The Mutiny of Fatty and Buddy.

"Fatty"

On a surprisingly warm October morning, I decided to undertake the arduous task of cutting down the three feet high mixture of grass and weeds, growing in my rear and front garden; a task I had neglected throughout the entire summer.

The front was an easy hour of attrition by lawnmower, while buzzed off the aspartame of Orange Lucozade. The rear however, provided a far more difficult collection of angry weeds, irritating stumps, and a shed load of grass; the result of a week long destruction by pikey builders who, while I was away, had decided to use my garden as an avenue to build next doors fence. For anyone offended by the term 'pikeys', all I can is this; they were Irish, their labourer was a ten-ear-old, and you only need a small gust of wind to take their freshly built fence, and bend it like Beckham.

The job took a couple of days, and aided by the company of my girlfriend; happily engaged in silly yet intelligent conversation, Wordmole on her Blackberry, and my second-rate cups of P.G Tips, eventually I finished, and was duly pleased with the end result. Both lawns were now clean of weeds, grass, and flat as a bottle of Tesco Value Cola. The garden needed a botanical haircut, and I gave it one; everybody's happy, everybody wins, right? Well, apparently not; there was one vital point I neglected...

"Buddy - more placid"

You see, in the human world, this was my grass to cut. Yet in the land of the feline; in particular, a large local tabby named Fatty (see article 'Fatty's Point'), and Buddy - another neighbourhood tortoise shell cat I feed Tuna fish noms at least once a week, this was their jungle, their domain, and their land to decide who goes in, who comes out, and where every last blade of grass remains. My garden is their magical jungle, where they regularly play hide and seek, bully spiders and worms, and annoy the local dog community by meowing loudly at night, only to hide in the comfort of my thistle rose bush. In my eyes I had cleaned up a messy garden. In theirs, I had walked into the National Gallery and urinated all over a Van-Gogh; they were none too pleased.

Two days after the cat equivalent of a global catastrophe; and assuming they had engaged in serious moggy response plans, I arrived home to Fatty standing by my garden door. He looked right through me with a stern expression of both displeasure and disappointment, then hopped into the garden's centre where, before running off, gazed at me again for a solid minute - his eyes still as a rock, conveying a firm message; "You let us down. And we do believe in revenge!" I felt guilty, and hoped they would understand my position; but realizing they are cats, knew this was unlikely. Before these events, I would regularly see them together; wandering around and having general fun. But the lack of any sight of Buddy in almost two weeks, and the vengeful eyes of Fatty, causes me to worry they may have taken my actions very personally; and all the noms in Chinatown are not enough to assuage their anger.  
 
Fatty and Buddy are likely sitting in the comforting distance of their warm living room sofa armchairs and thick carpeted fireplaces, as they quietly ponder a form of rebuttal from my working without moggy planning permission. Ordinarily I would expect a collection of pungent, sausage shaped presents left at my doorstep, or a series of continuous stern looks, but my instincts tell me this has gone far beyond the realms of protest gazing. I search for peace - for a simple, democratic solution, but I am lost in finding one. If anybody reading this knows how I can find find the forgiveness of two felines I am so merrily fond of, please let me know. I will pay you by not mowing your lawn...

For 'Fatty's Point': Click HERE.

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