Issue 290 - TAXI Newspaper

More readers than the rest put together! 3 APRIL 2013 | TAXI 35
Licensed to Chat
MUSHER MEG
CLAW BLIMEY
THAT HURTS
A slow moving rescue mission ends painfully for Mr Meg who is attacked by a snooty pet
Our cat, Kitty, is 12 years old
and has steadily got slower
and sleepier over the years,
but she still has the same snooty
attitude she had as a kitten. Her
perpetual expression is one that
seems to ask “how come I ended up
with this dumb bunch of humans?”
When my cab is parked on the
front drive, Kitty likes a daytime
doze on the roof. Me closing the
front door, and rattling my keys, is
her cue to slide down the
windscreen and onto the bonnet,
before doing an elegant roll off the
front, followed by a four legged
scissor step into the nearby bushes.
I’m on nodding terms with most
of my neighbours; but I was
surprised when I started off to work
yesterday, and two of them
gesticulated frantically in my
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direction. I was barely at the bottom
of the street when another crossed in
front of me, stabbed a finger at my
cab and mouthed, “bat!”
“OUR CAT’S PERPETUAL
EXPRESSION IS ONE THAT
SEEMS TO ASK, HOW COME I
ENDED UP WITH THIS DUMB
BUNCH OF HUMANS?
”
I hate bats. I am convinced that, if
I ever got close to one of the
bloomin’ things, it would dive bomb
my hair and set up home in there,
breeding baby bats in my curls.
Convinced that I had been told there
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was a bat on my cab roof I did an
emergency stop and called Mr Meg
to come and rescue me.
I was only a few hundred yards
from home, yet it took him 18
minutes to respond to my
emergency. My Batman had clearly
polished off his bowl of Honey Nut
Cornflakes at a leisurely pace, before
responding to my desperate plea for
help. I know this because there was
one stuck between his front teeth
and he had a
milk trail down
his chin.
I opened the
driver side
window, just a
sliver, in case the
bat was waiting
to pounce, and
before I could
explain the
problem he said
“why is our Kitty
on the roof of
your taxi?”
CAT? BAT? It’s
an easy mistake to
make, isn’t it? Mr
Meg leaned in to
tell me that I was
“stoopid”, when the
cat (which was by
now super-spooked)
leapt from the roof of
the cab onto his head.
Kitty buried her
front claws into
the side of his
forehead and
back claws into the nape of his neck.
Shock, doesn’t begin to describe
the look on Mr Meg’s face. He was
now wearing a live Davy Crockett
hat, which was drawing blood. He
raised his arms to try and prise Kitty
off, but she yelped, and sank her
claws deeper in.
It took a lot of “ows” and “ouches”,
along with a generous helping of
bleeps and a bit of gentle head
banging on the bonnet - Mr
Meg’s, not the cat’s, no
animals were
harmed in the
production
of this
column -
before
Kitty
finally
relaxed her
grip and slid
down his
shoulder. With a
little shake she
composed herself,
gave the two of us
one of her best “dumb
humans” stares and
strolled off in the
direction of our home,
leaving Mr Meg
bleeding and in need of
a puncture repair kit for
the holes in his head.
There must be a moral
somewhere in this tale,
but I haven’t a clue what
it is; just don’t tell me
I’m bats! n
UNIT 14 PETERLEY BUSINESS CENTRE
472 HACKNEY ROAD LONDON E2 9EQ