There are four or five cats that climb in to my (protected) garden. They piss all over the plants and shit all over the place.
I can kill them, yes?
This isn’t a rhetorical question, I’m earnestly serious.
Why the fuck should I be penalised because someone around here can’t control their fucking animals?
These cats obviously aren’t domesticated. If they were domesticated they would piss and shit in the garden of their owner.
These cats need fucking training.
Or they need fucking.
I’ll do it my way then, shall I?
We have a couple of neighbourhood moggies that continually come into our garden to do their business.
Occasionally – usually early morning or late at night – I’ll see one strolling around the garden like they own it.
When this happens, I quietly unlock the back door and tip-toe out, before running full pelt at it in a vain attempt to kick it’s arse before it craps on my garden.
I’ve not caught one yet, but I look forward to one day feeling the satisfying thwack of leather moccasin against furry, pussy arse.
And if that last line doesn’t push you further up the Google rankings, then nothing will!
Hahaha! I too get a slice of satisfaction from surprising the little bastards and putting the fear of Satan in to them. Watching them run up and scarper over high fencing is fun.
And the most common google search term that hits this blog over 100 times a day is ‘Fe*rne Co**on). Really.
You love her, you do.
What I believe is entirely legal is a high pressure jet washer. How legal it is when applied to a cat is debatable but the item itself is not illegal and you could always claim you didn’t see the cat. The one next door but one shits in my garden (front and back), digs up my pathway and buries turds in my flowerbed that I find when I’m planting stuff. The one time my dog escaped from the house and took a dump on their front lawn you’d have thought that I had personally shat through their letterbox the fuss they made. I swear people only get cats so that some other fucker has to pick up their pet’s shite.
The thing is, V, the little fuckers know the’re in the wrong. They only have to see me through the window and they scarper. The chances of hitting them with a high-powered water pistol or jet washer are less than nil. Sadly.
You never know, I thought that but I did once manage to get the little fuck sat on the roof of next door’s shed winding up my dog with a super soaker. Rolled right off the back of the shed roof making a yowling noise. Awesome. And my dad once lost his temper and got a Yorkshire terrier that kept invading his back garden and yapping at the patio doors before retreating out of booting distance square between the eyes with a jacket potato, a shot that I have to say was Olympic standard. We thought he’d killed it, knocked it clean out but it was fine. Did stop coming into the garden though.