Author: eklastic

Zu alt, um nur zu spielen. Zu jung, um ohne Wunsch zu sein.

Henry is on notice

Henry might undergo an official name change if he doesn’t change his behaviour. He has taken to bite me – not just the caressing love bites of yore but he bites and draws blood. Without any warning – I’d be stroking him and he goes from “yes, I luuuuuve what you doing with your hand” to “geroff me NOW!”.

If he keeps this up he will be “Sharky, the tomcat formerly known as Henry”. Try me!


(this last line is Henry’s commentary, he is lying across my wrists and pressing keys on the keyboard)

PS: Only blurred pics available of Henry in action.


Eggs and bunnies – what’s not to like?

What looks like just an interested cat who just wants to be part of the Easter brunch decoration is a willful misrepresentation on Henry’s part. His interest in Christmas trees and baubles is marginal, flower posies hold his interest for only a little while and is hardly ever destructive, but Easter is something else. He loves Easter decorations!

I’ve already replaced the colourful blown eggs with styrofoam eggs. The ceramic bunnies have necklaces where the heads had to be glued back on and the new ones are made of wood. The vase contains no water and holds a dry arrangement of artificial forsythias and catkins.

Henry loves eggs, loves to lick them, loves to kick them from the table, loves to fight with them on the floor, loves to bat them when they hang from twigs, loves chewing the twigs, loves to push over the vase with the twigs, artificial or otherwise. I have no idea if it’s the bright, lighter colours that go with spring or less sparkle and gleam that attracts him or if he is more frisky at this time of year.

We are careful with the Christmas decorations each year (remembering Easter) and are pleasantly surprised that he leaves them more or less alone. Come Easter and we think we can try again with our now more mature Henry. We live and learn (not).

Establishing Hierarchy

Every night when I start cooking, I have Henry’s complete attention. He watches my every move. He tries to get up on the counter to check out if there is anything for him there. He might try more than once. When he doesn’t get what he wants he retires to his box on the ironing board from where he keeps watching me across the room.

Today I was making a bolognese sauce and I put a little bit of beef mince to the side with Henry in mind. When the sauce was bubbling on the stove, and I had cleaned the counter top I put the mince in one of his dishes. He gave me the beady eye. I was expecting him to jump down and come closer. He didn’t twitch. I lifted the dish and waved it. He remained stony-faced. I started to lower it. Still no reaction. I finally put it down in the usual spot where he eats his food. He stayed in his box.

He ate it later, when I wasn’t watching. No way would he admit that I have some kind of power over him. If only through food.


I had my camera with me in class today for a project and when I was just getting ready to use it I did a double take. Had Henry followed me all the way to school? Impossible. It’s his doppleganger!

Why don’t I just give him a bell?

Having a family member who works irregular hours creates havoc with catsipline! Henry used to ask for his food pretty much every morning at 7 o’clock, give or take a few minutes depending on the sunrise and weather. It took some effort to make him understand that patience is a virtue and that his humans are not appreciative of being woken at the crack of dawn but he had accepted this principle, more or less.

Since our son has started to work different shifts and on some days gets up at 5 am and on other days I am the first one up at 7.30 am, Henry has decided that if his humans practice anarchy then he will, too. He goes and comes as he pleases, sometimes at midnight, sometimes at 2 am, sometimes even later. And breakfast whenever he feels like it, basically anytime between 4.30 and 6.30am. And he is NOT taking no for an answer, making such a racket outside the bedroom door leading in the garden that is difficult to ignore. Or, if he is already inside, he knows exactly how to bump his head in my face that gets me awake and at the same time all gooey because I know it’s how cats express their love. He’s toying with me, and I still do what he wants me to do.

How to Make a Dutch Oven

With the cold weather Henry has very much shut down most activities and found a new purpose in life. He has become my duvet closing clamp. He makes himself as loooooooooong as possible to make sure that no air is coming out at the bottom of the duvet, nor that any of my feet can stick out. He looks very much like one of those door draft stoppers. I almost needed to go to panoramic view on my camera to get all him in the photo.

I’ve been dethroned

Henry used to snuggle on my hands and arms until they were numb. He used to come to me for food first although my husband fed him just as often. He used to sleep on my side of the bed, right at the edge.

Guess what? This all has changed in the last month or two. It means I sleep in later (ha!) and I really didn’t begrudge my husband the added attention.

Until today when I found them both napping together.

What have his feet got that I haven’t?

He loves me! 💖

And I’ve got proof!

I fed Henry some of his favourite chewy treats. He was wolfing them down and when one was left I bent down towards him and made slurping noises as if I was going to gobble it up myself. Henry looked up quizzically, stared at me and then backed off. He was going to share his treat!

Needless to say I didn’t eat it.

Henry and the mice

Henry is seriously puzzled, it seems.

Apparently, I don’t appreciate enough what he brings me. So he can’t tell what I like. Hence he brought a different kind of mouse every night this week: a normal sized grey one on Tuesday. a fat white one on Wednesday, a thin brown one on Thursday, and a miniature brownish-grey tonight.

Maybe I should start making more of a fuss when he comes in with his special little miaow and a – hopefully – dead mouse.

Henry and the mouse

Yesterday Henry brought us his first mouse of the year. He took it straight to the guest toilet and we closed the door as we thought that the better option to having a mouse run wild in our flat. When Henry wanted out, we let him and searched for the little beasty. No mouse. We cleared the room (it’s not that big after all). No mouse. We checked the cat toilet. No mouse. We checked behind the toilet brush, behind the small shelf, behind and in the bucket with the cleaning products. NO MOUSE.

Henry thought otherwise. He laid himself in the doorway and kept watch. Whenever one of us passed he told us about the mouse. Although we tried to convince him that there was no mouse, he stayed adamant. And would not budge. We searched the little room again. We took all movable furniture out. I took the opportunity and mopped the floor. There was no mouse.

Until there was a mouse. And Henry caught it and was very proud. And smug.

We will never doubt him again.