THE CAT
They say that families don’t own
cats, that they are just their servants. Some people even add that we don’t
adopt cats, they choose us. Well! In the case of our cat both of the above
observations are definitely true.
We first met Squeaky, strange name
but that is what she came to be called, when she was just a small kitten. She
had taken up residence in the storm water drain on the road at the front of our
house. A number of the surrounding families had tried to coax her out with
offers of food and a home. She resolutely refused all their approaches until
our children approached. They had no food to offer and had certainly not spoken
to my wife or myself about a home. When my daughter, who was in the lead, with
the two boys, (not as inquisitive as her), trailing behind the cat rushed out
of its hiding place and rubbing itself around her legs began to purr loudly.
She picked it up and it nestled into her arms and promptly went to sleep.
Later that afternoon there was quite
a division in our household; my daughter and my wife voting to keep the cat,
our two sons voting no and myself sitting on the fence. Meanwhile the cat had
been locked in our laundry with a freshly bought tray of kitty litter, a bowel
of milk and a plate of cat food. After a long, unproductive, discussion it was
decided to bring the cat into the kitchen where we were gathered. This idea was
put forward by my daughter as she believed that we were discussing the future
of the cat and therefore it should be present.
Well! You would not believe what
happened next. Placed on the by now cleared kitchen table top the cat made a
bee line for the two boys who after each giving it a pat and a cuddle changed
their votes to yes. That left just me who was still unsure about the idea of
having a pet around the house. As usual in our family with a vote of four to
one, with me being the one (no reference to any TV reality shows) it was not
deemed necessary to further canvas my opinion. I was left sitting at the table,
rather bemused at what had happened during the afternoon, while the others
rushed about with the cat and a multitude of ideas as to how to make the animal
feel more at home.
Well the days and then weeks passed
and the cat had definitely adopted us as her servants. I suppose I should, from
now on, call her by her name, Squeaky. As I said before a strange name for a
cat, but one that eminently suited her as when she was excited her meow turned
into a high pitched squeak. My wife had early on decided that she could not
just be referred to as “The Cat” and had started to refer to her as Squeaky.
The name was adopted by the rest of the family but as a protest, probably
childish and futile; I still referred to her as the cat. The cat. Oh. Ok
Squeaky was showered with presents; a cat bed, a coat for the cold weather, her
very own little door in the bottom of the laundry door and even a little soft
stuffed toy cat so she would not feel lonely. The toys! Yes toys for cats. In
no time at all the floor of the laundry and the rumpus room, read those as
Squeaky’s bedroom and lounge room were a health hazard. They were strewn with
all manner of things for her to chase, chew on or scratch.
Squeaky and I developed a healthy
respect for each other that did not involve any close contact. I never patted
her and she flatly refused to sit on my lap in front of the television. There
was however the occasional outbreak of hostilities such as the time I woke in
the middle of the night to find her asleep on our bed. I yelled, she ran and my
wife yelled – at me. I refused to allow any more nocturnal visits and there
were a few days of frosty looks from both my wife and the cat. As usual, in
these circumstances, I retreated to the garage or the garden shed. Needless to
say the cat won in the end, but as a small gesture of defiance I would not let
her sleep on my side of the bed.
Over the years we moved house and
city a few times and Squeaky always went with us. She inspected every new house
as if its acceptance by us depended on her approval. She would always decide
where she wanted her bed and her toys placed.
After a number of years we moved
back to Sydney and much to the disgust of my family I developed an allergy to
cat fur. I could not even sit on a lounge or chair where Squeaky had been
without developing very itch, watery eyes. The only relief was to wash my face
thoroughly with cold water. It took a few weeks for me to work out that it was
Squeaky’s fur that was causing the problem. The family, of course, had
different ideas. My daughter thought that I was just tired and rubbing them too
much, my wife that it was hay fever and my oldest son just told me, “To toughen
up.” We went away down the coast for a week’s holiday, children stayed at home
to house and cat sit, and the problem with my eyes immediately went away. I had
proved my point.
There was no way that Squeaky was
leaving so we had to work out a compromise. She became an outside cat, banished
from the house. This still did not stop her from occasionally trying to sneak
inside. She came to know that I could not be won over and all I had to do was
confront her and point out the door and she would turn tail and run outside.
A few more years went by under this
new arrangement. Our family grew up and my two sons now lived with us with
their partners. Squeaky was visibly getting older and slowing down. My wife and
I went overseas for a few months leaving our extended family to house sit, mow
the lawns (yeah right!), Look after the swimming pool, (new pump required on
our return), water the plants (not the inside ones every day; flooded soggy
carpet), mind Squeaky. This last simple task turned ugly. You might well ask
how? We certainly did on our return. Squeaky had got very sick and the vet
offered only two alternatives; expensive cure or euthanasia. The house sitters
were divided evenly with one son and partner opting for cure and the other two
for euthanasia. A rather acrimonious discussion continued for days. Neither of
the parties thought to call us for a decision. Eventually the cure camp won out
with the other side washing their hands of the whole thing. So! Result. We
arrived home to an elderly still quite sick cat and a horrendous vet bill.
Apparently Squeaky had spent a week in cat hospital on a trip. I must admit it
brought a smile to my face imagining her lying back on a hospital bed with a
number of nurses to order about.
Squeaky never fully recovered and
eighteen months later my wife had to make the sad journey to the vet to have
her put to sleep. She could not eat properly and was becoming weaker by the
day. By then it was only my wife and I in the house so we decided to not tell
the children until it was over.
Over the years I had grown so
accustomed to having her around that I found myself missing her presence rather
badly. Sometimes working out in the back yard I was sure that I had seen her
out of the corner of my eye walking purposely towards the back door as if to
challenge my authority one last time.
Rest in peace Squeaky you were an
integral much loved part of our family.
THE
END
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