Curiosity, thy name is Frank.

In the programme of life, Frank is the ad break. When he comes on you know you should be doing something else; putting the wee on, going for a kettle, but instead you find yourself sat there, watching crap that's of no use to anyone....that's Frank in a nutshell. No really, that's Frank trying to get into a nutshell. Stupid arse. 
There's nothing he won't get stuck in; 

boxes (as modelled by Bill)

bags

under dresses (can't say I blame him)

washing machines

dvd players

chimenas

bacon sandwiches

backs of sofas.

In his youth he was much younger and also smaller. In those days the back of the sofa might as well have been a palatial mansion. Unfortunately, while the rest of his body grew, his peanut for a brain didn't. He still thinks he can fit under there but his penchant for Dreamies and pretty much everything on your plate, have meant there's no more room for manoeuvres. 

The most annoying part is that the sofa isn't on casters so it's a real effort to rescue him. He's not a fat cat, (especially after the multi-conglomerate fired him for insider trading of IBM preferred stock which he tried to funnel through the Cayman Islands under the name of 'I.Meowsalot'), but he is very long. 
When he's watching the noisy picture box he takes up the space of two full grown biscuit munching adults. 

He likes to watch Bake Off, not for the recipes but because he wants to climb up Mary Berry's face and use Paul's beard as a scratch post. Frank doesn't care much for Mel & Sue, he thinks that anyone who stems from Cambridge and who were members of Footlights should be waaaaay funnier. The again, Frank also thinks it's hilarious to wait until the litter tray has just been changed before producing the biggest and smelliest poohs. 
Frank's idea of comedy gold is neither comedy or gold but Christmas is coming and with all that tinsel this will all change. 
Pics to follow.

Cunning Plans

So I'm FaceTiming with Frank after work like you do and we're yapping about the usual things; the price of Dreamies, opposable thumbs and the Banach-Tarski paradox. Frank starts going on about Hubble's life expectancy and the whole Deep Field pics. While I agree with him I still reckon there's a good year left in Hubble especially after the upgrades. He agrees and then casually drops in a,
"oh can I just go and play with the other cats outside?".

Ppff! Like I'm gonna fall for that. 

"You're still too young" I said. 

"But I've got a chip and defunct genitals!" he protested. While it's true that we made Frank more of a man by making him less of a man, he's still too young to go out by himself. I say "No" and the grumpy little git then gets all huffy and goes off to annoy Bill.

Kittens these days! I wouldn't mind but this isn't the first time he's made a bid for freedom. The first time saw him scale the fence and get into next doors garden. Could he be persuaded back? Could he fudge! Now he has to be constantly monitored by the screws while he's exercising in the yard. 

What goes up must come down and the next time saw him go from climbing to sky diving. After a few practise leaps from the washing he bided his time. 

The bedroom window was only open by a millimetre but the slippery eel made his way onto the ledge before taking a leap from the first floor. When it was realised that he was missing, he was eventually located at the back door with a smug grin on his chops. Any more shenanigans and he'll spend some time in a solitary small dark box with only a small dead spider for company. Actually, that sounds like cat heaven. Instead, he'll spend it in wide open space.......dammit why are cats so difficult to annoy!

Frank - the college years

Fast forward a few weeks and Frank was starting to grow. He was consuming everything in sight, including Bill's food.  A sideways name change to 'Dyson' was mulled over, after all, he sucked up everything, needed constant emptying and was crap on stairs. 

Kittens aren't supposed to eat big cat food but if you tried to stop him he would growl while continuing to chew. He might have sounded like a didgeridoo sped up but the eating never stopped. No he didn't have worms, just a poop factory in overdrive. When he wasn't eating he was gnawing. Fingers were and still are a particular favourite. The pain of having your digits being used as pin cushions to surgical grade fangs was offset by his boyish good looks and general kitten dappyness. 

It was about this time that he hit 'maximum cute'. Brace yourself!

The stairs were still yet to be mastered but this climbing thing was fun. Scaling a big bed or sofa with tiny paws was hard work though so well deserved cuddles and naps were taken at the summit. 

Frank's life was just a continual cycle of eat, sleep and move for a bit. You'd swear he was student. The litter tray certainly smelt like a second years toilet. It even had empty cans of Red Stripe and Breaker up one end. The booze would also explain the falling over and bumping into things. Come to think of it, his meows sounded a lot like "kebab". One things for sure, Frank couldn't take his ale. A "yer maa bezz mate" would quickly turn into a scrap with Bill and then back again before you could say "leave it Bill, he's not worth it!". For the time being Bill was safe on the rocking chair out of Frank's way. It wouldn't be long though before this sanctuary wasn't safe.

Meeting the Boss.

So Frank was finally home and it was time to meet the family and by family I mean 'Bill'. Bill is the ruler of the house. He's a three year old tom with a heart condition and a penchant for fifteen year old single malts.
Introducing the two was a tense affair as Bill is a tyrannical ruthless killer with a canyon wide mean streak and appetite for mindless violence. Other cats are scared of him, dogs are scared of him and most humans will give him a wide birth and completely avoid eye contact. For many, the last thing they see is his glistening razor sharp teeth dripping with the blood of his previous victim as this veracious savage monster closes in for the kill. Just look at the ginger apocalypse!

When he's not being a homicidal lunatic of course, Bill will mostly be found sleeping, stuffing his face with Dreamies or rolling over to have his tummy rubbed because he's actually a big fluffy lardass. Continents shift quicker than Bill. I'm convinced he's actually a tortoise with fur and whiskers. The only time he moves quicker than an asthmatic snail is to see what's on your plate. Then, he's your best mate.

Before Frank could be introduced he needed to be scrubbed up, so a bath was improvised in the sink to remove any unwanted passengers and dirt. 

He tarted up a treat and so followed a week long session of gradual introductions and getting to know each other.

Bill wasn't best pleased at the prospect of sharing. As Bill got used to the idea that 'squeaky' wasn't going anywhere and he wasn't a threat, he started to relax and it wasn't long before he was back on his rocking chair with a Glenfiddich in his paws and a Golden Virgina packed half bent taper hanging out of his chops. 
Over the coming weeks Bill assumed the father mantle and showed the ropes to a naive Frank. He's showed Frank where to eat, where to pooh and taught him how to pur in the humans faces at daft o'clock in the morning, the essentials really. Frank's full dickhead potential would have to wait until he had mastered charging the stairs at full clack. He would also need to harness the wind up his arse for maximum imbecility.
He would get there.

Going Home.

It was a 30th April 2016 like no other. Historians will tell you that there will never be a 30th April 2016 like it again or in fact at all. It was a 30th April 2016 that will go down in history as being unique in that it was the only 30th April 2016 to go down in history. At exactly half past eleven and precisely twenty two seconds, (give or take a few hours), I found myself amongst, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practice magic arts, the idolaters, all liars and all those who had consigned themselves to the fiery lake of burning sulphur. Or Salford as its known. 
I was there to pick up Frank. 
Money, wisdom and insight were exchanged. I carefully transported him to the car and prepared myself for the long journey south. 

That's when it began. 
Oh it was adorable at first, like a baby's first cry or the sound of a cold beer being opened. The tiny lungs were little bellows to a cacophony of cute. Unfortunately, all the instruments were broken and this orchestra was stuck in the squeaky key of "meow". Over and over it played never once wavering or deviating from maximum volume. My gentle words of encouragement to cease were met with even more relentless, inexorable and unyielding meowing from the cage next to me. Radio stations took turns to blare from the speakers but none could drown out this feline acoustic torture. After fifteen minutes I was angry, after thirty minutes I was institutionalised and rocking back and forth. When an hour passed I was angry again and wondering how I could make it look like an accident. After ninety minutes I was beyond praying and calculating a merciful release into the barriers at full speed. 

Then, a miracle happened. 

Somewhere along the M5 at approximately eighty a heavenly calmness descended. Frank had tired himself out and fallen asleep. I was a vision of pure elation. I was happy, I was free of the auditory dungeon. I embraced life again and started to live once more. Hello circling buzzards, hello trees, hello weeds in the central reservation. Even the rain on the windscreen, the beautiful magnificent rain made me smile. Life was good. Then around Tiverton the little shit woke up and started again. 
I hate kittens.