Chapter 5 - Alarms, Lava Lamps and Unsightly Undies
When I go to meet new clients for the first time it’s always with a mix of excitement and trepidation. The thrill of meeting and getting to know their cats is why I’ve been doing the job for so long, but I’m always slightly nervous about the type of environment I’ll be going into. Over the years I’ve worked in all manner of homes from maisonettes to mansions, and one thing I can say is that size does matter, but not in the way you might expect.
In my experience the larger the home the more complicated things tends to be, such as the state-of-the-art security systems that trigger a full scale alert at the local police station should one inadvertently set the alarm off, and electric gates that seem to have a mind of their own, and can easily keep one imprisoned should they wish to.
Such a house belonged to David and Samantha. When I first received the enquiry I wondered if the British Prime Minister and his wife had read the glowing testimonials on my web site and decided to check me out, after all, they did have a cat at No. 10 and it could be that the feline split his time between his owners’ London home and their secret country retreat. The frisson of excitement that I’d initially felt only increased when I drew up outside the electric gates and swept up the long gravel driveway in my little Fiat 500. Of course, there was no way that Sam-Cam would have allowed a stranger into their home without doing a thorough background check first, and why they would need a cat-sitter for a house that they were retreating to, and unlikely to take a holiday from, hadn’t at that point occurred to me.
So it was with some disappointment that I was greeted by a couple who, it turned out, had won the lottery. Nevertheless, even though I wasn’t going to get to meet the Prime Minister, I was fascinated to see how this particular Sam and David had spent their winnings.
As Sam ushered me in, her long blonde hair falling heavily over her very tight and glitter-embellished t-shirt, I tried to keep a dignified and un-phased countenance, when what I actually wanted to do was gasp in awe at what was clearly an homage to hard-core nouveau riche styling.
The hall area was a vast space with marble flooring and vaulted ceilings which, given that the house was clearly a new-build, must have somehow been stuck on. An enormous red crystal chandelier hung gaudily from the ceiling, although I suspected that when caught by the sunlight it would look quite spectacular. It was obvious that Sam was trying to be equally nonchalant “that’s the pool room through there,” she said casually, pointing at a door with glass panels through which I could see a heavily tattooed man in Speedos dipping his toe in the water.
The marble theme continued throughout the house, with more marble flooring, marble-topped tables and even marble toilets that were finished off with gilt flush handles. Candelabras were ‘ten a penny’, and what master bedroom suite would be complete without a sunken marble bath that doubles up as a Jacuzzi? “This is the hydrotherapy Spa,” Sam boasted, pointing at the bath. “It’s got a thirteen jet whirlpool system which includes four side jets, two foot jets, five back jets and two bum jets.” I suspected that she’d learned these features by heart from the brochure, but couldn’t imagine the phrase ‘bum jets’ being used to attract clientele.
The master bedroom itself was all white. White carpet, white curtains, ‘distressed’ white furniture, and of course the obligatory four-poster bed, swathed in white voile and so tall that it skimmed the surface of the ceiling, surely a big ‘no-no’ in interior design circles? A chaise longue had been placed at the foot of the bed, which I thought was a bit of a waste. Surely if one was going to ‘lounge’ in the bedroom, one would do so on one’s bed?
As we continued our tour, I periodically heard a loud shriek coming from the direction of the pool room. “Oh that’s just Dave,” Sam explained. “I’ve told him time and time again that if he’s going to jump into the pool straight from the sauna, to do it quietly.”
Two large white pillars stood regally on either side of the double doors that led into the ‘formal’ living room, and before I could comment on the vast zebra skin rug that covered two thirds of the floor Sam declared “It’s faux! I could never have a dead animal in the house!” There had been no need for Sam to justify herself; I’d already figured out that either the rug was indeed a fake, or that the largest and fluffiest zebra in the world had been used in its production. Bronze statuettes adorned occasional tables, and there were so many scatter cushions strewn on the sofas and armchairs that I wondered whether there’d actually be any room for people to sit on them.
Peering outside I could see that the garden had been landscaped to within an inch of its life, the pièce de résistance being a bridge that ran from one side to the other of a very large ornamental pond. Obviously there was a hot tub and next to it a drinks cooler complete with what I could only imagine was champagne, probably pink. Thoughts of 1970s TV cop dramas featuring overweight, hairy-chested, middle-aged villains wearing heavy gold chains, smoking cigars, drinking champagne and sitting in the tub surrounded by bevy of bikini-clad beauties, sprang into my head.
Finally we headed for the kitchen, with its marble-topped work surfaces, limed oak cabinets and enough gadgets to keep even the geekiest of technophiles happy. However, what had me completely transfixed was the floor to ceiling lava lamp that stood in one corner of the ‘informal’ living area that adjoined the kitchen. I absolutely love lava lamps and had a small one in my bedroom throughout my teen years, and even into adulthood, but this was the most magnificent one I’d ever seen. I was so absorbed by the colourful floating globules that I hadn’t even noticed the cat.
“This here’s Squidge” Sam said bending down to cuddle a stroppy looking Sphynx. I must admit, I’d be stroppy too if I had to spend my life in the all-together, not to mention the humiliating name. “I’d always wanted a hairless cat but could never afford one before,” Sam said, clearly smitten. Although I wasn’t particularly keen on the fact that some breeds of cat have been ‘designed’ specifically to appeal to us humans, at least in Squidge’s case she was kept warm by the under-floor heating and, although she was an indoor-only cat, she had plenty of room to run around and explore.
“She’s got her own bedroom, but she seems to love it in here, I think it must be something to do with the lava lamp,” Sam said before going on to explain that Squidge would often sit by the lamp and pat the coloured blobs with her paw as they floated up and down. “You can see it if you go on YouTube,” she said, presumably having uploaded dozens of Squidge video clips to the site.
Curious that I hadn’t been shown the aforementioned cat bedroom, I asked if I could see it. A five minute walk later we reached the room which had been built into the roof space. It was not so much a room but a ‘suite’. The walls were pink, there were cat toys carpeting the shag pile and at the far end was a mini version of Sam and Dave’s own four poster bed, a large neon sign suspended above it emblazoned with Squidge’s name. I wasn’t in the least bit surprised that she shunned this room in favour of a nice warm kitchen, complete with built-in moving creatures.
All went well on the first few occasions that I looked after Squidge. She and I would spend many a happy time together gazing into the lava lamp, each getting equal pleasure from its colourful delights. However, one day I arrived at the entrance gates only to find that they wouldn’t open on command from the remote control, no matter how hard or how many times I pressed the button. Eventually I got out of the car to see if I’d have more luck with the keypad on the post by the side of the gates. It was then I heard the house alarm in the distance. Unnerved I wondered whether to get some help or perhaps investigate further. Hoping that something had accidentally tripped the alarm, I decided to check it out myself first. As I suspected, typing in the entry code on the keypad had no effect on the gates so I’d have to somehow climb over. To one side of the gates was a small fence with metal rungs. I could easily use this to climb onto the gates and drop down the other side.
I managed to execute the manoeuvre
with military precision, which made me think that any old tom dick or harry could probably do the same. I raced up the long drive to the house, and with some relief wasn’t able to see any signs of a break-in. So I unlocked the front door and punched the entry code into the keypad in the hall. Thankfully the alarm fell silent.
My next concern was for Squidge, the poor little thing must have been terrified by the alarm’s shrill and constant noise. Rushing into the kitchen I could see that she wasn’t in her usual throne-shaped cat bed, and nor was she by the lava lamp. Consoling myself with the thought that when Dave and Sam went away Squidge was kept in the kitchen and adjoining living area, and therefore had to be somewhere in the immediate vicinity, I started to make my way through the kitchen to the far end where a large sofa had been strategically positioned in front of the bi-fold doors, to take in the view of the garden. That’s where I saw a cat-shaped lump underneath a furry silver-coloured blanket, which had no doubt once been carefully arranged in exactly the right position on the sofa, but was now trailing half-on and half-off the cream leather seat. I decided to sit a few feet away, and using my fail-safe method of cat-enticement, I plucked a few cat treats out of the pocket of my hoody and waited. It didn’t take long before Squidge emerged; nose-first from underneath the blanket.
My next task was to check the rest of the house. Needless to say, this was going to take me ages, and I was only a third of the way round when I heard the crunch of heavy footsteps on the gravel outside. Peeking warily through an upstairs window, I was relieved to see that the alarm had clearly done its job and alerted the local constabulary and, keen to recruit them to search the rest of the house; I quickly made my way down the sweeping staircase to let them in. I guessed they’d had to climb over the gates too. As I opened the door and watched the two police officers approach, I detected a hint of confusion on their faces. “We had report of someone wearing a hooded top and matching your description climbing over the electric gates of this property,” the burlier of the two said looking at me expectantly.
“Yes, that was me,” I said with a nervous laugh whilst inwardly questioning how he’d been able to do so the same thing given his large girth.
“Do you mind me asking why?” he continued.
By way of a garbled explanation I told them that I was the cat-sitter, and that I’d had to climb the gates to investigate what could have been a burglary. “You’re not in an Agatha Christie TV drama now madam,” he said sarcastically, “so in future would you mind leaving this type of thing to the police.”
Feeling suitably chastised I let them in so they could inspect the property for themselves, with me in tow. By the time we all reached the kitchen, and in what I thought was a very brave move, I asked them to be respectful of the cat that was somewhere on the other side of the door. The look that passed between them clearly read ‘cat nutter’ and they both did an exaggerated tippy-toe walk into the kitchen to humour me. However, when they saw Squidge staring up at the lava lamp, every now and then playfully patting it, their hearts appeared to be lost and they spent the next ten minutes billing and cooing over this strange-looking but incredibly charismatic little cat.
When I was eventually able to drag them away, we all headed down the drive to fetch our respective vehicles. Fortunately, having re-set the alarm meant that the electric gates had been released from ‘shut-down’ mode and by using the key pad on the inside of them I was able to confirm that they were now in full working order. So waving the police officers off, I got into my car and glanced down at my mobile phone which I’d left on the passenger seat. Seeing five missed international calls on the screen made me realise that Sam and Dave would have received an automatic message from the security company that installed the alarm system, letting them know that it had gone off. As I picked up the phone it suddenly rang again.
“Kat?” it was Dave’s voice on the other end “What the bleedin’ ‘ell’s goin’ on?” he said gruffly and with a slight hint of ‘why haven’t you been answering your phone?’ For the second time I was required to give an account of the day’s events and in doing so was able to reassure Dave that it was all in hand. So after he’d thanked me for taking care of things, I hung up and automatically put my hand in my pocket to retrieve the house keys. All I felt was a furry old tissue and some cat treats, but no keys. I immediately knew where I’d left them. They were on a table in the hall where I’d thrown them having got into the house and re-set the alarm, and when I’d left the house with boys in blue I’d forgotten to bring them with me. Being policemen you’d have thought they’d have reminded me.
I trudged up the drive with a whole host of thoughts flooding through my head. Had Sam and Dave left a small window open that I could squeeze through? However, even if it hadn’t been established during the earlier reconnaissance of the premises that all windows were secure, any kind of break-in would have meant risking the return of Starsky and Hutch. As I peered through the glass window next to the front door, I could just about make out the keys on the hall table, glinting at me mischievously. It was then I suddenly remembered Sam saying something about the neighbours having a spare key. I dashed back down the drive, not only wishing that it wasn’t so blasted long, but fervently hoping upon hope that the neighbours would be in. Having reached their electric gates I pressed the buzzer on their security intercom and waited. Several buzzes later and just as I was about to give up, I heard a crackle at the other end, then a distant voice. “Yes?” it asked.
Explaining the situation over an intercom system isn’t the easiest thing to do, and had I been in a more jocular frame of mind I’d have probably given into the temptation to end my monologue with ‘over and out.’ Instead I just listened, as the voice instructed me to wait where I was, which was a blessed relief, given that the neighbour’s drive appeared to be every bit as long as Sam and Dave’s.
Eventually I saw the gates open and something running towards me. At first I couldn’t quite make out what it was, but as it got closer it slowly dawned on me that I had interrupted a woman having her hair highlighted. Foil covered strands of hair flapped wildly around her head as she sped down the drive. “Sorry, I’m having my hair done” she said breathlessly as she handed me the treasured keys.
“Oh no, it’s me who should be sorry for interrupting you” I replied, feeling that I would be forever indebted to this metal-headed woman. So whilst she waited by her gates I broke the ‘running up and down a drive’ world speed record, in order to retrieve my keys and get the spares back to her as quickly as possible. The last thing I wanted to do was to mess up her timings and have her end up with green hair. As I handed the keys back over to her I thanked her profusely, and noted she was being ever-so nice about it all. But then it occurred to me that it was probably her that reported me to the police in the first place.
The other thing about large houses is that they sometimes come with a whole array of support staff. I never know when gardeners and cleaners are going to turn up and vice versa. I remember making one senior citizen cleaner jump out of her skin by arriving when she was in the middle of vacuuming the stairs. I wasn’t sure whether ‘death-by-frightening’ was covered under my public liability insurance, but I didn’t want to find out. Then there was the time when I dropped the cleaners well and truly in it, by reporting to the owners that doors had been left open when they should have been closed. It wasn’t that I wanted to be a blabbermouth and stitch-up my fellow workers, it’s just that I was trying stop alarms being set off by cats who had wandered into areas which were ‘no-go’ zones when their owners were away.
It wasn’t just the logistical difficulties between me and my co-workers which sometimes proved an obstacle to the smooth running of operations. On one occasion it happened to be a difficulty of a more personal nature, specifically my husband Elliott.
It was a fresh spring Saturday morning and Elliott and I had a wedding to attend, but not before I’d made my morning visit to see Jupiter who, as far as people were
concerned, was a good-natured tabby cat, but who wreaked havoc amongst the local rodent population. Rarely did a visit pass when I wasn’t scooping the remnants of a mouse or shrew off the Chinese rug whilst Jupiter watched on with a ‘what’s all the fuss about?’ expression on his face.
Jupiter’s house was very grand, old on the outside but tastefully refurbished on the inside. It also happened to be en-route to our wedding venue. So on that morning I’d decided it would be more time efficient to incorporate my cat-sitting visit into our journey, even if it did mean doing it whilst kitted out in my wedding guest finery. Elliot didn’t mind coming along to the visit, especially when the house in question was large and well appointed, and he could pretend to be Lord of the Manor for half an hour or so.
When we arrived I immediately went into bossy mode, instructing Elliott to sit quietly in the living room and not to disturb anything, including the cat, should he appear. On cue, Jupiter who’d been outside and had obviously seen or heard a car pull up, appeared on the other side of the cat flap and started to make his way through it, but when he was only half way though he stopped, something I naturally put down to Elliott’s presence. However, Jupiter was clearly looking directly at me, and it wasn’t until I crouched down and called his name that he continued his progress through the cat flap and came running towards me.
“Probably didn’t recognise you with your make-up on” Elliott said chuckling. I wasn’t happy about the comment, but admitted he did have a point. Such was the deathliness of my pallor ‘au naturale’ that it was rare for me to step foot outside without make-up, but then again did it really matter on the days when the only other living beings I would encounter were cats and Elliott? So on the cat-sitting days where I knew I wouldn’t be likely to meet any of my client’s neighbours, I got into the habit of leaving my face naked, throwing on an old hoody and jumping into the car as quickly a possible, hoping that I wouldn’t be spotted by any of my own neighbours. However, to be judged on my appearance by a cat, really did take the biscuit.
With these thoughts distracting me and with another shrew to remove, thankfully intact this time, I didn’t notice Elliott get up and saunter over to a door which I knew led into a lobby area from which a set of stairs led to the east wing of the house. It was just as he was turning the handle that I saw him and screamed
“Noooooo!” but it was too late and the alarm burst into life. “What part of don’t disturb anything did you not understand?” I screeched at him like an old fishwife.
“Well just switch the bloody thing off, I assume you’ve got the code?” he retorted. I didn’t have the code; it was safely tucked in the back seat pocket of my car. Having decided to take Elliott’s larger and more comfortable saloon to the wedding I’d left my car back at home. Nor did I remember the code; in fact it was one that I’d never had to use. When owners Julia and Harry went away they programmed the alarm for all areas of the house except the one room to which Jupiter was given access, and which I was able to enter via a set of patio doors around the back of the house. This meant that if either of the two other doors in that room were opened they would trip the alarm.
“What d ‘you mean you haven’t got the code?” Elliott said, conveniently throwing the blame back in my direction. I explained where it was and that there was nothing for it but to go back home and retrieve it so that we could get this sorted and head off to the wedding. Needless to say the fifteen minute car journey back home was awash with a series of tit for tat accusations.
“You should have told me about the alarm,” Elliott continually repeated whilst I repeated back
“I told you not to touch anything,” before we eventually descended into a frosty silence, only punctuated by the skidding noise of the tyres as Elliott forced the car around the bends in the narrow country lanes at break neck speed.
With the code retrieved and in my, by then sweaty hands, we sped back to Jupiter’s house where the alarm was still sounding. I rushed into the living room and turned the handle of the door in the room that led into the hall in which the alarm console was located. The door was locked.
“What was the point of that I said?” in exasperation not sure whether I was referring to the unnecessary journey we’d just made, or to the fact that the door through which we could access the alarm had been locked, whilst the one that Elliott had opened and which had set it off, had been left unlocked.
I was on the verge of ringing Julia and Harry to confess all when the alarm suddenly stopped. Perhaps it had a time-out function? Whatever it was I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I quickly attended to Jupiter’s food and water, then locked up and left. Obviously at some point I was going to have to make Julia and Harry aware that the alarm had gone off, I just didn’t have to admit our part in it.
In stark contrast to the plush homes that I’ve frequented was one that I dreaded going to. This wasn’t just because it was a flat on the top floor of a lift-less purpose-built block, but it had more to do with what was lurking inside it. I’d nicknamed it, or should it be knicker-named it, ‘The Pants Flat’.
When I first went to meet its occupants, both human and feline, I didn’t really have the opportunity to take in its true awfulness. Yes I did get hit in the face by the smell of cat wee as soon as I walked through the front door, but that was a smell I’d had to get used to over the years, and I’d also only actually been able to view one room in the flat. Unusually on this occasion the room in which the owners chose to interview me was their bedroom where I was so focussed on making a good impression, as well as playing with Lee the cat, that I wasn’t really able to take in my surroundings. Neither did alarm bells ring when, rather than being shown around, I was instead given a printed set of instructions with details of where I could find everything.
Lee was gorgeous, both in the looks and personality departments. He was a super-fluffy Turkish Van cat with odd coloured eyes, one blue and the other pale amber. His fur was long and mainly white but he had a huge bushy ginger tail as well as a ginger forehead which gave the impression that he was wearing a false fringe. Although a Turkish Van had never featured amongst the large repertoire of cats that I’d looked after, I’d nonetheless heard that they were a breed that had a penchant for water, bathing in it that is. So I decided to show-off my knowledge to Lee’s owners Mick and Heidi.
“Is it true that Turkish Van cats like swimming?” I asked the pair who were sitting side by side on their bed, whilst I stood awkwardly in front of them.
“Well I don’t know about actual swimming, but he does like a bit of a splash in the bath,” Mick said. This was something I had to see, so I readily agreed that I would look after Lee during the couple’s next trip to visit Heidi’s parents in Austria.
When I opened the door on my first visit several weeks later the smell of cat wee seemed stronger than before, in fact even to my hardened nose it was pretty overwhelming. However, the sight of the lovely Lee trotting up the hallway towards me diluted it somewhat as I concentrated my attentions on giving him a fuss. After a few second however, Lee hurried into the main bedroom and sat looking at me expectantly. It was then I noticed lots of screwed up bits of paper littering the floor. I picked up one of the less chewed-up bits, re-formed it into a ball and flicked it across the other side of the room. Lee bounded after it, hurtling up onto and across the bed, then down the other side, before finding it and bringing it back to me like an enthusiastic Golden Retriever. This was obviously his game of choice, and I was only too happy to oblige by playing the part of chief paper flicker.
After a few rounds of the game I realised that Lee wasn’t going to tire of it any time soon, and although I appreciated the fact that constant squatting down to pick up bits of paper was probably doing my thighs the world of good, I eventually gave in and sat myself down on the floor. It was then that I noticed that the carpet had quite a sticky feel to it, and whilst Lee was on the search for the paper ball I’d just thrown, and which had landed unde
r the bed, I was, for the first time, able to take a good look around the room. To my disgust I suddenly noticed that the grey carpet was awash with underwear, both male and female. Although ‘awash’ probably wasn’t the word I’d use to describe the garments which looked like they hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine in months and were as grey as the carpet, hence the reason I hadn’t immediately noticed them. If that wasn’t bad enough all the draws of the cabinets in the room were at various degrees of being pulled-out, and had socks and pants cascading out of them like some strange art installation called ‘drawers waterfall of drawers’.
I instinctively rose up from the sticky carpet only to find I’d been sitting on a dirty grey sock. Meanwhile Lee, having failed in his attempt to find the screwed up piece of paper I’d thrown, had returned and was waiting near me in anticipation of another paper chase. I decided I’d better get on with my practical duties, so left him in the bedroom chewing on a catnip cigar. With my instruction sheet in hand I found the litter tray in the carpeted bathroom which was located on the other side of the long, narrow hall. As I looked at the tray it struck me that it was far too small for a cat of Lee’s generous proportions, and the sodden, smelly carpet underneath it confirmed that a large amount of his wee had been falling outside of it. That at least explained the pong. It was also clear that Lee was an enthusiastic litter digger, a fact made obvious by the wood pellets which were strewn all over the bathroom, including in the bath where they’d turned into soggy sawdust which, if the state of the bedroom was anything to go by, I somehow couldn’t imagine Mick or Heidi sweeping out before taking a soak.
Moving further down the hall I found the living room, where the focal point was an enormous TV in front of which were various games consoles. The games themselves, along with their now empty plastic cases were scattered all over the floor, and I found myself struggling to avoid tripping over them as I made my way around the room. Either Mick, Heidi or both clearly loved their games as much as Lee did. It was also clear that the bedroom wasn’t the only room that had been given the pants design theme. Two small piles of ladies ‘smalls’ were perched precariously on one of the radiators. I’d heard the old wives tale about how sitting on radiators could cause piles, but didn’t realise that this extended to pants.
The kitchen was no better. In fact if anything it was worse, and I actually found rodent droppings underneath one of the counters.
As quickly as I could I sorted out Lee’s food and water, cleaned out his tray and found some newspaper to soak up the wetness underneath it. Luckily the council had left a supply of bin bags in the lobby of the block, so I went down to retrieve one to put between the tray and the newspaper to catch any new wee.
Back in the bedroom Lee had obviously got bored of the catnip cigar and had his head buried inside my bag, investigating the other toys in it. I wanted to play a bit more with him but really didn’t want to sit down, either on the sticky floor or on the unmade bed with its greasy looking sheets. So I picked up a handful of paper balls and threw them in every direction, which had him running hither and thither like a confused sniffer dog.
The next day when I visited I was sporting the latest in ‘forensics-expert-chic’, having had occasion to buy some white disposable coveralls made of latex, and complete with hood, at a time when Elliot and I were re-decorating. I was also armed with a very large litter tray that had been hanging around in our garage for the last twelve months or so as a ‘spare’. With all the items that I’d donated to my client’s cats over the years, I was convinced that I had probably never made any money out of the work, but for me a cat’s comfort came first.
Lee, as he had been the previous day, was in a very playful mood and although I wasn’t happy about having to sit on the carpet, at least I’d come suitably attired this time, and so I settled myself in for a long game of ‘flick the soggy paper’. However, it appeared that during our play session the day before, Lee had been showing off his ‘retrieve’ skills, and that now he’d got to know me, it was no longer necessary for him to take part in this rather fundamental bit of the game, because each time I threw the paper he would hurtle towards it but stop when he reached it, clearly expecting me to pick it up from where it had landed and re-throw it. Obviously his command was my bidding, and as I was already on the floor, the easiest way to do this would be to crawl on all fours. Perhaps I was being a tad neurotic about the whole cleanliness thing but nevertheless, in addition to the hooded suit, I would definitely be bringing a pair of latex gloves with me on my next visit.
The following day, and despite my misgivings about the environment, I turned up quite excited. It was the day I was going to see if Lee wanted a bath! I decided that we should forego our usual paper play session and had instead brought along some ping pong balls to throw in the bath in the hope that he’d find these equally satisfying. I marched into the bathroom followed by Lee, who clearly couldn’t understand why I wasn’t providing my usual entertainment for him. The first thing I had to do was clean out the cat litter from inside the bathtub. Mick and Heidi might not have minded it, but I was sure Lee would. So using some paper towels I carefully removed the offending particles and gave the whole bath a quick once-over with a j-cloth. The bath was ready for its furry occupant, so I put the plug in and turned the taps. As the first drops of water splashed onto the bath’s green plastic bottom Lee leapt in and started playing with the water coming out of the taps, I was ecstatic; this was a sight begging to be captured on video!
Ensuring the flow and temperature of the water was respectively light and lukewarm; I rushed to get my camera which I’d accidentally left in the car. By the time I returned the water was covering the bottom third of Lee’s front paws and he was splashing about like some demented flying fish. I quickly took some footage then threw the ping pong balls in. Seeing Lee pouncing on the balls as they bobbed on the surface of the water was like watching a baby playing with his bath toys, and I sat by the bath completely captivated. So much so that I forgot about the running taps and it wasn’t until Lee was actually wading in bathwater that I came out of my reverie and quickly turned them off. As soon as I did Lee stopped playing, leapt out of the bath and headed out of the room. Perhaps bath time was only fun when the water was running? I thought about testing the theory a few times by turning the taps on and off to see if he would perform a jump in/jump out type-routine, but decided better of it. I went to look for Lee and found him in the bedroom giving himself a thorough wash. “That’s a bit ironic Lee,” I said to him, more for my amusement than his. Over the days that followed it was this bath-time play that made the horrors of the pant flat worth enduring, and it was with some regret that I made my final visit late one afternoon.
I had become accustomed to donning my latex suit and gloves outside the flat’s front door, and this occasion was no different, in fact I’d become quite adept at slipping in and out of it. As I pulled the hood up I suddenly remembered the pair of old Y-Fronts that were resting in my magic bag. They’d somehow got caught up on one of the clips on the strap of the bag that morning, and I’d only noticed them when I’d reached the car. I’d had to put my gloves back on and put the pants inside the bag where I was sure the smell of catnip and valerian could only enhance them.
Back at the front door of the flat that afternoon I decided to get the pants out of the bag, whilst I remembered, I certainly didn’t want to be carrying them around for any longer than was absolutely necessary. Just as I stood upright the front door opened...
“What the hell’s going on?” Mick said.
“You’re back?” I replied, wondering what he was doing standing in front of me, when he and Heidi should have been on a Ferry somewhere over the English Channel.
“Who the bloody-hell are you, and what business is it of yours what my movements are?” An ironic choice of words I thought, given than I was holding a pair of his Y-Fronts in my hand. But, at that moment, I’d never felt more foolish, and as I pulled down my hood I f
eebly replied “it’s me, Kat, your cat-sitter.”
“What on earth are you doing dressed like that, and why have you got a pair of my Y-Fronts in your hand? My interrogator continued.
I realised I probably presented a rather disarming sight, and what’s more I had no excuses, after all, I could hardly admit to finding the flat disgusting enough to be covered head-to-toe in protective latex. But then I had a brainwave.
“I’m afraid I’m allergic to certain textiles,” I said “which means I sometimes have to wear this” I explained, indicating my suit. I gave no rationale for having his pants in my hand.
He ushered me into the flat, still looking rather confused, so I went on to embellish my story, specifying carpets as being the usual culprits to ‘set me off’.
“I come out in a really itchy rash” I lied, as his air of suspicion turned into an expression of concern that made me feel terribly guilty.
“Oh, that must be very uncomfortable” he commiserated as I followed him into the living room, surreptitiously dropping the pants en route. Luckily Heidi was nowhere to be seen and Mick obviously didn’t think it necessary to explain her absence.
“We managed to catch an earlier ferry” he told me.
I just nodded, in the hope that by not participating in any conversation, I’d be able to get out of the flat as soon as possible, thus ending my immediate mortification.
“I suppose your allergy means you won’t be able to look after Lee again” he said rather sadly. This statement took me by surprise. I desperately wanted to confirm his assumption and put the last five minutes behind me forever. But instead I found myself saying “Not at all! As long as I’m careful and wear my suit, I should be fine.” Mick looked relieved, and thanked me as I handed the keys over to him.
“We’ll be in touch!” he said cheerfully as he waved me off.
What was I thinking? Not only had I just condemned myself to a latex-wearing future in this flat, but I’d have to keep up with the huge lie I’d created.
A couple of months later I received an email from Heidi and my stomach churned. She and Mick were planning a trip to the Swiss Alps for a week later that month, and could I do the honours with Lee? There was no mention of my ‘allergy’ in the email, perhaps Mick hadn’t told her?
So it was that with terrible flashbacks to the latex suit and underpants moment, I found myself returning to Mick and Heidi’s to pick up the keys. As I stood at their front door I consoled myself with the thought that I’d at least get to watch Lee again, quite literally having a ball in the bath.
I rang the doorbell and soon heard the unmistakeable sound of shoes on...
“Greetings!” Heidi welcomed me with a beaming face, but all I could do was stare at the floor. “I see you’ve spotted it already!” she said enthusiastically. She was referring to the brand new laminate flooring that extended the length of the hallway.
“Oh my goodness, you’ve got a new floor” I stuttered, stating the obvious. “Yes, Mick told me about your allergy and it was just the excuse I needed to persuade him to get rid of that filthy old carpet!” she replied before showing me that the flat had indeed been laminated throughout, with the exception of the bathroom, which had lovely new floor tiles.
This only served to make me feel even guiltier that they’d gone to all this expense based on my lie. I could imagine Heidi regaling her friends with stories of her allergy-ridden, latex-covered cat-sitter and how, as a result she’d got herself some brand new flooring. A lie like this could spread like wildfire, resulting in half the wives of Sevenoaks suddenly developing an allergic reaction to their old carpets in an attempt to persuade ambivalent husbands to replace them. No wonder Winston Churchill had once said “A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to put its pants on.”
The Hairy Tails of a Cat Sitter Page 8