Teach an old cat new tricks : Part 1

Seventeen in cat years is like ninety-something in human terms. And of course I was concerned about Her Imperial-but-Geriatric Fluffiness being locked in a cage in a dark cargo hold for 30 hours. But I couldn't leave her behind. 
She's been in the family longer than my daughter.

And I'd already had to give my dog away. 
(Still can't even type that without crying).

Clearly because I wasn't already angst-riddled enough, one of my caring and supportive friends heaped a few more heebies on my jeebies by casually querying, "Aren't you sort of worried that there'll be a dead cat in the carrier when you get to London?"
Well, I am now!

So all the way from Tullamarine to Heathrow I fretted. Every time we hit turbulence, I dissolved into champagne-enhanced tears in my fabulously comfortable company-paid-for-it business class seat.

But she made it.
We both did.


It's only recently that we've begun to have a near-terminal-velocity bumpy ride.
She's killing me.
Slowly.

Night yowling.
Apparently it's a thing.
She's not sick.
She's not hungry.
She's not cold.
She had a hysterectomy 17 years ago, so it's not about calling the boys.
She's not even lonely.

She's just losing her marbles.
Loudly.
At regular intervals between midnight and 5:00am the bitch-cat-from-hell
finds her way into our midst and begins summoning her demon buddies for the ritual slaughtering of all humans in residence. 
It's spine chilling.

I tried talking nicely to her.
I tried shouting at her.
I tried throwing everything from my bedside table at the wall.
No change.

So I switched to a more pro-active approach and left the radio on upstairs where she sleeps. BBC 2.  Surely that would either bore her to sleep or engage her with its interesting interviews in soothing voices.
And it worked for one night. 
Maybe two.

Next I amped up the love, and left a night light on for her as well. 
So far so good.
Some time between 2:00 and 3:00am, she does start to wind up the howlelujah, but then like a baby crying itself to sleep, she self-soothes.
Eventually.

I think she'd probably prefer that I left the TV on, but I fear the inevitable next step would be the expectation for me to stay up all night to explain the bits she missed while she was asleep.

It's a slippery slope.

D is for dogs — a letter of response

Dearest doggie-darls

Whilst our media advisers have suggested that we should not risk damage to our on-line profile by publicly responding to your recent deplorable attempt to flame us, we are confident that our overwhelming presence in social media affords us the luxury of a rebuttal without fear of being in any way diminished. And as this communication forms part of a blogging challenge, we have deemed it desirable to do so by dismissing you with a dominance of d-words.

D is for dirty and disgusting: Dogs smell. You cheerfully pass wind in public and, to be utterly frank, entire breeds are guilty of eating poo. And please don’t attempt to deride us for having our dainty noses in the air when your method of greeting each other is nothing short of detestable.

D is for downright dominated: Dogs are willing victims of mind control. You openly demean yourselves for food and allow humans to dress you in stupid clothes. Have you no dignity?

D is for disruptive delinquents: Dogs disturb the peace with their dreadful barking. They also steal from their humans and bury the ill-gotten spoils, demonstrating a despicable lack of respect.

D is for deluded defectives: Dogs mistakenly believe that they offer more valuable friendship and comfort than we do. Totally barking up the wrong tree there you slavering fools… We will explain this to you in four short syllables — Dogs. Cannot. Purr.

D is for deceitful dimwits: Dogs use their tails to deliberately mislead others. Those wagging appendages of which you are so proud are nothing more than defective barometers. Wise up, dudes. Some days truly suck. Get some discernment.

We're going to sign off with one of our greatest social media hits , and  whilst it is our devout hope that you enjoy the song of the day… we’ll be waving our paws in the air coz we just don’t care.

 

And so the D-Dangerous question: Who won the debate?

C is for Cats — a hate letter

Undearest all cats in the universe

 You guys need to know that you have no reason to stalk around acting all superior and stuff. Instead of sticking your noses up in the air and snickering at how you can make those dogs on two legs keepers of the food all sneezy and watery and stuff with your wafty hairs, you should take a good long look at what it is you think you contribute to the foodbowl  world. 

 Have you ever heard of a seeing–eye cat? A rescue cat? A cat that can smell cancer? Or drugs? How about a tracker cat? Or a police cat? Ever seen a statue of a cat that was a war hero? Nope. With you guys it’s all like Mean Girls versus Inspector Rex.

 And what’s with hanging out with nasties like Vito Corleone, Dr Evil and Delores Umbridge?  Did you run out of witches? Not enough crazy cat women around?

 You guys should get some sense of duty.

And while you're at it, lighten up. Get your noses out of the air and take some time to smell the roasts roses.

 Signed

 Anomonous  Amonyous    

Now let's rock out with The Fauves: Dogs are the Best People (1996)

 The c-critical question: How will the cats respond?

Her Imperial Fluffiness

Last night, Her Imperial Fluffiness deigned to spend a not insignificant portion of her time in my company. I was, of course, appropriately appreciative and expressed my deep resounding gratitude for her presence as she generously aided my naturally inept attempts to sew together the squares of the latest blanket I’ve been knitting by testing both its comfort and the effectiveness of my stitching endeavours with her not insignificant body weight. Ever so helpful.

As her paws absently gripped then released… gripped then released… gripped then released… those ridiculously loopy threads of  my inexpert handiwork, her engine slipped into overdrive, the revving just loud enough to blur the dialogue of the movie she clearly knew was of no interest to me. Why else would I have put the remote control ever so slightly out of my reach?

Later, when the rest of the population of The Rock was foolishly squandering those annoyingly quiet small hours, she used her remarkable 7^th sense to determine that, with Dr Dad away in London, a little company and conversation would cheer me up. Who could fail to be delighted by the pad pad prod…pad pad prod… of Her Highness on their flaccid cheek?  Or the stomp stomple stomp that accompanies the wafting of a splendidly feathery appendage beneath their nose as Her Majesty makes her way to the bedside table to commence deftly swatting anything smaller and lighter than a house brick onto the floor? 
Not I.
 

In daylight hours, she is often equally as generous with her assistance. When I write, she offers valuable criticism.

And her contribution to my household chores is incalculable.   

But oh, how honoured I am when she graces me with her presence in the evenings. 
I know my place. 
I remain ever her humble servant.