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.
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.
