Nasty, Wasty, Catnap…

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Look at her in her Misty chair, all snug. Apparently cats can spend as much as twenty-three hours a day snoozing, catching forty winks, just generally catnapping. Misty seems to be no exception - when she’s not washing, she’s sleeping.

She loves that chair, just look at her paws. What’s she doing? First flex, then relax, claws in, then out - legs and whiskers jumping and twitching, all furry and purry. Is that purring? She’s making some funny noises – I expect she’s dreaming. I wonder what about – mice, birds, treats, nice nin-nins? Yes, I wonder…

‘Stop, stop! I’m king of the Celtic cats; you should be viewing me with guarded superstition, you should fear me, not... well not this! That’s the problem with druids – one minute they’re scared of you, the next they’re tossing you into huge burny bonfire. Poor, poor, kittie - not a nice way to go. Stop it I tell you…stop!

In Roman Gaul and Irish lore I was the 'Little Cat', a guardian of treasure. I could turn myself into a flaming ball of fur and burn thieves to ashes if they tried to steal my master’s treasure. Don’t you even know your own history? Put that knife thing down, it looks sharp... do you want me to turn into a ball of flame and set fire to you? Put it down I say, put it down.

I used to live on an island inhabited by men with cat-heads. No seriously, don’t laugh. I’m in all your Celtic sagas - you know the ones about the Monster Cat, the ones where I fight your pathetic Celtic Heroes and beat them. You used to think that I was as dangerous as that red Dragon thing you hold so dear, so what happened? No, don’t tie me up! I don’t like being tied up! Ouch! That’s far too tight; I can hardly draw breath to meow.

Listen, Purrhaps I should explain… I’m the Welsh Great Cat, born of the enchanted sow Henwen. Originally I was human - just like you - they used to call me 'Puss of the Corner'. Why? How should I know why? But let me tell you that I could eat nine score warriors and still have room for a pudding. Haven’t you heard that Monster cats and sea-cats are common in Irish myth? Well, I’m one of those and you are going to live to regret this you… you… Mistletoe fanciers!

Put me down! If only I could get my hissing claws into you.

Okay let’s stop playing pussie, now don’t get frightened, but even you lot must know that I have powers - what about all the witches cats? I’m magic, M-A-G-I-C, so let’s stop all this and we can all pretend it never happened. We can put it behind us and all be friends, otherwise… I’ll have to put a curse on you and change you all into little white mice and then you’d better watch out!
Stop I say! Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop!

Caithness is named after me - doesn’t that mean anything to you? Please stop! I want to go home. I want to go back to my cosy chair. I want to go home to Foodies and Hisfault, even that whirling dervish girl. Please stop. I’ll be good - I promise I’ll be good.

Now look, I know that us cats don’t play a huge part in Celtic tradition, never have, never did, but even you should know that I have chthonic powers and am thus viewed as funerary in your so very backward culture. You should all be terrified of me… do you hear? Terrified! I’m prophetic! Prophetic! Do you know what that means? It means that I am an omen, a portent, potentially your worst nightmare. Didn’t they teach you anything in hissing Druid school?

Perhaps that’s it? Perhaps this is a nightmare. A nasty, wasty, catnap. Wake up me! Wake up me! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up’…

Oh, how sweet. Just look at her pulling all those funny faces, and she’s snoring. She must be dreaming, and whatever it is she’s dreaming about it certainly looks like she’s having fun…