The First Goodbye

She arrived in a cardboard box over twenty years earlier. The runt of the litter, she wasn't even chosen by my husband when he came to select a cat. She came free with his purchase of her sister, a somewhat larger, cuter kitten.


She was tiny, mottled brown and orange in colour, with large yellow eyes and pointy ears. She looked a bit like a gremlin but was far gentler in nature. She might take on a burly spider if feeling particularly fierce. She would follow me down the street as I walked my infant daughter to nursery school. I would fear for her safety on the road and turn round to chase her off back home only to find her behind me again a few steps later.

Her purr never worked properly. It stuttered like a faulty engine. I would wake in the night with it buzzing choppily in my ear as she licked my hair and dribbled contentedly on my head. She always drank my water. If I put a glass down she would immediately put her head in it. She loved barbecues, appearing as soon as the coals were lit and begging shamelessly for food, taking off across the shed roof with a piece of sausage held proudly aloft.


She outlived her better looking sister by eight years. I was worried she would be lonely and brought new kittens into the house, which gave her a second childhood for a while as she chased them about. She grew skinnier, tattier, louder, madder. She became a suitable mad old cat for a mad old cat lady. She only wanted human food and would yowl incessantly, annoyingly, until I caved in and shared. She developed a relaxed attitude to litter trays, preferring, in her old age, to go in exciting new places like games consoles, behind the television or in my shoes. Her favourite place to sleep was in a cardboard box on the landing.


She always hated travelling, being in the car frightened her. So the vet came to us because I couldn't bear to see her scared. The tumour in her abdomen, he told me, was the size of a cricket ball. I was doing the right thing, he said. Would I like to stay? Of course. I held her and talked to her and then she was gone.


My husband carried her out of the house in her cardboard box, an unconscious echo of her arrival so long ago.


It's no different to any other relationship, really. There will always, at some point, be a parting. It hurts and on some level we know it's inevitable but, for the most part, we forge ahead regardless, keeping our focus on the journey. If we didn't we would never have pets, children, lovers, careers or even new shoes, we would be too scared of losing them. This deliberate act of forgetfulness is what enables us to keep starting anew. The pain fades and only the silvery scars remain to remind us.

Stung

This is what happens when cats swat insects that sting.

Poor Jules, he never learns.

I suspect he must have decided to play with a wasp. If it had been a hornet the effect of its sting would have been far worse I fear.

Every summer we encounter hornets here. They tend to build their nest in the hollow oak tree opposite the house, and head unerringly for the lights once darkness descends.

On one occasion we had two or three circling the lightbulb on the landing and I was too scared to go past them to the bedroom. I slept in the living room, big wuss that I am. And I am right to be wary. Hornets are enormous and menacing with a subsonic rumble that makes bumble bees sound like Joe Pasquale on helium. Many people will tell you that they are less aggressive than wasps, and unlikely to sting, but I am not prepared to give them the opportunity. I avoid them rather than trying to kill them. They are tough creatures and no matter how much you blast them with chemical spray they will not fall down. When they get zapped by the electric bug killer they sizzle and spark and refuse to expire for a good half hour.

One memorable night I went up to bed, snuggled up under the duvet and fell asleep. An hour or so later my husband came upstairs to join me. Time passed, all was snoozy and fine, and then suddenly:

"AAAAAARGH! Oh great buggery FUCK! OW!"

I sat bolt upright in bed, fumbling for the light, as my husband continued to howl anguished obscenities while flailing around the bedroom.

His upper thigh was reddening and swelling rapidly as the culprit crawled sluggishly out from under the duvet. Somehow a hornet had got into the bedding at some earlier point in the evening and I had been sleeping with it in blissful oblivion until my husband had got into bed and disturbed it. Unfortunate as it was for Bert to be stung on the upper thigh he considered himself miraculously lucky not to have been stung any higher up. Though he was saddened at missing out on the opportunity to give the old "take away the pain and leave the swelling" joke a bit of an airing. Sadly, or thankfully, depending on your point of view, I have no photo to illustrate his swollen appendage, but it was impressive. And I am henceforth wary of hornets and check the bed carefully before retiring, if I've had the windows open.

Whodunnit?

The Evidence:

Found outside the gatehouse, moments before letting in the visitors.

The Usual Suspects:

Janet

Age 17

Special moves: eating chicken, dribbling and staring.

Jules

Age 2

Special moves: using my leg as a scratching post, getting stuck up trees and sitting in people's trousers while they're on the toilet.

Vince

Age 2

Special moves: dangerous rooftop manoeuvres and killing small creatures with ruthless efficiency.

Creatures of the Night

I am frequently asked whether the house is haunted. Some of the previous occupants firmly believe that spirits reside within these timbered walls and tell tales of nocturnal disturbances. There is one oft-told story of a ghost getting into bed with my predecessor.

I have not encountered any such happenings since my arrival in the house three years ago. And, to be fair, it is unlikely any wandering spirit would find room in my bed. What with the cats, my husband, and my good self, there is barely a square inch of unoccupied duvet up for grabs.



Mind you, I daresay a ghost would be less likely to leave small mammallian body parts, hairballs, or semi-digested cat crunchies on my duvet, so maybe I've got the bum deal after all.

EDIT: I hasten to add my husband is not responsible for leaving any of the above listed items on my duvet. I was referring to the cats. Although ghosts probably wouldn't leave wet bath towels on my side of the bed either.

Paws and Effect

Look at this! That bloody cat has been in the office, marching up and down my paperwork with his muddy paws, chewing up my pencils, stealing elastic bands and knocking as much onto the floor as he can.

What makes it worse is that this is exactly what used to make me Very Annoyed when I worked at the Big House, where my then-boss, Dorian, would allow her cats to roam freely in the office. I used to fume at the ruined letters, the cat hair in the printer and the dead animals left on the mat. Not to mention the strategically timed puking-and-poo-fests her feline friends would engage in whenever we were trying to impress anyone. I used to boot them, unceremoniously, out of the office whenever she wasn't looking.

But now, here I am, with my own office, with my own cats. I picked up the muddy paw-printed paper this morning and wailed "My god, have I turned into Dorian? Will I become orange and lose all my friends?" I had to boot the cat out, and fast, before I started down that slippery slope.

That was a close one. I settled down in my chair and began the serious business of the day. After an hour or so I became aware of a low purring. It dawned on me I had been absently stroking a small furry body for some time. That cat was back, on my lap, and I am officially one of those mad women.

Alarmed

With the return of the prodigal cat I was anticipating a glorious night of untroubled sleep.

All was deep and dreamy until I became dimly aware of my husband repeating the mysterious, and, frankly, annoying phrase “the alarms are going off” over and over again.

I was confused. In my dazed and dozy state I went into default mode, mumbling “yeah, yeah I know” whilst trying to fumble off my alarm clock. I squinted at the blue, glowing numerals. Four? Four in morning? What? Why alarm ring now? Why clock not shut up?

“No,” insisted my man, with commendable patience, “the security alarms!”

And, yes, now as I concentrated and gathered my faculties a little more, I could hear the incessant, maddening, long drawn out, spiralling whoop of the intruder alarm sounding in the distant reaches of the house.

Bugger bugger bum bum bollocks.

I lurched upright, and managed to get my dressing gown without falling over again. It is always best to investigate potential break-ins when wearing a purple candlewick dressing gown. If you tackle them in just your curry-stained t-shirt and big knickers you can be imprisoned for using unreasonable force. There is no justice.

So, having investigated every room for signs of intrusion, and finding none, I was left to conclude it was those sodding bats again.

The attic space is home to a thriving maternity roost of pipistrelle bats, though we also have long eared brown and lesser horseshoe bats. All of them like to flit about the Great Hall in the hours of darkness, pooping on the Precious Things and setting off the alarms. Which is all great fun for them, but less so for me, as each time the alarms go off the police are called out automatically. While they are talking to this purple dressing gown-clad, sleep-deprived woman who keeps shaking her fist at bats no one else can see, actual crimes are being perpetrated, unpoliced!

Oh well. Only a few more weeks and the bats will be hibernating for the winter. I could find out where and set off a car alarm or play the tuba at them at random intervals, to see how they like it, but they are a protected species, and, to be honest, it all seems like too much effort and they probably wouldn’t grasp the point I was making anyway.

In the meantime I shall count the days until the new, supposedly bat-proof, alarm system is installed.

The Cat is Back

Yes, taking a chainsaw to the Gordian Knot-like problem of how to retrieve my cat from a Douglas Fir has done the trick. He is returned. Caked in mud and ravenously hungry but none the worse for his amazing stunt. The surviving trees can rest easy now.

Lost Cat

My cat is missing. He is a home loving little fella, so when he failed to reappear after going outside on Sunday evening I began to feel concerned.

Given our location – the middle of a huge expanse of mixed woodland, parkland and farmland – it was unlikely traffic had finished him off. Or that he’d been catnapped. I had to assume he was on some sort of adventure, which, it turns out, he was.

When this morning came and he still wasn’t home I began the task of making those depressing “Missing Cat” posters, ringing the vets, and – dramatic drum roll – mobilising the estate to look for him! Yes, I have the power to do that, as I am a Very Important Person. And they were probably tired of hearing me go on about the cat.

So, I had a final wander around, making those little pursed-lip squeaky noises that we believe entices felines, and rattling food pouches, before miserably concluding there was nothing more for me to do and leaving for a day off. (A day off! Hooray! I had organised cover, and everything!)

Fast forward a number of hours, to me standing in Woolworths attempting to pay for my motley selection of Halloween items (all essential work related kit) and my mobile phone rings. It is my esteemed colleague.

“At last! I’ve been trying and trying to get hold of you! We’ve had drama!”

“What? What’s happened?” (There is always a panicky moment when I am convinced that it’s true, they really can’t manage without me, and the house has detonated or something in my absence).

“We’ve found your cat!”

This is a good thing. Yet I can tell there’s more.

“Oh, fantastic! Where was he?”

“Up a tree.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, quite a long way up. Lovely Warden tried to get him down for hours, but the cat just kept climbing higher and higher.”

“Oh no”.

“Yeah, so in the end, the cat was right at the top, and there was nothing for it but to cut down the tree.”

“What?!”

“Don’t worry! The cat leapt clear and sprinted off into the woods before the tree hit the deck, so he must be OK.”

“Right. Yes. Great! Thanks!”

Oh my god. They cut down an enormous Douglas Fir just to get my cat down! Seems a bit, well, drastic. I feel churlish even thinking it, but maybe a small bowl of kitty treats somewhere near the tree might have been another option.

Anyway, the cat has yet to reappear in the homestead. I fear he may have been so traumatised he has gone straight up another tree. Massive deforestation may occur as a result.