Heavenly Beverley : In the Jungle, the Mighty Jungle, the Lion SNEAKS Tonight...

I must start by offering Mr Elton John my profound apologies for altering the lyrics of this great song from the "Lion King".

However, there is a very good reason for the title of this post. Madame Cat has become a force of nature that belies her small stature.

Two weeks ago, an abscess was discovered on her Majesty's back, which resulted in surgery, two really attractive drains (she looked rather like a fearsome Pacific Islander with a bone piercing her anatomy), the horror of twice-daily antibiotics, a hefty outlay of cash and confinement within the walls of Stalag 13.

This situation is wearing thin for all concerned.

Occasionally we fling open the door of her dungeon - our bedroom - sprint to close the laundry door before she can escape through the dog door, boot the Beagle up her clacker as she attacks the Cat's food and/or the litter tray before we lift them off the ground and hope Pip doesn't piddle everywhere as a result of extreme anxiety,

Her Fickle Felineness then prowls the house, searching for any escape routes we may have inadvertently forgotten. Eventually, she gives up the hunt and returns to the Inner Sanctum, climbs back up onto our bed and scowls savagely at the known universe to express her displeasure.

However, the nights are the times that we suffer the full fury of her malevolence. Remembering that Madame Ruby is only a four-kilo cat, she has been able to inflict grievous injuries to both of us, but in particular to Michael's nose. Trapped with her in our bedroom, she takes great delight in hopping off our bed on multiple occasions during the darkest hours to attend to stuffing her face, noisily lapping a drink or attending to her ablutions in the litter tray.

The strife begins when she climbs back up onto our bed to torment us. We know she has poor vision in one eye. Hence she no longer jumps on and off the bed. She uses the quilt to haul herself up and down. Woe betides if any part of ourselves is outside the bed covers. Like Michael's upper arm or his nose.

Twice, she has attached her claws to these available accessories to the quilt in order to complete her ascent onto the bed. The result has been a hearty bellow of F*#K exploding from Michael's lips as his body is used as a convenient ladder.

And that's not all. She then takes great delight in lying across as much space as possible - between our legs, between us or the majority of the bottom half of the bed. All whilst she deftly kneads the covers, obviously hoping to cause the maximum amount of dread in us during the dead of night.

The other really fun exercise we have endured is treating her for constipation. Last Wednesday we dropped by the vet to ask if they had a laxative treatment for the cat. "How do you know she's constipated?" was the obvious question. My response was "Well the sour expression on her face and that she hasn't done a pooh in days!"

The advice was to give her a laxative paste the exact colour of pooh and to increase her liquids. The paste was smeared all over the interior of her Helmut of Shame (which she did consume) and we left out a plate of yoghurt which she likes for an addition to her fluid intake. I ended up spooning it in the general direction of her mouth after first she walked through the yoghurt and then sat in it.

Give me strength.

Since Thursday, I fear there have been no more pooh ejecting from her bum, but I don't know if I have the stamina for another laxative assault.

And of course, the Problem Child may have snaffled this delicacy when I wasn't looking, so I refuse to become too concerned.

Monday, the Cat returns for suture and Helmut of Shame removal. We are currently fantasising for the moment we return home. We intend to place the cat carrier in front of the door to the Wild Blue Yonder and then open the cage to release her Royal Ferality.

As long as Michael and I both survive until then...