Misty's diary: snow and misplaced faith in a domestic

Another entry from Misty’s diary. In which he records his disappointment at the limitations on the magical abilities of one of the domestics.

February 2015

Domestic number 2 thinks I’m pretty dumb. And he’s not entirely wrong: the problem is that I keep underestimating just how incompetent he is. Despite my repeated experience, I nurse expectations of him. Massively unrealistic expectations.

This came to a head the other day when we got that ghastly white stuff falling out of the sky. Domestic number 1 always gets excited about these terrible moments.

“At last,” she cries out, “snow. We can get the skis out again.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Getting the skis out? They did that a couple of years ago. It was frankly embarrassing. They came up the street on skis, making complete berks of themselves. Who on earth skis in a town? If you have to do that kind of bloody silly thing, do it somewhere way out in the country. Somewhere nobody sensible can see you.

As for me, I loathe that miserable cold stuff. I work on my paws. I keep them clean, I keep them neat. Snow? Half a dozen steps and all my efforts are for nothing. What it does to fur, my dear, has to be seen to be believed. It really shouldn’t be allowed.

Cold. Wet. Miserable. And wreaks havoc on the paws

Well, the other day had been tough and I simply hadn’t noticed the snow. 

So when I saw Domestic number 2 by the door I trotted over quite optimistically. I’ve got him trained to spot when I want to go out, though it took some extra effort to get him to cut out the sarky comments. You know, quips like:

“What, too lazy to go out of the cat flap and climb the fence?”

Even when he used to make that kind of remark, he’d still open the door. However, I can frankly do without that kind of crack. So sadly it escalated into one of those teeth and tongue things: my teeth teaching control of his tongue.

But when I got to the door the other day, ready to dash out, what did I see? Bloody white stuff all over the place.

No joke.

So I shot back inside before he could push me out. Not that he usually dares – that’s a Domestic number 1 trick – but you never know when he might decide to try it on and risk the consequences.

Of course, he laughed. “Ah, not so keen now, then, are we? A bit cold on the delicate little paws?”

Like he goes out barefoot in the snow…

But, and this is a habit of his, it wasn’t long before he was back at the door.

He takes rubbish out a lot. You know, he’ll go out with a couple of cardboard boxes, walking straight past the empty plastic bottle. Then he’ll see the plastic bottle, and take that out. And then – oh, yes, the yoghurt carton he’d carefully left near the door so as not to forget it. You have to wonder whether he enjoys his little visits to the bins.

Still, I’m not complaining. It’s a chance to get out by the front door each time. And I treasure them.

So I went over to be let out again.

“What, really, you think the snow will have gone? In ten minutes?” 

It hadn’t and he enjoyed having a good snigger at my expense. Smug git.

But I wasn’t so stupid as to think it would just have gone of its own accord. My mistake was putting too much faith in him. Again. He’s the character who can conjure meat out of a tin, without even hunting. I mistakenly imagined getting rid of some nasty cold wet stuff would be child’s play. And I reckoned he’d have done it by then.

Seems not. Magicking food out of the fridge? No problem, apparently. But getting rid of cold wet stuff? Beyond his power. Like putting in cat flaps.

Ah well. I fall for it every time. I expect him to amaze me and, sadly, disappointingly, he always does. Leaving me looking a fool.

But all through his own incompetence.

A tough day. spent minding my own business.
And not noticing the snow