Imagine a cat.
No, imagine a CAT.
A big, heavy bruiser of a ginger tom. Scarred and scruffy, with evil slitted green eyes and a bad attitude. And long legs, which were useful to keep his oversized bollocks from dragging on the deck. This was Lucky - a foundling moggy, he adopted a couple of biker mates of mine some years ago. Lucky was named for his persistence in surviving everything life threw at him, while leaving his (often indelible) mark on the offending item/creature.
I first met him when invited into the flat that Lucky's bikers shared with him and he responded to my friendly overture of an ear-scratch by performing the "cat bracelet" i.e. wrapping his front paws around my wrist with claws locked into the soft inner flesh whilst simultaneously sinking his needle-sharp teeth into the base of my hand. His hind paws were trying to disembowel my elbow and his tail was firmly entwined around my bicep. I tried to shake off 20-odd pounds of malevolent orange furriness to no avail, *eventually* being rescued by my friends who peeled Lucky off me - by the tail. I still have the scars to my inner wrist and psyche 20 years later.
My favourite recollections of Lucky include a magic moment watched from the sofa. Lucky liked to surprise people by "stealthily" leaping onto the dining table *THUD* and then looking innocent as he examined a front claw, or washed a battle-ragged ear, waiting his moment to accelerate violently across the table (scattering traction splinters in his wake) and leap gracelessly on to the back of the sofa, preferably right behind a visitor's head **WALLOP** which often rewarded him with a shriek of terror and a warm place to sit ...
Well, I was sitting at one end of the sofa, wrestling with the next move to make in "The Hobbit" on the Spectrum (dates me, eh?) while a virgin visitor was perched on the other end, Spectrum keyboard in hand, trying to make Gandalf exit to the South or summat - when I became aware of Lucky prowling the table. I let my peripheral vision do the watching as Lucky never performed when under direct scrutiny and having been a victim several times previously, it was with great glee and bated breath that I anticipated His Orangeness making his move.
Sure enough, after a couple of minutes, Lucky sank to his haunches,raised his tail and then, in a blur of legs and claws, shot across the table, gathering takeoff speed on the run-up. Just as orbital velocity was attained, he put a claw wrong - on a random cork coaster carelessly ignored in his preparations. Lucky lurched, the coaster careened backwards and bounced off the wall and a big ginger ball arced across the space, propelled by desperate claws kicking off from the edge of the table. He was unbalanced (in more ways than one) by his unscheduled loss of grip at the vital moment and I saw a couple of desperate paws reach frantically out from the windmilling body, clutching for the back of the sofa (or the back of a head - he was in no position to be fussy and never gave a fuck anyway).
His Evil Catness overdid the correction, hitting the top of the back of the sofa with suspension at full compression, as he extended his legs, anticipating impact. This threw him back into the air, still travelling forward (and rotating) at a good lick, forward of the sofa.
Straight into the fireplace, he went.
December in South Shields is a cold time and the coal fire had been burning all afternoon. A huge shower of sparks and moggish epithets ensued, as fur met flame and hot coals. A raather blurred and charred stretched-out-to-full-length-plus-a-bit-and-smoking-tail (and smoky trail) former Lord Of All He Surveyed made a *very* rapid exit through the kitchen, down the stairs and into the back yard via a soundly-slammed catflap.
I knew why he'd gone - it bloody stunk in the living room, of burned cat hair and very (shit)scared Hobbit geek. Looking out of the window, I saw Lucky had rematerialised in his accustomed place on top of the outhouse at the end of the yard, erect and arrogant as ever - a pose only slightly marred by the loss of all one side of his whiskers and a few smouldering embers on his back, allowing little streamers of smoke to rise into the still air. He saw me looking at him and turned his back ... so I couldn't see the burning embarassment in his eyes - but I could see the skin of his fat pink arse where he'd lost several square inches of orange fur. Not to mention the scorched giant bollocks pressed against the thankfully cold bricks of the wall ...
One sport that Lucky enjoyed was something we came to call "Cat Curling", when he was in a suitably playful mood. He would stroll out of the kitchen and stand up on his back legs, then affectionately sink his front claws into the thigh of his chosen playmate. Then the bloodletting - sorry, playing - would ensue for a few minutes, until his playmate had to desist due to the need to secure tourniquets on most limbs. It was following one of these sessions, when the Luckster was firmly ejected into the kitchen, that we discovered he liked to be slid across the vinyl-covered floor on his arse. So we did it for several hours the first time, until he let us stop.
Lucky insisted on being "curled" many times after that and one day he approached me for a bout as I showed up on a Saturday morning, laden with a week's shopping (bloody bikers can carry nowt, can they?) and suffering under a substantial hangover from the previous night. I dropped the shopping in response to the re-opening of lower-leg lacerations, just missing His Orange Curlingness (bugger ;-)) and bent, picked Lucky up and shoved him through the kitchen doorway and across the floor.
You know how it is when you put a heavy weight down and then pick up a much lighter one? Well, it was just like that, and I put Lucky a bit harder than normal across the floor. The freshly-cleaned and *gasp* polished vinyl floor (Landlord visit that afternoon). Lucky realised all was not going to the usual plan as he rapidly rotated past his bowl, and may even have picked up a little speed as he sailed through a damp patch ... towards the open door at the top of the back stairs I'd just come up. Arrestor claws and guidance tail were duly extended, but to little avail as he was facing forwards by that point so his claws were facing the wrong way - as he went through the doorway and disappeared over the edge of the straight, steep, flight of uncarpeted wooden stairs down to the yard.
There was some yowling and several thuds. A few more thuds and a strained silence. And a spitting sound. And a substantial BANG as Lucky slammed the catflap (how *do* cats do that?). He limped/strolled casually (delete as applicable, depending on human/feline viewpoint) across the yard, only weaving occasionally and shaking his head no more than a couple of times. I swear I could see those little tweety birds circling his bonce as he tried and failed two ascents of the outhouse wall, to his regular perch. I was a bit concerned to be honest, so I went to assist the old lad. Funnily enough, as Lucky looked over his shoulder and saw my hands reaching for his backside to help him onto the wall, he managed a levitation any snake charmer would be proud of, reached the top of the wall and fucked off three backyards distant in two seconds flat.
I knew he liked me after that, as whenever I kipped in that flat, Lucky would bring me breakfast. He *loved* to see my appreciative bloodshot eyes apprise a freshly-killed bird or mouse from a few millimeters away on my pillow, entrails neatly arranged so that they *just* touched my upper lip ...
I love cats, I do. Really.
