Cat Scratch Fever

By Jeremy

676 words

Ow, Ow, ouch! That hurts. Those claws digging into me. Not funny. Who would have chosen of their own free will to be a cat scratch pole? Not me for one. Ow! So here I am, a modular build (nice techy term meaning I arrived in pieces which were then assembled). I have a circular base of wood; a plinth to those of a posh disposition. Then there is the vertical rod, or pole, a thick one, again of wood. But this is wrapped with a close fitting length of sisal, or hemp, or jute, not sure which and don’t really care. That screws onto my base. The whole affair is capped off with a small circular piece of wood again, festooned with a jute pom-pom, which according to the sales blurb “provides extra fun”. Not for me I can assure you. Presumably meant to be for the cat (ouch!) though he doesn’t seem in the least interested in it.

Ow!

Thank you President Bolsonaro for legitimising my abrupt, brutal and unenvironmental harvesting from fine, proud rainforest trees in Brazil. There I am one minute enjoying my positive ecological status, the beauties of the rainforest, and the feel good factor of consuming loads of carbon dioxide, then the next being the victim of arboricidal chainsaw massacres. I hear that some humans yearn for intercontinental travel. Not I (ouch!). I would have far preferred to stay put in Amazonia, but such is my fate. And then without putting too fine a point on it, to have the indignity of metal screws and screw holes drilled into me. And you know what irks me most? For me, a modest, unassuming collection of a few wood pieces with some jute wrapped around, purchasers are expected to part with twenty-eight pounds of their hard earned money. Twenty-eight pounds for some wood and rope?! Extraordinary, ouch!

So here I sit in the living room, existing in terror of the next feline approach. He comes to me so nonchalantly, pretending to be minding his own business with little sense of purpose, only to rear up with a daft look on his face, and sink those claws into me producing the most ear-splitting, rasping sounds. Then he releases me from his grip, and just sits there looking stupid while I (metaphorically) lick my wounds.

Ooh, that hurts!

My jute is developing a most unflattering fluffy appearance with the strands loosening, causing a quite unsightly mess. I could do with a good haircut and makeover. I have heard the cat’s and his owner’s discussions about how they have read and also learnt from the vet that cats need to be able to scratch at something to remove the outer redundant nail casings. There may also be some now useless evolutionary drive to mark out territory by creating visual displays of bark scratching. Alright for lions, tigers, pumas, leopards and other assorted feral felines, but definitely not a thing for this pathetic, domesticated, mog.

Please, stop!

Here's another thing. I am advertised as providing an alternative to furniture and other possessions for cats to scratch on. I am really not sure this is the case as Mr Cat still scratches al of these as well as me now. And what is to become of me? I hear rumours that my predecessor languished in the back of the garage for months before being driven with other poor and pathetic items to the Lynnbottom Tip and Civic Recycling Centre. What a way to go, chucked unceremoniously into the skip marked for wood products (shame about the metal screws). I dread to think what happens next and probably best not to dwell on it.

I would like to think I shall be recycled into something useful or attractive, a work of wood art maybe, nicely turned with my grain displayed and enhanced by conscientious and caring buffing and polishing. Or at the very least to be reduced to wood chips for garden beautification.

I hold on to this belief for a better life when I am reincarnated.

Ow!