A night in a day with Mr Bundy

Bundy, or Mr Bundy to most of his Asian internet friends, was named after Stray’s beloved Bundaberg Rum. Stray was sort of tricked into naming him (sorry Stray), because I‘d already chosen ‘Bundy’ before arriving home with him, but it was Stray’s turn to name our next pet. You see our cats have generally been named after drinks, Kahlua, Milk, Ouzo etc. (hmmm, our drinking might be more of a problem than I thought), so after I suggested a few lame names like, Mars, Apollo and Achilles, Stray thought of Bundy...all on his own.

I picked Bundy, formally known as Kat, or should I say, he picked me at an animal shelter. He was petite and ladylike, and now at 2 ½, still is. We adorned him with a belled collar almost immediately, not wanting the blood of any wildlife on our hands. The cat who preceded him and who disappeared mysteriously at a sprightly 16 years old was like a deadly Ninja, but with fur. My home made elasticised collar works well, except for the fact that SNAKES ARE DEAF!!!
Well, sort of, they have no external ears and hear mostly via vibrations. Obviously a small bell doesn’t send out much of a sound wave.

He (Bundy) was averaging about one a fortnight in the warmer months (they're hibernating right now)  and looks like an effeminate Medusa as he trots up to the house with a reptile writhing out of both sides of his dainty little mouth. Fine if you see him coming and can go into lock down, but more than likely you’ll happen upon him already inside and playing with his newly found wriggly friend. Luckily for me and Stray Crikey Erwin, so far they’ve been Green Tree and freshwater Keelback snakes, which are non venomous. We reckon (we bloody hope that) if he stumbles upon a King Brown or a Tiger, he won’t even make it back into the house.

Mr Bundy used to sleep on and at the foot of our bed, but eventually gave up. It must have been like sleeping on a roller coaster with all the thrashing around Stray and I must do during the night...sleeping! His next preference was just outside of our bedroom door, which was a bit perilous for us in the darkness, because it’s also the top of our staircase. After making that patch of carpet just as hairy as he is, he migrated down stairs to various different locations. Well hidden cane baskets, obvious lounge chairs or in the back room from hell where it's either as hot as hades or as cold as ice.

Lately he’s been sleeping underneath our bed.

It’s late and I plonk into bed with all the grace of a wombat and start my rotisserie routine. I was unaware that I did this until I was pregnant with our first daughter and unable to lie on my stomach. And so it begins. Lie on my back, lie on my stomach with head to the left, then head to the right, lie on my left side, lie on my right side and ideally fall asleep. If this cycle is broken or slumber does not come with the last manoeuvre, I start again. What? OCD? I have no idea what you’re talking about.

So, I’m about half way through the routine, lying on my stomach with head to the left. Ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting. It sounds like Santa’s sleigh has taken up residence below. Ting, ting, ting, ting, ting. He’s under our bed, under my head and just out of reach of my swinging hand. ‘Shuttttttt up!’ It goes on for some time, but he finally does and I start my rotation again.

I’ve made it to the final and heavenly last stage of my second routine. I hear purring. It’s getting louder and louder in the deafening silence of night. It’s so loud and I swear I can feel the mattress vibrating, like an idling motor. Images pop into my head of Garfield spread eagle and latched to the underside of our bed’s framework. ‘For the love of God...be quiet, I have to get up early for work’, but I smile to myself  knowing that he’s so happy just to be lying under our bed. Poor thing, he has no idea what lays in wait for him in a few months time. Out of all my worries, I worry about him the most. I fret that he’ll turn feral when three of our daughter’s indoor (completely mental) cats and Rottweiler (Conan) move in while we are away. Actually, he’s OK with the Rotty, since they've known each other from nearly birth. Conan visits from time to time and there ensues a game of cat and...well, Rotty. 

Eventually sleep comes.

If it’s not an ‘office’ work day Bundy usually wakes us up by giving out a pathetic ‘it’s nearly 8.30 get out of bed’ meow...more like a door hinge in need of a good belt of oil. But today is office day, so I (always) wake up unnecessarily early, wondering if I have 1 or 100 minutes left until my mobile phone alarm sounds, as I doze in and out of sleep. When it does I sometimes answer it with a 'hello?' before realising it’s not a phone call.

I head down the stairs, I can hear ting, ting, ting, but I can’t see him right now. By the time I enter the bathroom, he’s right behind me and I shut the door as he follows me in. He sits on the bath mat, bathing, while I go about my morning flushing, washing and brushing. We head for the kitchen, me to make my coffee, him to eat his biscuits...he’s a biscuitarian. But, something’s wrong, he stops short of his bowl by a few feet. I say ‘go on, eat you’re bikkies’ and he gives me a pitiful look, so I walk over and jiggle them around in his bowl. I finish making my coffee. By this time he’s sitting with his back to me, facing the pantry door and looking upwards, to where the bikkies reside. I give in and get the packet out and we walk back to his bowl, not unlike a silly walk out of a Monty Python skit, as he loops around my feet and tries to trip me on the way.

I top up his bowl with some token fresh biscuits and give him a pat as he eats and purrs simultaneously. I pick up my coffee and head to the lounge room to turn on the news, popping a Nicorette gum into my mouth on the way.

It’s been documented that some people have dumped their unwanted cats at animal refuges because they don’t match their new decor. Lucky for him we have Bundy coloured curtains.

*Note to self...never buy a small, fluffy, purse size, toy dog.

"If only I could fly!"