All about Maxine and unwanted pregnancy
Butterball, my neighbour hated them but then who/what didn’t this old tosser hate. He hated them all and said so at every chance he got. They stuck their dirty pig noses into his bin. They sprayed stinky juice over his drying socks. They screeched big time. Hair fell off them. They were local cats – stringy, drawling, gum-chewing felines who poured through Maxine’s cat flap all day and all night without end.
“Local Yokels” ….. Butterball pronounced the words like he was holding them in tweezers. Local meant something different to Butterball. Local didn’t mean you lived round here, oh no. After all, Butterball lived round here, and he couldn’t be called local. For local, read mentally-subnormal-uneducated-morons who wear clothes with writing on them and enjoy the later works of Stevie Wonder.
Local people. Butterball didn’t care for them. He could understand why they existed, and how they had come to be as they were. He even believed they had certain rights. But Butterball occupied a comfy parallel universe and when they or their cats invaded it he wasn’t happy.
You don’t know how sanctimonious this guy is. Everything done his way was right. Like the time he described the way I was cleaning up the leaves in the garden as interesting.
I could have put a boot in his smug fat ass there and then.
But this is about Maxine, back to Maxine. Maxine was the Mona Lisa of felines and had to be protected from these alien invaders at all costs. The tide couldn’t be stemmed by Butterball, on guard with his garden hose or super large water pistol, so he bought a Catatronic, an electronic cat flap which can be operated only by the secretly encoded Catatronic collar.
The day the Catatronic was installed, I was trimming my hedge, using no doubt what Butt (abv for Butterball, but fitting anyway ) would describe as an interesting technique, and I watched Maxine approach the new cat flap with her usual pimp-roll kiss-my-sweet-ass walk. She pressed her well-bred shoulder to the door and it opened up like butter, snapping shut behind her with a smug and expensive sounding clunk. Exclusive and personalised for this princess of cats.
There was nothing new in this as far as Maxine was concerned; it was life as usual. But the effect on the local cats was fascinating. They sat off at a distance and watched. I overheard one decidedly tatty male say to the Ginger showboat “I’ll bet you my saucer of milk next door that I’ll get a snuggle with that snooty wench if she would just sniff my spraymail”
“Ja sure!” said Ginge “I’ll take some of that.”
All the other locals dragged their sorry asses off to find mischief elsewhere leaving Tatty one to do his wooing. And woo he did. A good few times ……..until an enraged Butterball swung a broom at him.
Now some months down the line Butterball is trying to sell the proceeds of the wooing, but I know the secret. I know who’s the Daddy!