The Archive

The catflap of doom

Apparently there's a cat in a nursing home that spookiliy predicts when residents are about to die.

As the story says, Oscar has been at the bedside of more than 25 residents shortly before they died.

This leads me to a number of possible conclusions...

1. The cat is not supernatural, but is actually killing the old people himself. I don't know why he would do this, but then again, I am not a cat, nor a murderer, so why should I?

2. The cat is investigating the deaths, following the actual murderer, much like Jonathan and Jennifer Hart (whose friends died so frequently I still think someone should take a look at their numerous alibis a bit more closely).

3. The cat lives in a nursing home. People tend to die in nursing homes. The cat walks into and out of every room, every day. The rest is just statistics.

Of course, I am just a cynic. As scientist and cat expert Thomas Graves is quoted as saying, " I think probably dogs and cats can sense things we can't".

Um, but then he is also quoted as saying "there is no evidence to suggest cats can sense death"

Bit confused are we Thomas?

I'd say so. After all, his first quote, on learning of the kitty's deathstalker tendencies is, "That is such a cat thing to do."

No Mr Graves. Vomiting little balls of hair is a cat thing to do.

Rubbing against your legs as you're trying to walk downstairs with a large, awkward box is a cat thing to do (hmm, add one to the killer cat theory).

Sitting on the lap of the one person in the room who really, really hates cats is a cat thing to do.

Predicting the future is not. It is a thing done by cynical journalists, scary old ladies and gypsies who've run out of scruffy heather to jam unwanted into your pocket.

I do, however, love two things from this story.

First, the caption to the picture that accompanies the story. 'Oscar the doomcat'. Brilliant.

Even better is the idea that thanks to this story, all the crumblies in the home start to crap themselves whenever that cat walks into the room.

No. Not you. Please. I'm not ready. I haven't seen my third grandchild born. Here, take this tin of tuna. I'll get you some nip. Anything please I'll do anything. Just give me a few more hours.

Still, I guess when it's your time, it's your time. After all, have you ever seen a cat play chess?

And on that note, goodbye Ingmar. And Mike for that matter.

Wow, that cat really gets around.

posted by Peter The Great @ 9:13 PM