It has taken me far too long to realise this.
They just know things. They know more than we think. They know when I come home late at night that taking refuge underneath the neighbour’s car is the only way to live. Alas, it does me no good. Sure, chasing cats down the street in my two-tonne Falcon is great, and you can sentry the carport as much as you like, but those cocky little fuckers will still use your car to keep those tiny, hairless asterisk arseholes warm the second you look away. You can’t do a thing about it, and they know it.
I’ve often thought about putting some wire mesh over my bonnet and electrifying it, or installing automatic target-seeking shotguns James-Bond-style. A man can dream, but I eventually realised whichever neighbours actually own them may take all this the wrong way.
Yes, my car is an eighteen-year-old shit-box, but it still makes me sad that she’s forever destined to be the arse-hole-warmer for our local assorted felines while she sits in the carport ticking cool. I will never be able to polish the scratches out, also removing hair, muddy paw prints and arse-smudges are a weekly chore. We named the cats so I know which one to refer to when I eventually end one.
Long story short, we will probably get a Dog and end this blatant disrespect for warm cars.