A few years ago a feral ginger tom cat took up residence, firstly in our backyard and subsequently in the back shed.

Fortunately our unwanted and uninvited visitor ignored ‘Tom’, our house cat and vice versa. Peace and tranquility reigned for quite some time.

Then, one morning all hell broke out in the kitchen.

The cause, the ginger cat had discovered the cat flap in the laundry and entered the house, found Tom’s breakfast food and helped himself.

In the process of course, being a tom cat, the ginger intruder had marked every available object the way tom cats are prone to do.

Our house cat objected physically and there were clumps of fur all over the place.

After quite a chase inside the house and the inevitable scratches and the odd nip, the unwanted guest was captured, caged and taken to the local pound.

Would they accept the ginger cat. No way. The response from the staff was simply, leave the cat in the yard and it will eventually go somewhere else.

Now feral cats are a problem everywhere, they destroy native fauna and if not desexed multiply and create more havoc.

So, we decided to take the errant  feline to the local vet, have him immunised, desexed and micro chipped so we could safely adopt him.

Eventually the new arrival, now named ‘Ginger’ for some unknown reason, settled in, became reluctant mates with Tom and became accustomed to being house bound during the night.

The years have slipped by and now our debate about Ginger revolves around the question of whom owns whom in Cassa Creakingbones?

I thought this image might answer that question.


Hoo roo for now.


For some reason or other, many of my mates have suddenly discovered poetry and, with great gusto,  have added a poet’s handbook to their communication bag of tricks.

Not wishing to be left out of the mix I thought that today, just once, I’d try my hand at writing poetry but confess that the result can only be described as ‘doggerel’ but never the less, here it goes:-

It seems to me that poetry,

is now the only place to be

cause all my mates, it’s what they’ve chose

and most of it is on the nose.


Some just don’t rhyme , so,

perhaps its time

to dump the pen till Christmas time.


Some wrote of heaven, some of hell

their stories somehow didn’t gell

I much preferred ‘Poor Little Nell’

in fact I memorised it well.


Then ‘Poor Little Angeline’

soon became my heroine

then add a limerick, why not three

politically correct,  I’ll never be

and that’s the only ‘poetry’,

you’ll ever, ever get from me.


Hoo roo for now.