Scent of a Cat

Has he elegance? Has he fragrance?

Not remotely. He isn`t Mary Archer, he`s a raggy-arsed nineteen-year-old (at least 8000 in cat) who`s begun to smell like the corpses of all the tiny critters he`s despatched over the years.

Why? 

He always used to groom fastidiously and constantly; he`s still bendy and suffers no arthritic achings...  But these days he`ll have an occasional swipe of face and front paws, then go for a nice lie down.  

Naturally (isn`t it?) he`s always exuded the fumes of hell when he`s breathed on you (from your knee or from the end of the garden); now he reeketh from every pore. Most Unnaturally.

We are what we eat, it is said, and as he plunges further into decrepitude, what he eats becomes ever more unsettling.

Not for Spartapus (guess George`s favourite film) the bowl of Kitty-splatt and those treats with the meeelting centre. He`ll have Tinned Tuna in Sunflower-oil-not-Brine… maybe a couple of thin slices of Sandwich Beef or some spicy Polish Sausage…

After one minute at these delicacies, he stops shovelling and starts Yowling.  He`s not hungry - he`s The Devil.  

"Look in your bowls, evil cat" (we cry) – "you`ve got eight kinds of flesh and some of my Greek yoghurt – we have nothing else to give you!"

He stares unblinking as we sit down to tea and his message is clear: OK - I`ll have what you`re having. 

So we sacrifice chunks of our chicken and he graciously nibbles at them. Briefly.

I pander to his every whim because I feel his pain of downsizing to a tiny garden, and then of losing his twin sister last year. (Though Honestly - they were hardly speaking towards the end…). 

Anyway, if treating the eating is hopeless, can we at least cure his sulphurous aroma that is now seeping from the very walls!

The pet-shop man suggested a Dry Shampoo for wet-averse cats.  I was as thrilled as when they invented Shake n` Vac – would this work as well on the cat as it did back then on my T-shirts?  

 

Acquainted with his claws, George and I plunged positively into the fray wearing ski-gear and protective head-buckets.  Back-comb his fur, the nice man at the pet-shop had said, and rub the powder in with your fingertips. 

I gingerly waved the bottle of powder under Spartapus`s nose, expecting retaliation.  Instead he seemed to inhale, taking a moment to savour it with a look of Hmm, Not Bad...

So we showered him liberally and drily, rubbed it all over and mopped it off with a warm damp cloth.  And he looked FAB.

Had he Fragrance?

Not really.  But we`ve managed three more successful applications and we`re optimistic about the future if we stick to his treatment. 

Silly as it sounds, though, we are slightly concerned now about some kind of contagion...

The other night we popped into The Two Heads and were greeted with, "There you are - a pint and a Pinot Grigio, and - Bloody Hell! - what have you two been eating?"

Cruel for Cats

‘Is he OK now, your cat?’ she asked, hurrying across the road as we came home the other day.

Well, not really… but he’s always been like that.

It transpired, though, that this woman had noticed a cat hooked by the claw in one of our front net curtains.   (Yes all right - Nets!   But we’re a handspan from a very busy pavement, and I like to keep our sordid goings-on to ourselves, thank you)!

Anyway, probably-Scully had apparently been struggling to unleash herself for aeons, and the concerned cat-lover had come over and rung the bell to alert us. With no answer, she’d crunched across our bit of gravel to the window to
sympathise. 

And Loh! With one bound the cat was free!

Instant terror at the unexpected Looming of anyone Not-Us had instantly done the trick!     
(We're hoping to get her down and reunite her with the toe very soon).

So that’ll be another on our little-sweetie-cats’ long list of sufferings since we cruelly transplanted them to this Completely Unsuitable dwelling. With practically NO garden! 

Scully doesn’t even deem our patch worthy of a stroll in.

Mulder has valiantly found he fits snugly into an old black cooking pot by the weeping cherry. (With which he seems to feel an empathy).
Gazing out from the tree's sad danglings, he dreams tormentedly of the old days – the neighbour’s vegetable patch (his loo of choice), the stream at the bottom of  the garden full of sparkly swimmy things, the bushes overrun with tiny tasty rodents…

Now both poor dispirited specimens resort to sleeping (all day) in the sun-drenched bay window, grumpily accepting generous comments of passers-by, for surely they are ‘so sweet and gorgeous, Mavis - probably very young don’t you think…?’

In fact, Mavis, they’re seventeen and molly-well coddled...

Hark! Could that be the agonised howl of a cat desiring to come in immediately? Or that, the pained expression of one desperately needing a dollop of whatever we’re having for tea instead of Not flaming kittychunks again? And could we STOP plumping the settee back into shape, because they’ve spent hours getting the cushion concavity just right…

They seek solace in a hitherto unknown diversion  – TV.   If George and I are watching, we now squeeze onto the settee with both cats. Mulder particularly loves David Attenborough or Anything with birds - his head follows their flappings like a tennis match.

But it’s slightly worrying that only their heads are getting exercised; in the past they always worked hard to stay in shape...

What can we do to reinvigorate their lives, once more to see their merry, appreciative faces prancing in from The Tree and CookingPot for dinner?

It might take a while...

And Now! (at last - I couldn't make it work...) for the results of Canary Islander's painstaking Research (see his comment May 2nd):-

Splendid, CI - Thank You!

Cat Worrying

Does your cat worry? Does it get tense… ? Nervous headaches?

Or is your cat just bonkers?





Recently we were out gallivanting all day and half the night – (I know - call us WILD!!) – so feeding times were in disarray.

Arriving home we found Mulder-Cat glaring at us from the top step, the protest giblets of a vole arranged at his feet. Scully, trapped inside with only KittyCrunch to nibble, burst to freedom as we let ourselves wearily in. We found that she had enthusiastically emptied her bladder with only her head inside the covered cat tray: ‘Looks nice in there – think I’ll have a pee…’.

But why? She’d never done it before – did she have something on her mind; had she drunk too much KittyMilk and not quite made the little jump required? Was it retaliation for being shut in or – most terrifying – was she… Confused?

After all, the cats are fifteen now – brother and sister twins. Wikipedia says that’s 76 in cat years. And that a cat’s expected lifespan is twelve to fifteen years… have they been reading it too?

In fact Mulder has always been confused. Not incontinently - he just forgets everything he’s ever learnt…

His morning patrol begins with an ecstatic Surge out of the back door then a screech to a halt as a leaf settles close by… A tentative sniff and poke of every plant pot, step, and car wheel - if he’s not careful, any one of them could take a bloody big swipe at him!

Both cats have always been rationally scared of things like traffic… Or the vacuum cleaner - I mean who wouldn’t be concerned about a voracious roaring tube that could have had my flaming ear off, that could!  

Next door’s new puppy was also understandably scary - it got into our garden and bounded joyously after Scully to say Hello. D’you know, she’d never managed to climb the maple tree before… And it was a Hell of a long time before we could make her let go. 

But recently, they’re scared of anything, including us – getting them to come across the threshhold for FOOD is like trying to entice them across a lake of piranhas. Have they forgotten who’s been feeding them for fifteen years? What do they think we’re putting in it – fur-balls?

We started to wonder if there was an evil spirit in the (very spacious & comfy!) room we shut them in at night so they don’t wake us up. We’d usher them in and they’d shoot up onto a table, or perch death-defyingly on the mantelpiece. (Did anyone ever see that film of olden times where they force a maid back into the attic with the fearsome phantom? Our cats had that same stricken look).

So, they chose to stay out, and during the whole summer we only caught fleeting glimpses of them as they snatched a quick bite from under the outside table. Didn’t they Love us any more…? (‘Course not – they’re cats).

A couple of weeks ago, though, the night-time temperature dropped to zero. We noticed them hanging around on the steps as darkness deepened, doing the cat equivalent of nonchalant ball-kicking – 'well… if you really want us to come in I suppose…'

And once I’d achieved that first Grab round the throat and Haul into living room, they remembered all their old habits! One on my knee, one on the floor by the radiator, the brush-before-bedtime, the consoling tin of tuna after worming…

It’s been wonderful – real cuddly pets again - perhaps we would take them when we moved after all!

And then they go and Spoil it All by crotting in the conservatory plant trough. I'd just RePlanted that plant trough!

Actually, anyone have shed-space for a couple of daring vole-hunters...?

The Chainsaw of Zorro

“Hah!” shouted Hervé, swishing the air with his chainsaw, “I am Zorro!”

Indeed, he did cut a dashing dash as he bounded lightly up the trunk and positioned himself for action. George and I could but gaze in awe.

And what was he doing there? Well, our ancient and enormous cherry tree succumbed to a tempest twelve months ago, resting ever since upon the old stone wall and the log shed. Having neither machinery nor experience in felling, George and I have tried not to think about it. (Besides, I thought it looked quite attractive at that angle)…

Then one day, our hero Hervé offered to do something about it! He turned up last week brandishing an impressive electric chain saw, plus the huge petrol-powered version belonging to his brother-in-law! Plus… appropriate gloves, boots, goggles, different thicknesses of rope, an astonishing agility and an intricate knowledge of knots. (No, not Scouts - the Forces).

He secured and sliced through branches in logical order of safety, until forced to stop due to oil and petrol exhaustion. Valiantly, he came back the next day with reinforcements – his brother-in-law and an even huger petrol-powered Thing. And metal wedges and a mallet to split logs of enormitude.

The axe we proffered seemed to cause them much hilarity, being of a rather delicate construction and very blunt. SO? It works on logs for the fire…

Anyway, These two stalwart specimens have left us with a fascinating array of beautiful logs, a vat-full of sawdust for comfy cat-litter, and the inspiration to redesign the garden and to clear whatever lurks within the shed… now the roof won’t collapse on top of us.

It’s only the cats who are slightly aggrieved; since the downfall of the cherry, the gap from shed-roof to wall, and from shed-roof to ground, demands far more calculation. Is sunbathing worth all that effort?