Confessions of a Cat Sitter: The Columns, page 7
Anyway, back to the big argument. Do you remember Smithy and Jonesy? They were the two cats I managed to re-house back in February. They’ve since settled fantastically into their great big house, with a giant garden, miles from any main roads. But today, Smithy was in a spot of bother.
I’d been alerted that my customer was having some work done on the house in her absence, so I wasn’t surprised to see the big white van in the drive. I was surprised though, upon opening the front door, to find Smithy and a man with a paintbrush facing off against one another.
‘Ah, you must be the catsitter’ said the builder (I’m sure you knew it was the builder who said this, and not Smithy. You knew this because you’re well aware Smithy and I have met before).
‘Yes, first visit today, everything alright?’ I enquired.
‘No, he’s just given me a lot of work to do!’ he snarled pointing at Smithy,’ ‘He walked through 2 meters of wet gloss surface, and then walked it all around the flipping kitchen.’ The word ‘flipping’ may have had a slightly different spelling.
With this Smithy looked directly at me and miaowed loudly and repeatedly. He was having none of it.
‘Yes you did, you little maggot’ said the builder.
‘MIAOW’ shouted Smithy, before walking over to me and brushing around my legs. He knew whose side I was on.
This had to be about the most bizarre conversation I’d ever walked in on. A quick inspection of the kitchen did indeed seem to confirm that a cat had been attempting to cover it in as much paint as felinely possible. A quick inspection of Smithy’s paws however, suggested the cat was not he. The builder begrudgingly apologised to Smithy. I liked this builder. I have never seen anybody treat a cat more like a human than this man. At first I thought that he must surely be a true animal-equalitarian, but then I decided he was probably just unhinged.
A little while later, as I was leaving, Smithy’s brother Jonesy walked up to me in the yard.
I looked at his paws. It took me over an hour to remove the evidence.
Cat Litter Mastermind
Your Cat Magazine 2013
Working in the ‘cat’ industry, I’m particularly susceptible to every piece of feline orientated advertising that comes my way, and every new labour-saving product instantly commands my entire attention.
A new breakthrough in the ongoing fight against litter-tray odours, for instance, will unfailingly cause me to whoop with joy. How many people whoop at cat litter? With joy? I sometimes wonder about me.
Cat litter is something I’ve become quite an expert on, in fact. It would be great if there was something a little more interesting, and a lot less unpleasant, to be an expert on, but unfortunately cat litter would be my Mastermind subject. I could talk to you for hours about the wonders of virtually odourless ultra-clumping brands, and complain bitterly about the problems scooping woodchip litter. Why on earth woodchip makers advise you to use a scoop in the first place, when all the powdery ‘used’ litter slips easily through the slats and back into the tray, leaving you with only a handful of the good stuff for disposal, I’ve no idea at all. A tip here if you use woodchip litter – instead of scooping normally, use the scoop to lightly brush the litter continually in one direction for around 30 seconds. Miraculously, all the powder will end up one end of your tray, and the fresh litter the other!
See, I told you I get excited about cat litter.
I also particularly enjoy cat food marketing. One brand for instance describes their product as ‘as good as it looks.’ It’s cat food. It looks disgusting. Most cat food does anyway. Fortunately, it appears to be considerably better than it looks, because most cats seem to love it, which brings me on to a rival brand’s claim - ‘8 out of 10 cats prefer it’. This slogan was later amended to ‘8 out of 10 cats (whose owners expressed a preference) prefer it. Well, if their owner expressed a preference, that’s what their giving them isn’t it? If it’s your average male tabby we’re talking about, he’ll hoover up anything you put in front of him, so I’m still not sure how they know who actually prefers what. Again, a much loved cat food though, so many of them must do!
On the subject of male tabby food disposal units, I recently took on a new client named Buster McCormack. Buster is built to last, with a strong leonine face, muscular shoulders and giant paws. Even his name sounds ‘hard’. He will glare at you as you walk in, a truly intimidating figure.
Until he speaks. Buster McCormack has a miaow like a baby guinea pig crying. And, after greeting you with this stunningly un-intimidating noise, he’ll then bound towards you like he’s auditioning for My Little Pony.
We make a fine pair he and I. A hard nut cat who sounds like Minnie Mouse on helium, and a man who so loves cat litter he whoops.
Move over Stallone and Schwarzenegger.
Halloween
Your Cat Magazine 2013
Fittingly, for Halloween month, I got substantially more than a ‘bit of a fright’ this week.
I’ve often attempted, in this column, to put across that cat sitting is a dangerous occupation. It’s not all happy purring fluffy cats stretched luxuriantly across your lap in nice warm houses. Well…actually, yes, it’s mainly that, but there are hidden, frightening dangers that don’t spring readily to mind. And no incident could have been more frightening than the one I encountered this week.
I’d been visiting two wonderfully vocal Burmese named Eva and Genghis, and everything had been going very well indeed. Each day, Genghis would greet me at the door, loudly ‘shouting’ his opinions at me as I made my way to the kitchen. I can’t be certain of course, but I think most of his opinions concerned my inability to serve his food as fast as required, and my lack of dexterity in not being able to stroke him while doing so. Eva would then appear on the scene, shouting her support for Genghis from the hallway. After breakfast, I’d sit on the sofa and disappear under two of the most affectionate cats it’s been my pleasure to meet. As a side-note, this extremely noisy, intense affection seems to be a recurring theme amongst Burmese cats. I have quite a few on my books, and they’re all like this. One of them, a beautiful silky grey Burmese named Milly, takes this to another level – she’s the most violently affectionate cat I know. She gets so carried away with a few strokes that she’ll spend most of her grooming and petting sessions head-butting me in the face and tearing small holes in my shirts. I’d always found stroking cats a nice and relaxing thing to do until I met Milly.
Anyway, my week with Eva and Genghis had been going well, with absolutely no incidents whatsoever. All that changed on my last visit.
I remember thinking that something felt wrong when I first arrived at the house that morning. It was a strange feeling – everything looked okay, but just not quite right. Also upon entering the house, I was greeted not by a shouting Burmese…but by an unsettling silence. I glanced around the hall. Had that door to the cupboard under the stairs been open yesterday? I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t think so. Had I left a light on at the top of the stairs - there was one on now? Instinctively, I called out ‘Hello, anyone home?’ hearing only my own echo. I repeated this three times, until satisfied that I was alone in the house, except for the two Burmese that finally made their way down the stairs to greet me. Silently. Very un-Burmese.
As usual, we all settled down on the sofa after breakfast, and finally, I made my way around the house, alternating a few curtains to give the house that lived-in-nobody-on- holiday-here look. Everything was fine. Of course it was. My feelings of unease were just that – with no basis in fact at all. And as I reached the top of the stairs and saw a man in his underpants advancing on me with a baseball bat, I tried to hold that thought.
‘ARGGHHH!’ he cried, suddenly charging towards me.
‘CATSITTER!’ I cried, hoping that my profession wouldn’t also be my last words.
‘Catsitter?’ he said, slowly lowering his weapon. Nobody bats a cat sitter.
It turned out that my client’s son had returned early from University, unaware his mother even had a catsitter. Nobody but a student could have slept through an entire cat-sitting visit. So not a safe job at all. Are there any other jobs in the world, any at all, where you stand a good chance of being killed by a student in his underpants.
I think not.
The Beast of Bucks
Your Cat Magazine 2013
In our area, as in many areas, we have a mystery-cat legend. As elsewhere, it’s the standard story of a huge wildcat roaming the local countryside and bothering sheep. Our wildcat is known affectionately as THE BEAST OF BUCKS. I only mention this, because I think he’s moved into our back bedroom.
The first time I saw him was 3am on a dark rainy night. Our tortie JoJo had activated her intruder alarm (a long whine that wakes the entire house) and so I followed JoJo’s line of vision. I couldn’t quite believe what I was looking at. There, nonchalantly having a good wash down on our spare-room bed, was an absolutely massive black cat. This was all the more surprising because we have a fairly expensive microchip catflap, programmed so that only our cats can come into the house. A glance at the hole in the wall to my right revealed that we now had only the basic shell of a fairly expensive catflap, and quite a few bits of scattered plastic.
The Beast looked at me. I shuddered slightly. I’m a real cat lover but this thing looked more panther than cat. I couldn’t help but notice he was pretty battle-hardened too – both ears were in tatters, there was a scar across his nose, and one eye was half shut. Either he was completely crap at fighting, or he just did an awful lot of it. Suddenly, the Beast rose, yawned, stretched, and headed straight for me. I’ve been mauled by many cats in my line of work, but rarely by panthers. If at all. The Beast’s mouth opened, and out came the most pathetic excuse for a miaow I’ve ever heard. This was the second huge bruiser of a cat I’ve met recently with a voice like this. The squeaking Beast began brushing happily around my legs, and was very soon enjoying a bowl of Felix in the kitchen.
In the morning, he was still in the house, stretched out full length on the spare bed as though he’d been with us forever. He was as happy as Larry, but our own feisty female felines were livid, and told him so. The Beast yawned, blinked happily at his hissing harem, and went back to sleep, purring.
On closer inspection of the blissfully happy sleeping Beast, it was quite clear he was a stray. I rang my good friend Joan Johnson, head of the South Bucks RSPCA and an incredible bundle of octogenarian energy. Joan does as much to help cats-in-need as any
person I’ve ever met. She immediately gave me a reference number and the Beast was given a full check-up and make-over at the local vets. There’s a huge feral-cat crisis going on in the UK right now, and the RSPCA can do little but fix them up and release them back to where they were found.
Needless to say then, that Bodmin (what else could we call a Beast of…) has now more or less moved in with us. The girls’ hissing has stopped – mainly because he’s every bit as hard as he looks and no other cats dare encroach on their territory nowadays. They very much like this, and they also like it that, with them, he behaves like…well, a little pussycat.
Oh, and what about the real BEAST OF BUCKS, you ask? Strangely, since Bodmin began sleeping at ours, there don’t seem to have been any sightings at all…
The Christmas Mouse
Christmas 2013
As the snow started falling
Onto grass and to leaves
I couldn't remember
Colder Christmas Eves
The Church bells were ringing
As light turned to dark
I felt myself shiver
I heard a dog bark
As I hurried up the lane
I saw through the snow
Smoke from our chimney
And the windows aglow
My family were busy
Decorating the tree
They were happy and jolly
But had no time for me
So I sat by the fire
And warmed by its heat
I closed my eyes
And I drifted to sleep
I awoke some time later
The embers glowed red
I was alone by the fire
All were in bed
But then something moved
Under the tree
In the flickering light
I strained to see
It moved again
I heard a squeak
I crept to the tree
And looked underneath
I found a mouse
Under our tree
He looked to be hurt
And he looked up at me
I don't know why
Probably festive good will
But I couldn't let him die
All alone and so ill
I nurtured and nursed him
Gave him all I could give
I didn't leave his side
Until sure he would live
As I bade him farewell
And he went on his way
The sun came up
It was Christmas Day
Now there’s plenty of people
I'm sure would do that
But you may find this unusual
Because....I'm a cat
Swamp Thing
Your Cat Magazine 2014
I tarred and feathered myself this week.
Well, more or less tarred and feathered anyway. It was certainly along those lines. This wasn’t a result of any belligerent outrage at my own antics, the usual reason for this type of barbaric punishment, but simply because my antics were incredibly stupid.
I’ve been looking after a lovely but slightly violent Bengal named Nikita Jones. I’ve mentioned Nikita in my columns once before, due to a sudden flying attack from behind by this formidable 5.5 kg bag of sheer muscle sending me sprawling hands first into a litter tray. A very pleasant experience, I can tell you.
On this occasion, Nikita and her malicious streak played no part at all in my downfall. In fact she was having great fun at the time, and not at my expense, because as well as looking after her, my duties included the daily topping up of a fishpond which had a very slow leak, and anyone who knows Bengals will know how they love water! An unusual thing for a feline to love, I know, but it’s apparently in their genes; their close relative being the Asian Leopard Cat, a wild breed known for splashing around in shallow streams hunting for fish. So, as I filled the pond, using my thumb to create a fine spray,. Nikita Jones danced happily around, jumping at individual drops and attempting to catch
them in her paws. I think it was the wonderful sight of this incredibly beautiful cat having so much fun that caused me to momentarily move my thumb way to far over the hose’s nozzle. The effect of this error was instant and dramatic – a huge backwards spurt of freezing cold water hit me full blast in the face, causing me to make matters even worse by then turning the hose on my own shirt and trousers. Within a few short seconds, I’d completely drenched myself. Nikita jumped happily into the stream of the dropped hose, totally oblivious to my situation.
In danger of freezing to death, I decided the pond had received quite enough water for one day, and my best bet would be to quickly fulfill my last outdoor task and get back into the warm. This task was the filling of a large pole-top bird feeder with bird food. Hoisting the seed above my head, I managed to completely miss the feeder, and poured 5 kgs of mixed seed and nuts straight over my head. The tar and feathering was complete - every inch of my face and upper body was plastered in seed. Taking off my glasses to enable at least a degree of vision, I staggered back toward the house, Nikita skipping along beside me, apparently delighted.
Why oh why couldn’t I have reached the back door without being spotted. A neighbour’s face appeared at an upstairs window, instantly twisted into an expression of bewildered shock at the barely human apparition staring back at her, and quickly vanished from view.
I’m not at all sure what she thought she saw that day. The Creature from the Black Lagoon (or Fish Pond) maybe? Pond Thing? Whatever she thought, I have a feeling I may be the stuff of stormy-night-fireside stories for generations to come.
Amazing what can be achieved, given the right levels of utter incompetence…
Lost in Translation 2
Your Cat Magazine 2014
Quite a few of my clients have moved to the UK from abroad and obviously some of them from non-English speaking countries.
