Now, let me start by saying … I do. Love ’em, that is. I’ve had cats in my life and they’ve greatly enhanced it. But now I live in a rental, so I don’t. But I visit, I cat-sit and I dream of the day when I’ll have my own once again.
I also used to be well-known as a cat-whisperer. Apparently I speak cat and I’m not half bad at understanding it either. I’ve had visiting cats in my rentals and not because I fed them, oh no. I understand the rules “thou must not steal thy neighbour’s cats by underhand means“, they just visit because they’re lonely and I work from home.
But two things have rocked my cat-whispering confidence. My youngest sister’s cats have yet to succomb to my charm. I’ve cat-sat there multiple times but, still, no. Whenever I walk through the front door, one runs to the feeding station and the other to the cat flap. That’s my only job as far as they’re concerned. No cuddles. No strokes. Nothing …
Then last week, I cat-sat at the parental home, for my mother’s old siamese cat who’s known me for longer than he’s been my mother’s cat, together with my brother and his wife’s two black fluffy girls. One of the girls recognises my (disturbing) similarity to my brother and generally leaps onto my lap in his absence. The other has – largely – ignored me. So I turn up, with my K M Weiland “Structuring your Novel Workbook”, my laptop, various notebooks and pens, and having completed the main task of feeding, I settle down on the sofa … and wait.
She who has never paid me any attention is all over me like a rash. She clambers and climbs, until puzzled at the lack of sufficient frontage, she settles onto my lap. Now, it’s not that I’m entirely deficient in frontage (except when you compare me with other women in my family) it’s just that I don’t overflow. Or provide a suitable shelf for lying upon, should one be a cat. Oddly, I have the same problem with my friend who’s cats I have also sat. Why is my life so filled with frontage overflowers?
Anyway, moving on. My new best friend attaches herself to me for the entire week. I attempt to offer my lap to her sister, only to be spurned. Does she not notice my brother’s absence and my (disturbing) resemblence any more? And as for the siamese with whom I’ve had a long and happy relationship – nope, nothing, nada. When they returned, I popped round. Then, only then, did the siamese clamber all over me, leaving me covered in white hair (on my entirely black wardrobe) and sneezing. I’d forgotten just how much his hairs got up my nose, metaphorically, or allergically I should say, rather than actually. Still …
© Debra Carey 2017