I left the computer on last night ...

When I came down this morning, I saw my partially IT-literate cats had got there before me.

A rather worried pop-up was asking:

"Do you really want to send My Documents to the Recycle Bin?"

While I'm out at work, if I leave the computer on, the cats have started opening files.

A few days ago, it was My Pictures - I think they were checking out what I have on them.

Then a couple of days later, however, it was far more worrying. They'd opened the 'Keyboard Help' menu.

Today I come in to see that they've started downloading software. The only thing that prevented them doing through with downloading the Apple Software Updater was the fact that they were flummoxed by the licencing agreement.

I'm not quite sure which evidence of expertise is more scary.

Last night, I was chatting to jadethe2nd on the phone when I became aware that Torvald, who was standing on my desk, was deleting an email. Letter by letter.

Today I get home from my morning's week to find out one of the cats has been searching on Google. Admittedly, it was a search for hjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj, the exact meaning of which does escape me. But it had returned an awful lot of Japanese sites. Blog sites mostly.

But to execute the search, not only did a cat (and naming no names, but looking in the direction of a certain baleful ginger) have to type in the quey - they also had to press RETURN.

Do you think Torvald is blogging in Japanese? Or simply reading Japanese blogs? Is he an unexpected fan of "Hello, Kitty"? (Now, I could believe that of Siobhan. Hmmmm. Perhaps it was Siobhan who ran the search).

But anyway. The news is bad. Those hours and hours the cats have spent watching me type is beginning to pay off. For them, at least.

I worked late.

When I got home, Greg was struggling with his assignment for our college course, so I helped him with that. php, which is not my language of choice. And working on a Mac which drives me insane. And Greg was frustrated because things weren't working ...

In the middle of this, we heard a cat fight outside. Greg raced out and found the mean black cat beating up Torvald. Yes, I know. It's like shooting Dennis Hopper in the second reel. Now you know that the bad guys are Serious Bad Guys. Torvald ran in and bled all over the carpet. And then over the kitchen floor. Greg wanted to take him to the vet straightaway, but when we held him down and examined him (Greg won the gardening gloves so got to grab him and hold him down, I got to examine him) we found it was a badly torn claw and a nasty gash in his side. Which means vet's trip tomorrow but no emergency dash tonight. Still, it means we'll have to keep them shut inside while we're away. They are SO going to love us.

Anyway, Siobhan was nowhere in sight. I called her all over the house, but she didn't respond. Greg said he had had the cat flap open for a part of the day so they could get some air, but had then closed it. My fear was that the black cat had got her and hurt her so badly that she was scared to come home. Much searching and calling ensued. No Siobhan.

When Greg got out the big torch and proposed to hunt through the streets, she suddenly appeared, sauntering out from her hiding place and demanding her share of love and affection.

Then she strolled to her tray, seated herself on the edge and proceeded to piddle all over the floor.

And Greg hit another snag in his programme ...

All this time, I was trying to cook my supper, and read my email.

So ... posting?

Not this evening, I fear. I'm going to bed.

We thought we'd get the carpets cleaned. I mean, really deep cleaned - because they need it.

But when the carpet cleaner man came, he looked at the carpets and shook his head. They are past it. Well, we did put them down sixteen years ago, and they weren't wonderful quality (although brand new) even then.

So ... he mentioned laminate flooring, and we got enthusiastic. We'll have that in the living room, and carpet the stairs again.

So I went to look at carpet sites, and found a hilarious one where you can put a sample of the carpet into a virtal 'room', and see the effect - then change around sofa, curtains, wall colour.

But some elements of the room are fixed. The cheerful fire, for example.

And Torvald.

However you change the room, You Will Always Have Torvald.

It seems appropriate someehow.

Go and try it for yourselves - it only seems to work in IE, I fear: http://www.carpetsdirect.co.uk/studio5/iestudio.html

A few weeks ago, Torvald was beaten yp by a black cat that has come into the neighbourhood. I heard yowling outside - Siobhan (the minx) went out to watch and he came bolting in, followed by her. He was hissing with pain if anyone tried to get near - he had a large wound on his leg. I took his to the vet (thick gardening gloves) and the vet said that we could either sedate him, stitch the leg and I'd [pay lots of money, or she could shoot him full of anti-biotics and painkillers and we could see what happened. As Torvald heals quickly, I voted for option 2, and it paid off - he made a swift (if bad-tempered recovery).

However, on Saturday night, there was another yowling outside. Torvald has been reluctant to go out, and this was sweet white Siohan who came shooting in, covered with mud and blood and intent on hiding behind the sofa. Where she stayed throughout Sunday, only being coaxed out to be examined with the aid (I fear) of a walking stick. She had some bad bites on her back and thigh, and was clearly in lots of pain (It takes a lot to get Siobhan to hiss at you, but she hissed if anyine went to stroke here). On Sunday afternoon I phoned the vet - who said to bathe the wounds with salt water to clean them, and take her in on Monday. Which Greg did, and made sure she was shot up with antibiotics nd pain killers.

When I came home on Moday, she was still behind the sofa. I'd cooked some fish for her on Sunday (much to Torvald's delight) but she had spurned it. Now I put down the last of it for Torvald and - as he was starting to eat - I heard the thinnest thread of a meow behind me. It was Siobhan, lured out by the smell. She pushed past Torvald and fell on the fish - and from them on has been fine - her usual sweet and loving self.

Only neither cat is not prepared to go out. They are clearly scared of the big black - and who can blame them? But it does seem a shame.

I am glad to see that Torvald is attracting fans including - to my astonishment ... people who have met him.

Torvald smirks.

A Re-Enactment community have also expressed an interest in him. I am not quite sure why ... In fact, I dread to think why. Perhaps they want him to go on as a direwolf without the aid of make-up or something.

In the spirit of the great scarletdemon, who suggested that her friends and readers could add Little Gay Brandon to their LJ interests list, van I humbly suggest a certain feline of the satanic ginger variety who might also be deemed worthy of such an honour?

I refer, of course, to Torvald. Let's see how large an interest group of his fans we can build ... ;-)

We've had trick or treaters this year - last year there weren't any, for some reason.

They are very polite over here:

"Say thank you to the nice lady."

"Oh, thank you very much!"

or:

"Hi! Sorry we're so late!"- this from kids who know me.

Torvald comes with me and sits on the doorstep to watch, with an air of faintly amused superiority - like a tennis pro watching some kids play a knockabout game on the beach.

"Amateurs," he is clearly thinking. "Neophytes. How sweet."

Overheard from the garden:

Two kids (one of the the next door neighbour) had ceased playing and were watching Torvald over the garden fence.

"You wanna watch Torvald," said Francis.

Torvald continued to sit on the lawn, as though oblivious.

"He's really hard, in'e*?"said the stranger, with a kind of hushed awe.

"Yeah,"said young Francis, with the pride that comes from living next door to the celebrated neighbourhood hard man.



* colloquial contraction of isn't he, favoured by pre teens, teens, and anyone playing a character in a Guy Richie film or a TV series set in Sarf** London.

** South (derivation the same)

Wednesday, I got four hours sleep. When I woke up, I drove a hundred miles to a meeting (two hours), attended high-powered meeting, and drove home. Unsurprisingly, I crashed out during the evening. Went to bed at 6.30 and woke up all awake at 11.30 when Greg came to bed. So ... I came down, had a late supper, caught up on emails. I finally went to bed at 4.30.

Now, Siobhan, who - as you all know - is the feline angel to Torvald's ginger devil, has one bad habit. It goes back to her infancy in the cat's home when she was kept with her three sisters in a smallish pen, and could see other kittens through a glass wall, but couldn't get to them. Now, if she thinks she's shut out from a room, she claws the door - noisily.

Since Josephina's been to stay, Siobhan keeps trying to get into her room - apparently under the impression that Josephina, who she adores, is still hiding out there (when she was here, Josephina very sensibly kept her door closed at night. While it might be nice to snuggle with a cuddlesome white cat, there's always the risk that you might find you open your eyes in the morning to be confronted by a pair of baleful ginger orbs).

So when I came up to bed last night, Siobhan came up too. Then, as I was trying to get to sleep, she started clawing Josephina's door - so loudly that she woke up Greg.

I screamed at her to shut up ... once

Twice ...

She kept on.

And then Tor, who had asleep at the end of our bed, leapt off,and we heard him pad from the room ...

There was a sudden startled "eep!" from Siobhan followed by a scamper downstairs.

We both laughed - it was a "She told you to shut up!" moment.

This morning ...

I woke up and Torvald was sleeping on the end of our bed as he often does. Greg had pushed the covers off cos it was hot.

As I was sitting up on the edge of the bed and brushing my hair, Torvald walked up the bed and sat on my pillow to glare balefully at Greg.

Greg opened one eye ... saw him ... and hauled the covers over himself with amazing speed.

"That's a real alarm call!" we chorused.

He gets worse. He really does.

Last night, I went to bed late. I pulled my pyjamas from beneath the pillow, took off my clothes, pulled on the top and then reached for the bottoms, only to discover that Torvald was making off with them in triumph, no doubt to subject them to his unspeakable lusts.

This morning, Greg came down the stairs at the same time as Torvald, who took exception to this and quite gratuitously bit him on the leg. Greg was not amused.

No rabbits this evening. No deer. Lots of children about though.

Walking down the green lane, we encountered a small group of girls. Three girls, I'd say between ten and twelve, and with one who must have been a young sister of one of them - perhaps five or six. Perhaps even younger.

They watched as Tor and I approached, Tor anticipating strokes.

But no.

"He's evil," said the youngest girl with quiet confidence.

"That girl will go far," said Greg when I told him.

We awoke this morning to find the house redolent of an overnight visitor - tom cat.

"I see we had a visitor," I said to Greg.

"See?" he echoed bitterly.

Siobhan had slept blamelessly by my side (well, little white cats are allowed not to stand up to big strange toms.

But ... where ... was ... Torvald????

Why didn't he snarl and snap to keep the intruder out? After all, he takes on anything smaller than a rottweiler when we're out walking.

Well, that's unfair. Torvald measures up his opponents. A wiry fast sheepdog he'll avoid - a big fat elderly labrador he'll intimidate, and then stroll back to me with an evil grin.

So ... we went for our little walk today.

As we came to the benches that overlook the stream and the pool, I saw that one was already occupied. A couple of young Goths it seemed. Torvald, who is usally soolly friendly to chance met strangers, was ecstatic. I think he had them pegged as incipient followers of his Dark Creed. Certainly he was all over them, purring and rubbing - and they, of course, were enchanted by his being walked by me.

When I was a kid, there was a nearby house that was known as the Witch House, and children used to cross their fingers and run past it. I met the woman who lived there a few years later - perfectly nice and ordinary - and I wondered how she got the Witch reputation. I'm starting to wonder if she once had a cat like ... Torvald.

We crossed the river, ambled through the meadow, and then back over and through the woods. Eventually we reached the benches again, and sat down. Suddenly Torvald siffened. A man had appeared, walking his lurcher.

Now, lurchers are not little dogs. Admittedly, they are slender - but they're also three foot tall.

And Torvald, a ginger hiss of fury, attacked the poor lurcher.

The owner was not amused. As he dragged the dog away, I could tell he was itching to say, "Why don't you keep that cat on a lead?" Only ... you can't say that about a cat.

So, I was clutching a snarling Torvald while the man led the lurcher away, the man with an expression of baffled irritation, and the lurcher looking alarmed and confused.

Torvald was moody all the way home. His stalk said clearly, "I could have had him, I could."

Life with Torvald is at least never dull.

And guess which one it is ...

Greg went out to peg out the washing just now. And he noticed that of the three rabbit graves he had dug, two had been dug up (and the contents removed and laid out on the grass).

"But cats don't dig!" I cried.

"We have already established," said Greg darkly, "that Torvald is no ordinary cat."

I don't think he wants to eat them. I think he is probably performing strange and sinister feline satanic rituals over the corpses.

I'm going to start wearing a neck muffler when I go to bed and stringing garlic in the bedroom.

Well, not any more there ain't.

Unless the one Siobhan brought in ... noooooo ... don't go there, woman!

Hunter of the day was Torvald who brought me a mouse, probably as a thank you for his walk.

He promptly let it go under the freezer. I'm hardened now. I let him catch it again ... which he soon did.

It seemed in fairly good shape, but releasing it again seemed a little unfair. But the little boy next door had begged me ... if Torvald caught any more mice ... could he possibly ...

I took it round there. His Mum agreed he can watch it entranced and make it a newspaper bed until it's had time to recover. It stands a better chance of getting away then that if I let it go immediately - when Torvald would just catch it again. Unless, like Juliet's bird, it is killed with much cherishing ...

Torvald is disgusted. Bringing home a LIVE mouse was meant to be the supreme treat - I could have all the fun of killing it myself. And what do I do? Give it away.

Sigh.

This one was even cuter.

He has clearly found a warren ...

And he didn't want to eat it, or even grumble when I took it. It was clearly a gift (probably for restarting the walks). And when I picked him up, he purred in my arms for the longest time - very un-Tor-ish behaviour.

Anthropomorphism (sp?) is kicking in big time, and I'm visualising the grief of Mummy and Daddy Rabbit ...

Nature red in tooth and claw.

Torvald brought home his latest kill - of which he was inordinately proud.

A sweet young bunny rabbit.

Greg was appalled - and it was awfully sad to see the lovely little thing dead on the kitchen floor.

On the other hand, a cat needs to be very good to kill a wild rabbit - and he must have travelled quite a distance to catch it ... And he carried it all the way home, with great pride, to us.

So I told him he was very good and duly admired his efforts (much to Greg's disapproval).

Still, I'd rather he stuckk to bunny rabbits. He has killed rats before now ... which is certainly a useful service ... but I'd rather not know about it.