Eek!

Dodgy pizza, churning stomach, filthy headache, slept for one hour, woke, took two paracetamols and, half an hour later, a Zantac, and lay waiting for deliverance. Some time in the early hours – which should be the late hours as it felt very late indeed to me – I heard it. The Yowl of Doom.

Now, Flad is a very quiet cat. He appeared in the garden as a half-grown stray, furry appendages already removed. Or maybe they never descended, for his voice hasn’t progressed beyond a squeak, which is why his nickname is the same as the sound emitted by his favourite live dish, the mouse. Eek. In terms of IQ, Flad’s would be in the minus category, unlike his predecessor, the fine, the unique Bastard Cat (BC for short), that Einstein of the species Felidae. BC could observe, ponder and work things out, but Flad acts on pure instinct. Make a sudden move, and Flad runs. Go near catfood cupboard and Flad appears even if, seconds before, he had been halfway across the farm field at the back of the house. Methinks he can morph and move faster than light. He could be an alien. He certainly didn’t learn cat habits for a long time. He didn’t purr till he was five which, in human terms, is the equivalent of not walking and talking until you are about 20. The yowl, a loud, rich, ‘Look at me, aren’t I clever?’ sound, only comes when he catches something. In this case, in the middle of the night.

Got up, fumbled for specs, put them on and advanced cautiously into kitchen. Would it be a rat? Flad (see previous post of recumbent fat feline) is an excellent ratter. He’s an ardent mouser who is capable of starting on the head and sucking the entire rodent straight down until the tail-tip slithers through his fangs like the last strand of spaghetti. Currently he is in disgrace, having deprived a Great Tit family of 50% of its food delivery.

This time it was a fieldmouse. (Not the rodent in the pic. That was a baby rat and he won't eat rats, just gloats over their corpses.) No, this trophy was a glorious little golden creature, sadly twisted in rigor mortis, with a tiny speck of blood on its nose. I proceeded to praise and pat the mouse murderer though my eyes were moist. I fled back to bed before he could demonstrate how to eat it, though the first crunch met my ears as I closed the living room door.

But back to bowels. The Very Irritable Bowel hasn’t bothered me since the day I was setting off for the Lake District two weeks ago. This morning it is back, the cramps, the squits, accompanied by an ozone-like odour which appears to have come from the pit of hell. Or Brighton. I have eaten three tablespoons of live yogurt, my favourite M&S Greek-style one. If that won’t neutralise the stench of rotting seaweed, nothing will. I await with bated breath my body’s next attempt to clobber me. What will it be this time? Will the Awful Ulcer put in an appearance? After all, I nearly had the Mighty Migraine last night. Yet I survived Sunday’s barbecue intact, which surprising considering the intake of peanuts, crisps, cold, greasy sausages, hard-boiled egg, burger, birthday cake (no, it wasn’t my celebration but a friend’s six-year-old’s), chocolate and several glasses of White Zinfandel. Maybe I’m having a delayed reaction to such a toxin-fest.