Pudding and Potato's Christmas; Part One of Four.

"Written by Pudding the Cat: December 1st, 2013."

My name is Pudding. Well, actually my full title is Her Royal Pudding Sausage Majesty; but you don’t have to bow at this moment. I am a fourty-year-old tabby cat (six in hooman years) who owns a lovely bungalow in Henley-on-Thames in Surrey, England. Besides being awesome in every way imaginable, I live a generally normal life as a God amongst felines. I meditate eighteen hours a day, preen myself for another two, and with the minimal space in-between, my loyal minions Mummy and Daddy cater to my every service need; including food, warmth, and indefinite attentions. The odd neighbourhood woofington tells me I give little in return to my employees, but I quickly set them straight - my life's work is to appear beautiful and be amazing; and nobody works it quite like the Pudding.

There is another member of my household, who I allow to sleep in my kitchen; and sometimes sit on the sofa, if I am feeling especially generous. His name is Potato, the Pug. Potato arrived here early this year as a tiny ball of stupidity, and I kept him because his belly makes quite an adequate pillow. Potato is like all woofingtons; slobbery, forgetful, and when he isn’t eating, farting - or concurrently doing both, snoring loud in his stinky bed. I should kick him out, but he does carry a few choice benefits; namely when the Pudding needs her dirty work doing, which Mummy and Daddy are too foolish to understand; like borrowing cookies, or popping out a naughty revenge poo in next door's garden. We are in many ways a modern day Catgirl and Robin; if Catgirl were smarter, and Robin had a pea for a brain, that is. Right now however, Potato may be more useful then he has ever been…

You see, hooman sky flakes month has arrived; a time where they eat endless collections of chocolate noms, half-pint of milk sized versions of Daddy invade my property; moving all the intricate cardboard boxes I carefully set up for myself, and the same jingly jangles are played ad-nauseum through the chatterbox box. Of course, I can handle all these minor asides; my real problem is much, much larger. As happens every year on the first morning of this month, the green prickle monster has magically appeared in my living room - along with his vast army of decoration soldiers. Like the previous five years, he guards the special, prized present in the corner of the room; which ceiling cat has presented me as my annual award, for most glamorous cat in the universe.

I only have a three week window to capture my rightful prize, before it is too late. Eventually, once enough brainwashing by prickle man has passed, I have to watch on in horror as Mummy and Daddy open my reward - believing it is theirs to keep, and not mine. Each year a wonderful gift, and each year I have lost them all. 

A warm, circular disc opening machine for me to sleep on... Daddy locked it in his bedroom! A screen book with fiddly keys to sit on when alight… Mummy hogs it all day long, and hides it from me! And even the brand new leather Jacket, meant as my cosy sky flakes season blanket… given to Daddy version two; the one with less wobbly belly, more wispy head curls, and smells of ashtray - all slipped through my hands, due to this cursed monster. Worst of all, I find myself left with little more than my servants tributes of a static mouse with a stick up his bum, and another bright collar with an irritating bell on the end; seriously, do they think I want squirrels and spiders to know I am on the prowl?

We have fought fierce battles, and I have employed warrior-like tactics. I have severed a number of his ball shaped arms, and penetrated his power supply forcefield many a time, but the next day he magically appears as normal. One time, I managed to knock him to the floor; only to find him back on his feet again, an hour later. I even attempted to reason with him and share the gifts – not that I would, but he is ice-cold as the evil garbage-bins men - who collect him every new hooman year. I believe he may be a robot working for these heinous villians, to stop me from gaining my hard-earned gifts. But I am a cat, and cats always get their way; always!   

For this year, I will prevail. You see, my ingenious, moggy mastermind, has hatched a brand new, cunning plan to defeat this green enemy. And Potato; who prickle monster only knows through smell and the odd curious glance - and therefore unaware of his uses, is the perfect foil. Mark my words extra special shiny gift - this year, you will be mine. Oh yes, you will be mine…

For part two of this article, CLICK HERE and Like my Official Fan Page.

 *Illustrations by Marissa A.Ward*