“Yeah, well, I’m a wide boy, innit….masseeeve!”
You can almost hear Biff say it….. you CAN actually hear Biff say ‘Mmmmraaaaek!’ all the way up the stairs when he comes in, announcing his presence until someone comes to greet him. Then the word changes. ‘MHEM!’ he says, as close as he can get to saying ‘ham’.
Yes he gets his ham – and ‘white ham’ aka sliced chicken.
No we don’t get it for ourselves, only for the cats.
Yes we are insane.
Enough questions, already, let me get back to a Biffography.
Biff is convinced that he is a black panther. He is also convinced that he is the alpha male of the neighbourhood and I don’t just mean cats. This has led to some nasty abscesses from taking on both Leo and Max across the road both at once and from the fox.
He has a down on greyhounds and whippets – one was set on him once and he has never forgiven the entire breed – and will chase them. Other dogs he just expects to kow tow to him.
He expects pole position by the fire on his cushion and he expects to occupy any place he feels like. Even the tortoise shelter.
Oh and the comfy chair? It’s his chair. He carried it home.
Well he met me at the top of the hill and walked home with me, sitting on it firmly every time I put it down for a rest. So he claims he carried it home….
Like any good wide boy, Biff likes to go out for a takeaway.
When this consists of woodpigeon or collared dove there is no real problem – apart from the feathers – but when he has a magpie it upsets his innards. Biff eats everything he catches; he lived the first two years of his life semi feral and his ma taught him to hunt for real, not footling around at it like softer cats.
I have been told by a neighbour that she doesn’t mind him keeping the pigeon population down, she just wishes he would not bury the feet and beak in her dahlias. He has been known to bring in the remains and drop in the lit tray; well I guess it is there for waste.
Why Biff? Well we did not name him, he had been lumbered with the monicker ‘Salem’ in the shelter when he was taken there, and his first dad named him Biff for his habit of poking a boxer-like paw into his face to point out it was breakfast time. We inherited him and didn’t think he needed a name change. It suits him too well. He is always the one in pole position by the fire; the pic below shows him on HIS cushion firmly keeping Griselda [died this February] in her place.
I’m not sure sometimes he shouldn’t be surnamed Kray.