AKA Gareth vs Predator
Clad in my hunting dressing gown
I have a new mortal enemy. She lives a couple of doors down, her name is Janet and she is a colossal bastard. She is also a cat. Janet the cat.
I call her El Bastardo as I don’t want my children to understand the constant vomit of filth that her very mention brings forth from my mouths. Although thinking about it, Mila is learning Spanish so it’s only a matter of time before she not only understands what El Bastardo means, but also corrects me by saying that I should be using the feminine name and calling her La Bastarda. Maybe I need to think of an alternative language version. Maybe I should instead refer to her as ‘Mwanaharamu’. That should solve things until she decides she’d quite like to learn Swahili.
Anyway, Janet/El Bastardo/La Bastarda/Mwanaharamu. Why do I loath her so? Why is she my Moriarty? Well, the answer is simple. We have two young kittens, Zigi and Pom-Pom, and Janet has made it her mission in life to terrorise the poor little mogs. She lurks in the bushes and watches, like a black, furry, green eyed Bill Oddie. And then, when they are least expecting it, she pounces, causing my terrified young cats to run for their dear lives.
“Who is Bill Oddie?” interrupts Zsuzsa.
“Oh, he’s a famous British naturist.” I reply, aghast that Bill Oddie hasn’t made it to superstardom in Hungary, especially when I consider that last week I discovered that my wife used to have a Samatha Fox badge when she was a child.
“How can you be famous for being naked?”
“Um. Maybe it’s naturalist? “ I reply “A bird watcher. A twitcher. He watches birds from bushes and stuff like that.”
“And does he attack them, like Janet?”
“I don’t think so, but then again, who knows what really happens once the camera stop rolling.”
So Janet has been making Zigi and Pom Pom’s lives miserable, leading to me taking up arms and becoming a vigilante. I say, taking up arms, what I mean is purchasing a pump-action water pistol and sitting on a chair in my garden, waiting, like some kind of Deep South catfish fisherman. When I’m not on a chair in my garden, I can be found prowling in the small woods behind our house, fully-loaded with tap water, hunting Janet the bastard. If the neighbours were to look out of their bedroom windows at the right moment, it’s possible that they would think that they were witnessing a live action remake of Predator, with me as Arnie, and Janet playing the alien beast.
“Why you have that, Daddy?” asks Lola, pointing at my water filled weapon.
“To shoot Janet.” I reply.
“Why you want to shoot Janet? responds Lola, like a miniature, round faced, less pompous Jeremy Paxman.
“BECAUSE I HATE HER!” I want to reply, but instead say “To stop her scaring Zigi and Pom Pom.”
“Why does she scare Zigi and Pom Pom, Daddy?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s territorial.”
“Why don’t you know, Daddy?”
“Because I don’t speak cat.”
“Why?”
And this, fyi, is why I often spend a long time on the toilet.
It’s a few days later and Lola has finally stopped grilling me. I’m sitting at my desk pretending to work when a primordial screech interrupts Jeremy Vine on Radio 2. I instantly recognise the screech. I’ve heard it before. It’s a screech that my beloved miniature wife only makes when Janet has been spotted on our grounds (garden). Imagine a howler monkey on helium, warning other howler monkeys that a harpy eagle is close. Imagining it? Yeah, that’s the noise.
I spring into action, bound through the house, grab my weapon and raise it at Janet. We lock eyes momentarily and I think I see something in Janet’s eyes. It’s a look that says, “We may always be mortal enemies, but my God man, I respect you!” For a split second we are De Niro and Pacino facing off over a coffee in Heat. We are Reeves and Swayze locking eyes after a chase scene in Point Break. Then it’s back to business. I fire tap water with everything I’ve got as Janet turns and flees. It narrowly misses her, so I give chase, moving through the garden with great purpose and stealth. As I do so, I can’t help but notice that my trousers have started to fall down, but in the heat of battle I do what any great warrior would do and keep going, trousers around the ankles, waddling through the garden. I fire one last round as Janet disappears over the fence. She has escaped. I look to the heavens and fire into the air in anguish, then slowly turn around and waddle back into the house.
I’m pulling my trousers up as I enter the house. Lola is there, watching.
“Why are your trousers down, Daddy?”
For a fleeting second I consider whether or not to shoot her in the face with my water pistol, but then sigh, pat her on the head and head to the toilet.