In a fit of motherly indulgence (toward her cat, I might add), my sister purchased an array of toys supposedly designed for felines. This included a few sparkly balls, a rubber mouse, a ball of fluff which resembled a hamster and (this is the best one of all) a “high tech maus”. Yes maus. German I presume. This space age invention consists of a clamp, which you affix to any low hanging beam, from which hangs a furry maus on a string. Plus, the damn thing squeaks when it’s so much as jerked. Brilliant!

The cat, however, didn’t find it that cool or even remotely below room temperature. Even after repeated demonstrations by me, which involved getting down on all fours and pawing the maus and then lifting HIM up and putting HIS paws on the maus, he looked at what I felt to be God’s gift to cats with a sullen lack of interest, much to my dismay. Of course, I should have expected this after the scratching post debacle which involved the same sequence of events but never mind.

I don’t know how much that piece of precise German engineering cost but I couldn’t very well let it go to waste. Goodness no. And so it came to pass that Pat and myself, two grown, intelligent human beings, were spied trying to kick the furry thing at each other with as much force as possible, emitting high pitched squeals amidst the squeaking of the maus in the process. It was an epic battle between two determined (For Honour!! HIARRRRR!!) warriors but after 20 minutes or so of intense physical exertion, I admitted defeat. Pat kicked that thing like she’d been kicking mice her whole life (which is kind of disturbing) and I had no answer to it. Plus, risking a maus to the gonads wasn’t all that worth it even if one’s honour was at stake. So in a sense, I let her win. Of course I did.