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You know how it is when something bugs you for days and you can’t figure out exactly what it is? Well, yesterday morning I finally solved my own personal conundrum, and I can’t say I’m happy about it.
My cat runs like Mitchell Johnson.
Tiggy (I know, that’s not a name any bloke should have for a pet but I was outvoted, OK?) is a habitual early riser, reaching into her bag of tricks never later than 5.45am. She jumps up and down on the bed, paws at my arm, runs up my back and the like, demanding breakfast just like Kurtley Beale and James O’Connor at an early morning Hungry Jacks stop-off.
And before anyone offers helpful suggestions like leaving the spoiled little princess outside, let me assure you that’s worse. Being a pure-bred Bengal she’s as loud as the Formula One cars will be in a fortnight’s time only one kilometre away from our house, so that tactic only gets the neighbours involved, who, it’s fair to say, would prefer not to be.
So up I get, most mornings a bit foggy-eyed, but on this occasion a little sharper. Aware enough to notice her push off with little quick-fire stutter steps at first, then into her full run by the end of the hallway. A dead ringer for Mitchell Johnson.
At this point the sensible thing would be just to shrug it off as one of those things and feed both her and the other one (more on him shortly) and simply get on with the day. But it’s not everyday you see a cat impersonating an international cricketer, so I do the unthinkable and tap Mrs Allanthus on the shoulder.
Unsurprisingly, her reaction is to pretend I’m not there.
“No it’s not what you think,” I explain. “You need to come and see this.”
“See what?” she asks.
“I can’t really say. You have to actually see it.”
So with a bit more cajoling, a reluctant Mrs Allanthus finally allows me to position her at the end of the hallway with a pack of dry cat food, Tiggy and I at the other end.
“Give it a shake,” I say, to which Tiggy springs into action and runs straight towards her. Exactly like Mitchell Johnson!
“Look at that!” I exclaim.
“At what?” comes the predictable answer.
“C’mon,” I say. “Don’t tell me you don’t know who she runs like. You know who he is.”
“What on earth are you on about?” she says, heading back to bed, in a manner suggesting that the next time I tap her on the shoulder again in bed – for any reason – had better be a long, long time into the future.
As the day wore on I became less happy about the situation. Not because I’d made Mrs Allanthus grumpy for getting her out of bed unduly, but because… well, why did it have to be Mitchell Johnson? With that stupid, pitter-patter run, all about showing off his tatts rather than resembling a graceful athlete?
Why couldn’t Tiggy copy a bowler with a decent run up? Like Alan Donald? Shane Bond? Even Brett Lee? That would be more like it. Something which I could tell my golf mates about proudly, instead of having to be embarrassed about it.
It’s not that I hate Mitchell Johnson, because I don’t. But, at the same time, maybe it’s all the old stuff with his mum, maybe it’s the Ivan Milat ‘mo’, maybe the over the top agro, I don’t know… but, I just wish it wasn’t him.
I don’t blame Tiggy of course, it’s not her fault that I left the cricket on the TV all summer and exposed her to the big left-handed paceman so much so that she’s modelled her style on him. But I’ve put a call into the vet to see if he has any ideas about how I might be able to de-program her. In a humane way of course.
I’ve also sent a message to Brendon McCullum, to give him some ammo in case Johnson tries to touch him up with some short stuff in Auckland. How cool would it be to see Johnson standing mid-pitch, glaring at McCullum after sending down a searing bouncer, and have McCullum fire back at him, “hey Mitch, you run just like Allanthus’ cat!”
Thinking back, it’s actually quite normal to do impersonations of famous sportspeople. Many a late, boozy night at Otago University we would be meandering home along Castle Street, Dunedin, each trying to outdo each other with the best Richard Hadlee run up we could muster.
My mate Charlie never failed to crack all of us up with his impression of Auckland left-armer Gary Troup. So to be fair, I can hardly be a hypocrite and blame the cat for following suit.
Tiggy enjoyed the run of the house until recently when another cat parked himself underneath our bedroom, howling and wasting away until three weeks later we couldn’t stand it any more and gave in and fed him.
A vet check failed to throw up a tattoo or registration so this little fella too joined the Allanthus household, where he was named Kwazii. Four months later and he’s not so little anymore, eating like a horse morning and night, jumping from three kilgorams to four in less than four weeks, and then some more, with his neck virtually disappearing into a mass of muscle.
In fact, Kwazii’s become such a solid unit that I couldn’t resist lifting him off the couch and putting him through the test run down the hallway.
And blow me down if he doesn’t run just like the spitting image of… Ben Tameifuna!