The Devil Cat

Before I continue, there were 18 people (2 of them small children) squeezed into my bush taxi, which only has the seating capacity of a minivan. Apparently this is nothing compared to Kate, who usually has 20-25 in hers.

 

There is a devil cat in my compound.  The Devil Cat used to be Rachel's cat, but she left it when she went back to l'Amerique winter 2005.  Apparently, she treated the cat nicely, so nicely, that it expected Danielle to feed and house it, and now it expects me to do the same (FYI, I replaced Danielle, who replaced Rachel, and we've all lived in the same house). Oh, Devil Cat, you are sadly mistaken. Your constant meowing at my front door and somewhat successful attempts to get inside will not be tolerated.

 

Let me describe this cat, whose real name I cannot say here since my family reads this (here's a hint: the name rhymes with Duckcase).  It is mangy and black and white. It is dirty and there's no proof of rabies vaccination (I've gotten mine, but that doesn't protect me against fleas).  It has a tick or a worm coming out of it's head!  It is stupid. I throw rocks at it - yes, rocks, I'm in Africa, get mad if you want, what are you going to do? - and it's starting to get the point. Starting to. It knows when I reach down to pick up a rock, I'm going to throw it at it (no, I never actually want to hit the Devil Cat, but if one should bounce and smack the DC in the side, c'est la vie.), so it starts running away. But it still comes back. Again and again.  You would think that after ONE YEAR, it would understand it's not getting any food or shelter at chez moi. Like Eric Forman's dad on That 70s Show: Dumbass.

 

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Spending Xmas Eve in Garoua. Joyeux Noel and a happy New Year's to everyone. And belated happy birthdays to Emma, Scott, Erica (I'm missing someone else, aren't I? Sorry).