I don’t
know if you’re a pet lover or not, and the ownership of a domestic animal tends
to polarise people. There are cat lovers and cat haters, the same for dogs. The
latter often form breed-related splinter groups, too.
The N-o-T
family are a bit more laid back. We like dogs AND cats, and fish, and gerbils,
and all the other animals we’ve owned since the offspring were small. We don’t
go all gooey over them, but we genuinely like them, and they always contribute
something to our daily lives. The “something” can, of course, be a good or a
bad “something”…
A series of
cats and dogs, the demise of our faithful Labrador cross, and a small black
kitten came into our lives. He was the only animal we’ve ever owned who managed
to acquire three names: George (the one he came with), Lebowski (the one son#2
thought we should give him) and Cat (because TH didn’t like the other two).
A loving
and lovable little soul, his short life was ended by a car whilst I was in
Nowhere-in-France over the summer. He left a big hole, and when TH had to call
and break the news to me, his voice was quavering. Now, TH is a singularly
undemonstrative person, so to hear him so emotional was a surprise. He’d formed
a real bond with the small boy, and the loss hit him hard.
By the time
I returned, TH’s birthday was imminent. As he’s what is popularly termed “difficult
to buy for”, I thought he might like to have another cat to fill the void left
by the late Cat. A small ad online found a litter of kittens not far from us. I
arranged a visit.
Son #2
drove me to the house. On the way, I clearly remember saying “Under no
circumstances let me get carried away and come back with more than one kitten”.
Upon our arrival, and upon seeing the two small boys that were available, I
couldn’t decide what to do. “Oh, I think they’re both adorable” I said “Mum,
remember what you said in the car” said son#2, wisely. “Shut up, I’ll take them
both” I said. And before I realised quite what I’d done, we were in the car
with a brace of kittens.
OH was
initially delighted, and was given the honour of naming them, largely because
they were supposed to be his birthday present. Bill and Ben. Bill is entirely
black, Ben has small splashes of white on his back paws. All our animals tend
to be black, although we made an exception for the gerbils.
It started
badly, and got worse. Ben quickly turned out to have psychopathic tendencies.
He bit through my nail bed when I tried to pick him up (after, of course,
having observed the settling-in period where I left them both to acclimatise
and settle down). I only tried once more in the early days, and was left
looking as if I’d been self-harming. It’s fear, not aggression, but three
months down the line, he’s only a tiny bit better. Luckily, Bill is The Good Cat, and has none
of his brother’s murderous tendencies. Nevertheless, there’s something about
walking into a room and finding two sets of eyes boring into your soul that can
be disconcerting. I think we should have called them Ronnie and Reggie…
Psycho Ben, sticking his tongue out at the world
Bill: Did I tell you he was laid back?
There have,
to date, been two vet visits, for their jabs, and on both occasions, catching
Ben has been an experience I would prefer not to repeat. But repeat I must, and
have had to this week. The Time Had Come for the boys to lose a small but
intimate part of their anatomy.
I made the
vet appointment and spent a week in psychological preparation for what I knew
was to come. Maybe it was this preparation that worked in my favour, but at
7.30 a.m. I was locked in mental combat with Ben, him sporting a look that
spelled “bloodshed” and me sporting a thick jumper, sheepskin gloves and a bath
sheet. The training paid off, and I managed to get him into the cat carrier
with less fuss than usual. Bill was most compliant and took no time at all. We
were off!
I deposited
the boys at the vet, and went off with a lighter heart. A short while later,
they called to say that the two operations had gone well, and that I should
present myself at the surgery after luch to pick them up. You may get a feel
for the magnitude of the Ben Problem if I explain that I’d asked them to put
his collar on whilst he was under the anaesthetic.
I presented
myself at the appointed time, and was handed the two boys, complete with
lampshades to stop them from licking their wounds. This Spelled T R O U B L E.
I could feel it in my water.
We got home
safely, and Bill exited his carrier looking decidedly piqued. Ben, meanwhile,
sulked at the back of his, and refused to leave. I left them to sort themselves
out. Minutes later, Bill appeared, sans lampshade, and I had to find it, find
him and reunite them, which was clearly not something he had had in mind.
Still, he’s not the psychopath, so it was OK. A spot of wrestling and I’d
secured it back on.
I thought I’d
better clean and prepare their litter tray, so off I went to sort that out, and
I was just leaving the utility room when I spotted Ben, the lampshade flapping
from his neck and a murderous expression on his face, trying to run away before
I could see him. I’d seen him. He knew.
His fatal
mistake was to make a run for the kitchen, a room with no hiding place. I
followed and shut the door. There we were…me with heart pounding and no backup,
him with collar flapping and no place to run. Standoff. I knew he was
frightened, but something had to be done. I grabbed him. He demonstrated, by
the use of his bowels, that he was scared and angry. Great. Still, I could only
feel a bit of blood dripping from my chin, and the loose flap of skin on my
hand wasn’t too much. I’ve suffered worse. Don’t ask me how I managed, but I
succeeded in detaching the hand towel from its holder and in bandaging it
around the cat, who had frozen in my arms. I slid to the kitchen floor, heart
banging like a kettle drum, and tried to sound calm and soothing. Who was I
trying to kid? There we sat, on the kitchen floor for several minutes, until we
reached a silent understanding. I reattached the collar and gently let go, and Ben shot off into hiding in the only enclosed place in the entire kitchen area….the
litter tray. Oh, great!
I left him
to it. The litter tray was clean, and my nerves were shot. Bill was fine, his
collar was still in place, and…oh, fantastic…he was lying on the floor licking
his stitches in spite of the collar. I knew The Samaritans would be useless in
this situation, so I rang the Vet. “We can give you a bigger collar” they
suggested, and then I remembered I had one that I’d kept from Cat. Cue another
wrestling session as poor Bill, wearing his best “What did I ever do to you?”
expression, was parcelled into a second lampshade.
Brief pause.
Then I realised that Bill seemed to want to use the bathroom, only his brother
was in residence and showing no signs of leaving. “No problem” I thought, and
made up another litter tray. Then I made a cup of tea, and sat down to gather
my wits, and nerves and apply a spot of ointment to my wounds.
Bill, much
refreshed from his visit to the facilities, appeared in the doorway. And with
him came a rather unpleasant odour. He’d managed to use the second litter tray,
but somehow, as he wasn’t quite used to his new neckwear, he’d scraped up half
the tray’s contents, along with what he’d deposited in there, and was now
wearing them around his neck.
All this
was two days ago. Things have settled down a bit. Ben is being almost friendly,
Bill is looking miserable but resigned, and I have to take both of them back to
the vet tomorrow for their post-op checkup.
I really
miss those gerbils.
