Feline the pressure of the tender savage - or: My feet are not made of catnip
Like most people I tolerate adverts as a perhaps necessary evil. Perfume adverts in particular inspire annoyance for their smugness and faux artiness. A highly-cliched, tired genre, some of them are so pretentious and humourless they could almost be spoofs. Most are dull and repetitive.
Yet every now and again one comes along that I like. As it happens, there's one on TV currently that I like so much I wish I were in it (which, coming from someone who echoes the Bill Hicks view and almost takes it personally when a famous person I like appears in an advert, is saying something). In fact, it's one I would sacrifice all my principles for.
Yes it's po-faced and ostentatious, and yes Emily Blunt's floating breasts command more attention than her acting skills. But it also contains two of my favourite things: Mozart and cats. Or rather, one very big cat.
To the sound of the Lacrimosa section from Mozart's Requiem (one of the most sublime pieces of music ever composed), the actress walks into a sumptuously decorated room (its exotic overtones inspiring vague evocations of opium dens) and makes a bee-line for her bottle of Opium. As she does so, a leopard bows its head and allows her to stroke it, overpowered, no doubt, by the scent of the perfume she's wearing.
Emily Blunt then reclines on a lavish sofa and enjoys another shot of her Opium, closing her eyes in ecstasy. Her perfume isn't just named after a drug, it's so addictive she'll do anything she can to get it. Even tame a leopard for it. She loves her perfume so much not even a big cat can keep her away.
The implication is the perfume makes her powerful and charismatic. In addition, it's so special she needs a big cat to guard it and keep it safe. If it doesn't, who knows what may happen? Opium is dangerous and forbidden; it's no coincidence that the music is associated with death (how fitting that Mozart died while completing this very movement).
Not only that, if this was real life there really would be a requiem mass: that cat would take one look at Emily Blunt and no matter how impressive her breasts, all that would be left of her would be the a few scraps of fabric and a gold chain on the floor, while the leopard licked its chops and asked what's for dessert.
It's all bollocks, of course. The perfume's controversial name is good for publicity, but I won't be buying any, so on that level the advert has failed. What it has done, however, is make me project myself into its world. In my mind it's me swooning on that sofa, while instead of a leopard, my little black cat Vincenzo is a black panther or jaguar.
Which really would be silly, because what makes me laugh about the advert is that while Emily Blunt is able to stroll into the room and remain untouched by the leopard, hardly a day goes by without Chenny making some attempt to bite or scratch me. At least once a week he tries to attack my feet. If it were Chenny guarding the Opium, he'd do it brilliantly: either my feet would be torn to shreds, I'd end up with no feet at all, or I'd be dead.
I know this because his baby-skin soft winter fur is as silky as his teeth and claws are sharp. Not only does Chenny's mouth contain vampire-like fangs, but his perfect paws contain deadly weapons. Created to inflict pain, his claws are like steel razors which rip up skin, sink into flesh, and release dangerous substances straight into the bloodstream, infection harmful not only to birds and vermin, but also to people. Like me.
When Chenny came into my life, I also acquired a cat-shaped shadow. Before he arrived I'd been expecting a pleasant presence around the house and garden, but independent, aloof and disdainful of humans, and probably disinterested in me. The received wisdom was not to make eye contact with cats as they find it threatening, and so I began to spend my first evening with him deliberately not looking in his direction.
But Chenny was having none of it. That first evening as I sat on the sofa he climbed on my knee (something else I wasn't expecting) and made sure I gave him eye contact. Lots of it. If I looked at the television for too long, he'd reach up with his paw, tap me on the chest and gaze imploringly into my eyes. It was as if he was trying to tell me that he was choosing me, staking a claim, forming some sort of imprint on me.
Since that night, we have spent as much time together as is possible for a cat and a person. When I'm at home he's always in the same room: if I'm in my office, he sits on my desk or sleeps on a chair at the top of the stairs. If I sit down for more than a minute, he jumps on my lap. Most nights he sleeps on the bed (unless there's a storm, when he prefers to go downstairs).
Most of the time our relationship is easy-going and affectionate. Chenny is sweet-natured and patient, and is wise enough to turn on the gimmicks with a light touch: the tilted head, dreamy gaze, slow blinks and raised paw always do the trick, while his parted mouth and expressive squeaks border on the flirtatious. Writhing on his back, he'll twist round and hold out his paw with a look that is positively Monroesque (I know!). Then, Muppet-like, he'll take a moment to look down, before raising his gaze and returning to innocence.
Not that he isn't prone to moods. Like anyone, he has his ups and downs. Occasionally, it's like having an angry little black bear in the house, and I feel like that character in A Winter's Tale, who, according to Shakespeare's directions, exits the stage "pursued by a bear". Wikipedia says it is not known whether Shakespeare's company ever used an actual bear (perhaps from the bear pits), or an actor in a costume. They could have used Chenny.
Only recently I was pursued by the Chenny-bear, from the bathroom to the bedroom, in a scene which ended in worrying consequences. And it had all started so well. As usual one morning he was sat on the floor, gazing up at me as I was taking a shower. While I'd find the sight of a giant naked me covered in shower gel terrifying, Chenny doesn't seem to mind in the least.
This is just a prelude. When I get out the shower and reach for a towel, Chenny jumps on the toilet seat and waits for me to sit down with him. If I don't sit down straight away he sits up on his hind legs and stretches out his paw, clawing the air. If I'm within reach, he'll tap me on the hip or on my back. He wants his morning love-in.
This is when he enters Barry White mode. His tail snakes and his body undulates in a series of connecting curves, like a wrought iron filigree gate. He loves the warmth and steam in the room, and the texture of my warm towel. Purring like a motorbike, he cuddles up cub-like, snuggling into me, then gets up and kneads my legs, turning round and round and pushing his head under my chin, before flopping down on his back and gazing up at me.
It's all gorgeous and adorable, but inevitably, I need to get on with my day. This particular morning, I picked him up off my lap, stood up and put him back down on the loo seat.
Big mistake. He was over-stimulated, and I'd cut him off mid-passion. His body tensed in a pre-pounce position, and pupils widely dilated, he stared at my bare feet. Before I could do anything, he launched himself at them, crazy with fury, with a miaow more like a scream. In went his claws like stabbing daggers. I too screamed, like I'd never screamed before in my life.
But Chenny wouldn't let go. Too scared to put my hand where it too could get savaged, I reached for a throw from the bed, and swatted him with it. He let go, and ran off down the stairs, pausing only to look briefly behind him, his ears flared sideways like those tufty feathers on the top of some owls' heads, eyes wild and mouth parted. He was the picture of feral rage.
I was badly shaken. His attack had hurt, and drawn a line of blood. Typically, I couldn't help blaming myself. I should have calmed him down before walking away from his cuddles. However, Chenny had attacked my feet many times before, and little damage had been done then. I put his tendency to regard my plates of meat as if they really were plates of meat down to him being mostly an indoor cat (due to an old injury, Chenny lost his front left leg), and didn't pay much heed to my left foot for the next couple of days. It was only the evening of the day after that I noticed that all was not good with it. Even through thick black tights I could see that it was twice the size of the other.
That night my foot was swollen, red, and burning, like a big red balloon foot that someone had blown up with air (Husband later joked that it looked like a cartoon foot that had been drawn by a child). There was bruising around the bite marks, I couldn't wiggle my toes, which were turning blue, and my temperature was on the increase. The pain made it impossible to sleep and it was agony to walk. At the a&e department of the local hospital there were more sharp points entering my veins as nurses gave me the first dose of antibiotics intravenously, and a tetanus booster. They also sent me away with a course of antibiotics and pain killers to take over the next week.
Before I left, I expressed my surprise that an indoor cat could do so much damage. "Yes," said the nurse. "But cats clean themselves, don't they?"
Ah yes. I'd forgotten about that.
In my head I pictured my blood, crimson and pristine, chugging away through my veins. Now it was infected with toxic venom, the cyanide contained within a silk paw. It wasn't that giant an imaginative leap to rabies, and possible amputation. For a short while I even imagined it was my cat's way of making me legless like him: potty cat woman that I am, I imagined the two of us hobbling around in sympathy with each other. The idea of wearing blades for running even started to appeal (we don't call Chenny Oscar Pusstorius for nothing).
It hasn't come to that. I've kept my foot, and after completing the course of pills, it is now back to normal. But it has struck me that actually, I have as much of a fascination for Chenny's feet as he does mine - although that's not to say I've ever actually tried to eat them. Chenny's paws are awesome, and while I do make a conscious effort to keep my feet looking nice, I probably give Chenny's feet more attention than I give my own - even though he can be as savage with them as he is tender.
Yet every now and again one comes along that I like. As it happens, there's one on TV currently that I like so much I wish I were in it (which, coming from someone who echoes the Bill Hicks view and almost takes it personally when a famous person I like appears in an advert, is saying something). In fact, it's one I would sacrifice all my principles for.
Yes it's po-faced and ostentatious, and yes Emily Blunt's floating breasts command more attention than her acting skills. But it also contains two of my favourite things: Mozart and cats. Or rather, one very big cat.
To the sound of the Lacrimosa section from Mozart's Requiem (one of the most sublime pieces of music ever composed), the actress walks into a sumptuously decorated room (its exotic overtones inspiring vague evocations of opium dens) and makes a bee-line for her bottle of Opium. As she does so, a leopard bows its head and allows her to stroke it, overpowered, no doubt, by the scent of the perfume she's wearing.
Emily Blunt then reclines on a lavish sofa and enjoys another shot of her Opium, closing her eyes in ecstasy. Her perfume isn't just named after a drug, it's so addictive she'll do anything she can to get it. Even tame a leopard for it. She loves her perfume so much not even a big cat can keep her away.
The implication is the perfume makes her powerful and charismatic. In addition, it's so special she needs a big cat to guard it and keep it safe. If it doesn't, who knows what may happen? Opium is dangerous and forbidden; it's no coincidence that the music is associated with death (how fitting that Mozart died while completing this very movement).
Not only that, if this was real life there really would be a requiem mass: that cat would take one look at Emily Blunt and no matter how impressive her breasts, all that would be left of her would be the a few scraps of fabric and a gold chain on the floor, while the leopard licked its chops and asked what's for dessert.
It's all bollocks, of course. The perfume's controversial name is good for publicity, but I won't be buying any, so on that level the advert has failed. What it has done, however, is make me project myself into its world. In my mind it's me swooning on that sofa, while instead of a leopard, my little black cat Vincenzo is a black panther or jaguar.
Which really would be silly, because what makes me laugh about the advert is that while Emily Blunt is able to stroll into the room and remain untouched by the leopard, hardly a day goes by without Chenny making some attempt to bite or scratch me. At least once a week he tries to attack my feet. If it were Chenny guarding the Opium, he'd do it brilliantly: either my feet would be torn to shreds, I'd end up with no feet at all, or I'd be dead.
I know this because his baby-skin soft winter fur is as silky as his teeth and claws are sharp. Not only does Chenny's mouth contain vampire-like fangs, but his perfect paws contain deadly weapons. Created to inflict pain, his claws are like steel razors which rip up skin, sink into flesh, and release dangerous substances straight into the bloodstream, infection harmful not only to birds and vermin, but also to people. Like me.
When Chenny came into my life, I also acquired a cat-shaped shadow. Before he arrived I'd been expecting a pleasant presence around the house and garden, but independent, aloof and disdainful of humans, and probably disinterested in me. The received wisdom was not to make eye contact with cats as they find it threatening, and so I began to spend my first evening with him deliberately not looking in his direction.
But Chenny was having none of it. That first evening as I sat on the sofa he climbed on my knee (something else I wasn't expecting) and made sure I gave him eye contact. Lots of it. If I looked at the television for too long, he'd reach up with his paw, tap me on the chest and gaze imploringly into my eyes. It was as if he was trying to tell me that he was choosing me, staking a claim, forming some sort of imprint on me.
Since that night, we have spent as much time together as is possible for a cat and a person. When I'm at home he's always in the same room: if I'm in my office, he sits on my desk or sleeps on a chair at the top of the stairs. If I sit down for more than a minute, he jumps on my lap. Most nights he sleeps on the bed (unless there's a storm, when he prefers to go downstairs).
Most of the time our relationship is easy-going and affectionate. Chenny is sweet-natured and patient, and is wise enough to turn on the gimmicks with a light touch: the tilted head, dreamy gaze, slow blinks and raised paw always do the trick, while his parted mouth and expressive squeaks border on the flirtatious. Writhing on his back, he'll twist round and hold out his paw with a look that is positively Monroesque (I know!). Then, Muppet-like, he'll take a moment to look down, before raising his gaze and returning to innocence.
Not that he isn't prone to moods. Like anyone, he has his ups and downs. Occasionally, it's like having an angry little black bear in the house, and I feel like that character in A Winter's Tale, who, according to Shakespeare's directions, exits the stage "pursued by a bear". Wikipedia says it is not known whether Shakespeare's company ever used an actual bear (perhaps from the bear pits), or an actor in a costume. They could have used Chenny.
Only recently I was pursued by the Chenny-bear, from the bathroom to the bedroom, in a scene which ended in worrying consequences. And it had all started so well. As usual one morning he was sat on the floor, gazing up at me as I was taking a shower. While I'd find the sight of a giant naked me covered in shower gel terrifying, Chenny doesn't seem to mind in the least.
This is just a prelude. When I get out the shower and reach for a towel, Chenny jumps on the toilet seat and waits for me to sit down with him. If I don't sit down straight away he sits up on his hind legs and stretches out his paw, clawing the air. If I'm within reach, he'll tap me on the hip or on my back. He wants his morning love-in.
This is when he enters Barry White mode. His tail snakes and his body undulates in a series of connecting curves, like a wrought iron filigree gate. He loves the warmth and steam in the room, and the texture of my warm towel. Purring like a motorbike, he cuddles up cub-like, snuggling into me, then gets up and kneads my legs, turning round and round and pushing his head under my chin, before flopping down on his back and gazing up at me.
It's all gorgeous and adorable, but inevitably, I need to get on with my day. This particular morning, I picked him up off my lap, stood up and put him back down on the loo seat.
Big mistake. He was over-stimulated, and I'd cut him off mid-passion. His body tensed in a pre-pounce position, and pupils widely dilated, he stared at my bare feet. Before I could do anything, he launched himself at them, crazy with fury, with a miaow more like a scream. In went his claws like stabbing daggers. I too screamed, like I'd never screamed before in my life.
But Chenny wouldn't let go. Too scared to put my hand where it too could get savaged, I reached for a throw from the bed, and swatted him with it. He let go, and ran off down the stairs, pausing only to look briefly behind him, his ears flared sideways like those tufty feathers on the top of some owls' heads, eyes wild and mouth parted. He was the picture of feral rage.
I was badly shaken. His attack had hurt, and drawn a line of blood. Typically, I couldn't help blaming myself. I should have calmed him down before walking away from his cuddles. However, Chenny had attacked my feet many times before, and little damage had been done then. I put his tendency to regard my plates of meat as if they really were plates of meat down to him being mostly an indoor cat (due to an old injury, Chenny lost his front left leg), and didn't pay much heed to my left foot for the next couple of days. It was only the evening of the day after that I noticed that all was not good with it. Even through thick black tights I could see that it was twice the size of the other.
That night my foot was swollen, red, and burning, like a big red balloon foot that someone had blown up with air (Husband later joked that it looked like a cartoon foot that had been drawn by a child). There was bruising around the bite marks, I couldn't wiggle my toes, which were turning blue, and my temperature was on the increase. The pain made it impossible to sleep and it was agony to walk. At the a&e department of the local hospital there were more sharp points entering my veins as nurses gave me the first dose of antibiotics intravenously, and a tetanus booster. They also sent me away with a course of antibiotics and pain killers to take over the next week.
Before I left, I expressed my surprise that an indoor cat could do so much damage. "Yes," said the nurse. "But cats clean themselves, don't they?"
Ah yes. I'd forgotten about that.
In my head I pictured my blood, crimson and pristine, chugging away through my veins. Now it was infected with toxic venom, the cyanide contained within a silk paw. It wasn't that giant an imaginative leap to rabies, and possible amputation. For a short while I even imagined it was my cat's way of making me legless like him: potty cat woman that I am, I imagined the two of us hobbling around in sympathy with each other. The idea of wearing blades for running even started to appeal (we don't call Chenny Oscar Pusstorius for nothing).
It hasn't come to that. I've kept my foot, and after completing the course of pills, it is now back to normal. But it has struck me that actually, I have as much of a fascination for Chenny's feet as he does mine - although that's not to say I've ever actually tried to eat them. Chenny's paws are awesome, and while I do make a conscious effort to keep my feet looking nice, I probably give Chenny's feet more attention than I give my own - even though he can be as savage with them as he is tender.
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