I never get the whole tin – not unless I have been to the nice lady in Oban and am generally feeling sorry for myself. I always know that ‘clank’ and the noise when the tin is being opened. I can hear it even if I am out stalking some unsuspecting mouse in the field…. Then the smell…. oh, the smell, I rub Mum’s leg for all it’s worth, and even stretch my long legs up toward the kitchen unit to reach the tin myself… If I look really cute, and behave, I get my treats!
I have to say, I do have my uses. The other morning, I leapt onto Mum’s bedside table from the window ledge. EEK! Mum was still asleep and there was nowhere to put my tiny, dainty paws… I realised I had done something wrong when Mum woke up all grumpy as I was about to trash the light on her table….. I was hoisted out of my mess and dumped on the bed. Great. Stretched out, because Dad wasn’t there to take up the rest of the bed. Mum cleared the table after that, so now I have a much better landing zone. I have to say, I should do that more often on Mum’s side of the bed….
I have clear rules in the house…. I am not allowed on the kitchen units….. hehe…. little do my housekeepers realise how often I take a leap up there – to be honest, there’s never anything worth getting excited about, not unless it’s a loaf of bread. I have discovered I do like a little nibble of some wholemeal brown …. mmm, nice taste. I have to be on alert too, when Mum takes out those great big fat prawns from the freezer – they are ace. I hide until Mum goes out, jump up on the kitchen unit, stick my paw under the cloth, whip out some prawns and eat the lot…. I must say, I am not keen on the tails which are a bit chewy. The only problem with that is when Mum finds out, she shouts at me… “Dotty, you’ve eaten 4, yes, 4 prawns….” Darn. If they didn’t have yuchy tails, she wouldn’t be able to find out how many I’d eaten!
Occasionally, when Dad is out and Mum is in the house I will have a sneaky visit to the breakfast bar. It’s not often Mum chases me off the breakfast bar….. as long as I don’t venture very far. One day, Mum was playing a game on her laptop, so I decided to have a wee play to see what this thing was that had a very interesting look to it, it was all colourful and there was a mouse too! Yippee.
I stood on the grey bit with all those square things on and I heard music…. Mum said I had launched dottify or something like that (how would I know) and then everything went blank! Oh, I wasn’t popular. I got chased around the kitchen for that. I certainly didn’t get any of that yummy stuff out the tin, even though I thought I was being particularly entertaining. The mouse, I have to say was no fun – a tail and only one ball. pffft.
What provides most entertainment is when I am called a tart. I have no idea what that means. What it results in is getting my belly scratched…. that’s tickly. I generally end up lacerating someone’s arm for thinking I am cute. I am not a toy. I am the boss.
That’s Mum back now, so I had better get off of the breakfast bar – I will sneak in again soon and say hello soon….. oh, I did fib a bit – I don’t really have ‘tiny, dainty paws’…. I am a big boy….. big paws…..