The Hairy Tails of a Cat Sitter

by C H Hemington

  Part one was to get Twiggy into a routine of play and relaxed frivolity and I only had seven days in which to do it. Part two would be slightly trickier as it would involve some kind of subliminal messaging system targeted at Bruno in order to try and get him to calm down. Yes, I realise I was only the cat-sitter but I took my duties seriously.

  I went into the lounge, opened my cat bag and placed it strategically in the middle of the floor. With some trepidation I then went to check each of the downstairs litter trays to see whether they needed to be cleaned. Joyously I saw that none had been used, not even for a wee. As I replaced the lid on the living room litter tray I caught sight of Twiggy nervously entering the room. Just as before, she began investigating my toy bag, dragging out furry mice, knotted shoelaces, spongy balls, catnip bananas and feathers. I never tire of seeing a cat losing itself in a reverie of catnip and valerian, and watching the usually anxious Twiggy, now oblivious to the world around her was nothing short of fantastic.

  I sat on the floor near her and carefully picked up a shoelace with a knot in the end into which I’d stuck a feather, and waggled it. Twiggy stopped what she was doing and watched intently. Then, with surprising agility and a little wiggle of her bum, she pounced! With lighting-quick reactions of my own I quickly jerked the shoelace so she missed her target by millimetres. I then continued to swing the shoelace around me whilst Twiggy gave chase. Ultimately I allowed her to catch it and for several minutes she sat contentedly chewing on the feather.

  This I thought was the perfect time for me to head upstairs to tackle the dreaded output from her latest episode. The odour led me to the master bedroom and a hooded litter tray in the far corner of the room by the window. I winced as I unclipped the hood and lifted it up.

  As I slid my fingers underneath the lid to get a better grip, they met with a gelatinous substance that had obviously been splattered around its inner sides.

  “Oh surely not,” I murmured. I didn’t have to look to see what I had inadvertently put my fingers in, but let’s just say I’ll never touch another chocolate dipped finger biscuit again. So with the tray lid in hand, I made my way to the bathroom as quickly as possible where, with great relief, I dropped the lid upside-down into the bath. The taps were connected to a shower head, with a little lever in-between them, presumably to switch the flow of water from the shower head to the taps and vice versa. Using only my elbow I gently nudged the hot water tap. Nothing happened so I nudged a bit harder. Still nothing. I was beginning to think that the boys had turned the water supply off before they left, and was about to give in and use my mucky hands when, with one final nudge, the shower head sprang into life and with such force that the it leapt off its bracket and slithered around the bath like a drunken snake. As it caught the inside of the hood, water and goodness knows what else ricocheted out and hit me squarely in the face. Dirty fingers or no dirty fingers I decided to grab the wayward shower with both hands and switching the lever to tap mode, I slooshed the shower head itself which was now covered in poo-prints. I then washed my hands and face with the only soap available which was most definitely non-scented and non coloured. How odd! Could this be Gareth holding his own little anti-scent demonstration in protest at what was Bruno’s over the top use of scent sticks?

  As I gave the tray hood a thorough going-over I thought ‘all this and I hadn’t even cleaned the litter tray yet.’

  I momentarily parked that thought and decided to leave the lid by the radiator to drip dry. The boys had left the heating on and it was so warm that beads of perspiration were forming in the creases of my furrowed forehead.

  I made my way back into the bedroom, dreading the next step of the procedure. The ghastly site of the litter tray turned my stomach, why do I do this job? I questioned, not for the first time. But as quickly as the thought entered my head it was replaced by the image of Twiggy rolling around in the living room, with a big smile on her face – well, if cats could smile then that’s what she’d have been doing – and I had my answer. As far as I was concerned to see a cat enjoying itself was worth more than the reward that any other job could bring.

  With renewed vigour I took hold of the tray, carefully this time, and emptied the entire contents into one of the large plastic bags on a roll that I’d carried around with me ever since the squirrel debacle. However, as was inevitable, some of the contents clung stubbornly to the sides of the tray and only a good wipe-down would see them off. So off I went downstairs in search of some kitchen roll. It was easy to find, stuck on a kitchen-roll holder in the shape of a cat’s tail, located near the fridge. Numerous tiny photos of Twiggy in various poses in little magnetic flower-shaped frames bedecked the fridge door and I couldn’t help but smile. Having grabbed several sheets of paper towel I made my way back to the stairs and as I passed the living room I had a quick glance inside. Twiggy was stretched out on one of the faux fur throws, her ample barrel chest rising and falling hypnotically. It was clear to me that she’d perhaps inhaled a little too much catnip and valerian and I made a mental note to give her just one or two toys from my magic bag next time.

  Back in the bedroom I quickly dispatched the remaining contents of the tray, including any sticky litter.

  Once again I made my way to the bathroom where the hood of the tray had dried nicely. Using the incredible wriggling shower head, I slooshed out the tray itself with water as hot as I could bear, and with the remaining kitchen towel I dried it off. Leaving the two parts of the tray in the bathroom, I decided to tackle the remaining three upstairs trays. They’d all been used and it was obvious that the wee-related contents were significantly older in some of the trays than in the others. I know I’d only met the boys once but it was clear that they were very house-proud and I thought this omission in their cleaning regime to be a bit odd. Perhaps they were so focussed on the poo that they forgot about the pee.

  Having cleaned out, washed and dried every tray I put them all back in their original locations. Then a thought then suddenly occurred to me, where do they keep the litter? How could I have not found this out from Bruno and Gareth? I’d obviously been completely thrown by the unusual circumstances I’d found myself in at that first meeting that my normal thoroughness had gone completely out of the window. I trekked back down the stairs and passed the living room, where Twiggy was still fast asleep, every now and then letting out a gentle little snore.

  Once again, I found myself desperately searching kitchen cupboards for a must-have and very urgent item.

  “Where the bloody hell is it?” I said irritably. I stood in the middle of the kitchen trying to remember all the places that my other clients, past and present, had used for cat litter storage. The under stairs cupboard was usually a favourite, but here it had been kitted out with shelving which accommodated hundreds of DVDs. I knew that on one of my next visits curiosity would get the better of me and I’d have to have a sneaky look at their collection. Not that I was being voyeuristic, I was sure that all ‘under the counter’ titles, assuming there were any, would have been kept in a more private location. There wasn’t really a garden to speak of, just a perfectly landscaped yard with no outbuildings.

  As my eyes scanned the kitchen I suddenly noticed a large object in the corner of the room by the back door, shielded by a piece of overlapping granite worktop. It was only when I moved towards it that I was able to see it in all its glory. It was a great big, very pink, plastic bin with a lid in the shape of a cat’s head, complete with pointy ears sticking out of the top. It looked like the type of thing you’d see on a carnival float. The handle was inset into the lid and I couldn’t help but liken it to a larger version of ‘Dusty Bin’ which was given out as the booby prize to unlucky contestants on the 1980s quiz show ‘3-2-1’. It was in stark contrast to the rest of the house, which had been interior-designed to within an inch of its life (perhaps with the exception of the ‘cat tail’ kitchen-roll holder and magnetic flower frames). Part of me dreaded to think what I might find within b
ut having cautiously pulled off the lid I heaved a sigh of relief on seeing that it was full to the rim of cat litter. Given the nature of the circumstances faced by the boys on an almost daily basis, it didn’t surprise me that they’d opted to buy in bulk.

  My relief was short-lived as I wondered how was I going to transport the litter from the bin to the trays upstairs. Perhaps I should bring the trays down and fill them up in the kitchen? However, as the trays were fairly large, I’d have had to do this one-tray at a time which seemed like a ridiculous duplication of journeys and my thighs were telling me that I’d already done enough stair-climbing for one visit. There was nothing for it I’d just have to find a receptacle large enough for me to be able to fill all the upstairs trays in one go. I went in search of a bucket.

  My instinct took me to the airing cupboard, the location of which Bruno had pointed out to me previously, given that it contained a plethora of cleaning products for soiled carpets. It had only occurred to me because there were so few other places in the house where it could logically be, plus that’s where my parent’s always keep a spare bucket or two, and this time my instinct was spot on. I grabbed a large orange bucket and headed back to the kitchen to fill it up with litter from Dusty Bin. Feeling pleased with my resourcefulness, I heaved the bucket back upstairs and with quiet satisfaction gradually emptied an equal amount of litter from the bucket into each tray. Other people might get their kicks from having an organised shoe rack, mine come from seeing a beautifully clean litter tray. I was about to leave the final room when I noticed something on the windowsill, partially hidden by the curtain. I pulled the curtain fully back to reveal a mini Dusty Bin staring back at me.

  I couldn’t believe it! Surely one pink cat-bin in a home was one too many? Another thought then occurred to me. If the large downstairs cat-bin was used for litter, what was in this? I knew the answer before removing the lid. Of course each litter tray would have its own supply of litter, which, when depleted would be refilled from the big bin. So there was method in the madness after all.

  Sure enough, when I went to the other rooms, behind each set of curtains was one of the cat-bins. Of course, I opened each, just to verify that I was in fact correct about the contents. However, the lid of the final bin, the one in the master bedroom was more difficult to remove. A vacuum had obviously been created when the lid was last put on, which meant that it required some effort to extricate it. Not one to shy away from a challenge I put the bin between my legs and gave it a firm tug. Success! Off flew the lid, and with it came the entire contents of the bin. Fine grain cat litter was catapulted around the room, landing on every surface, giving it an eerie post-apocalyptic appearance. There was nothing for it but to find the vacuum cleaner and get this mess cleaned up pronto.

  I wondered whether Twiggy would be one of those cats who viewed the vacuum cleaner in the same way as we humans would if a T-Rex suddenly appeared and started rampaging around the house. The last thing I wanted was to set her nervous tummy off again and face the subsequent likelihood of having to clean a tray at best, or the carpet at worst. Either way, it wasn’t a thought I relished but there was no other way. Fortunately I’d spotted a ‘Henry Hoover’ upstairs. It seemed like Bruno and Gareth simply couldn’t get enough of household products with grinning faces on them. I took it into the bedroom, treading on litter that had escaped through the door on my way.

  Closing the door behind me I set about my task. Every shelf, every inch of floor-space; the windowsill, bedside tables and the entire surface of the duvet were sucked free of litter. I even gave the bed sheet a little going over. The boys would have been horrified if they were to slip into the sanctuary of their Egyptian cotton sheets after a long day anticipating cat diarrhoea, only to find litter getting into places that we’d best not mention.

  Once I was satisfied that the job was complete I put Henry Hoover back where I found him, placed the bucket in the airing cupboard, picked up the bags of used litter and headed downstairs. To my surprise, Madame Twigsy was still asleep. It made me wonder how much good quality sleep she got when the boys were at home, perhaps she simply felt too anxious to do more than cat nap. So I decided to leave her to it. Having placed her food down, packed up my belongings, left a mini-catnip-cushion for Twiggy to amuse herself with and sent a brief ‘all’s well’ text to Bruno and Gareth I headed off, wondering what the following morning’s visit would bring.

  When I arrived the next day I was met on the doorstep by a rather red-faced delivery man who was about to pop a ‘while you were out’ card through the letter box. On seeing me he looked rather relieved and with no pleasantries exchanged, he thrust the signature machine in my face, along with the wrong end of a biro and asked me to sign on the screen. Having done my best, I handed the annoying object back to the delivery man who I noticed beat a rather hasty retreat. When I tried to pick up the large box that he’d left, I realised why. It was ridiculously heavy and there was no way I was going to be able to move it on my own. There was nothing for it, I’d just have to text the boys and ask if I could open it in the hope that there would be a number of products contained therein that I’d be able to bring in separately. When I looked more closely at the box I saw that it had originated from one of the large online pet products retailers. Excellent! I love a pet product and felt a surge of excitement akin to handbag-enthusiast’s pleasure at seeing a large package with a Louis Vuitton sticker attached to it.

  So as not to inadvertently send Bruno and Gareth into a blind panic I started my message with a jolly, ‘everything’s peachy here’, even though I’d never used the word ‘peachy’ in my life, and nor had I actually been inside to determine whether everything was in fact ‘peachy’. I explained the box dilemma and moments later I received a message back confirming that it was only ‘cat litter’ and I could open it. Cat litter? Why on earth did they need more? Perhaps they were anticipating an avalanche of incidents in their absence and I would therefore require a corresponding mountain of litter.

  I opened the box and sure enough there before me were two large sacks of cat litter. Before heaving them into the house I decided to go and check on Twiggy, after all it wasn’t as if anybody was going to make a quick getaway with them. I opened the door and instinctively held my breath. As I walked in a beige-coloured head peeked around the banister at the top of the stairs. Was it me, my cat-bag full of goodies or the strange noises outside the front door that had brought her out of her hiding place so quickly? Either way this boded well! I headed into the living room to remove a fresh toy from my bag and as I did so I couldn’t help notice that the only discernible smell was that of pepper. I cautiously moved from room to room downstairs, checking each tray and, like the previous evening, all of them were unused. I went back into the living room where Twiggy was rolling around on the floor with the large furry sausage that I’d put down for her – using her front paws to grasp it and hold it to her belly whilst raking it furiously with her back legs. She looked so cute.

  Steeling myself, I decided to go upstairs, the smell of pepper by now tickling the back of my throat. Leaving the master bedroom until last, I visited the two other rooms that housed a litter tray. All was looking good so far, just a couple of wees in each corner of one of the trays.

  With grit and determination I scurried into the master bedroom and made my way towards the dreaded tray. As I approached, yes there was a smell but it was in fact the very familiar aroma of a normal poo. Sure enough, nestled in a bed of soft litter, was the perfectly formed article. This undoubtedly counted amongst those times when my satisfaction at seeing a solid log was at its most great. I quickly dispatched the item into a bag and headed back downstairs where I could attend to Twiggy’s food and water requirements before indulging some well-deserved ‘us time’ with the clever cat.

  On the subject of food, I wondered if all the various varieties of wet food that the boys were giving her weren’t contributing to Twiggy’s toileting woes, so I’d brought with me some cat f
ood that was especially designed for delicate tummies and which I’d previously had occasion to feed my own cat. Barely had the first kibble hit the bottom of her designer food bowl when I heard the patter of not-so-little paws. In came Twiggy, her look of enthusiasm second only to that displayed when she saw my catnip toys for the first time. Not wanting her to bolt it all down in one go I placed some of the kibbles around the house for her to find, making a mental note to have a Henry Hoovering session before the boys returned home.

  I left the kitchen to the sound of cat crunching kibble and went and sat down in the living room, waiting for Twiggy to finish her food so that we could have some fun and games together. Several minutes later she duly re-appeared and to my astonishment jumped straight onto the sofa where I was sitting and plonked herself firmly on my lap where she began to conduct a spot of post-breakfast grooming. After all these years in the job I’m still utterly surprised at how different the behaviour of cats can be when owners are away, compared to the behaviour that owners describe of their cats when they’re not away. In this case the difference in Twiggy was astounding and in my excitement I immediately sent a text to Bruno and Gareth to let them know what was going on, forgetting that they might feel a bit piqued that Twiggy had chosen to sit on my lap so quickly, when she rarely, so I’d been informed, sat on theirs.

  After she’d finished her ablutions Twiggy decided it was time for a nap and curled herself into a tight ball on my lap. I stayed as still as possible but it wasn’t long before my legs began to go numb whilst Twiggy snored and twitched on my lap, obviously deep in sleep. I really didn’t want to wake her but I had other visits to make and couldn’t spend all day serving as the bed for a large slumbering cat, but how to move her? Would I use the ‘gently tip her off’ method or the more robust ‘scoop her up and plant her down on the warm place vacated by my rear’ alternative? I chose the former and started to move. Twiggy’s head immediately jerked up, and with a distinctly irritable gait she abandoned my lap and gave herself a quick lick down one side before jumping off the sofa and exiting the room.

  By now I was running late and in my rush to leave the premises I tripped squarely over the box of litter that I’d forgotten I’d left outside the front door. I wondered if falling over was as much of an occupational hazard for other pet-sitters as it clearly was for me. Checking there was no witnesses to my embarrassing little incident I quickly picked myself up from the front path, heaved one of the sacks of litter from the box and began to tug it over the doorstep. It occurred to me that if it split now it would make yesterday’s litter cleaning operation seem like a walk in the park. However, five minutes and a bit of back strain later, both sacks were safely installed in the hall where, as far as I was concerned, they could remain until the boys got home. I enthusiastically grabbed the empty cardboard box; as any cat owner knows, cats love a cardboard box! I tucked in three of the flaps leaving one for Twiggy to hide under and tossed the box in the living room. Highly satisfied with my morning’s work I left the house and headed off to my see my next cat.

  Over the days that followed Twiggy and I got into a lovely routine where she’d have a little play session with whatever catnip toy I allocated for her that day, allowing me to get on with changing her water, delivering her food for sensitive tummies, planting fresh kibble in new hiding places and cleaning her litter trays. She’d then help herself to a spot of food, come and sit on my lap and have a groom before allowing me to give her a little tickle around her ears, after which she’d have a snooze.

  Before leaving the house each day I’d make a point of removing a number of scent sticks so that by the time my last visit arrived only one solitary stick remained in each container. Although this gave me a certain degree of wicked pleasure, rather bizarrely it was my litter tray cleaning duties that brought me the most delight. After my initial visit there had been no sub-par stools and each day I would bound into the house, unencumbered by worries about what toileting disaster I might find. Operation ‘stinky poo eradication’ had been successful, at least for the time being. The thing was, to try and ensure its legacy continued.

  Each time a set of cat-sitting visits comes to an end I always leave a brief note for the owners and this time was no exception. In fact this note was going to form an integral part of my plan. I’d deliberately kept my final text message to the boys brief and basic so a lot rested on this note and I would have to choose my words carefully:

  Hi Bruno and Gareth

  I hope you’ve had wonderful break in Budapest. I expect you couldn’t wait to get back to Twiggy and I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you! She’s has been such a gorgeous girl. I found that if I left her to her own devices she’d start playing with the catnip toys I put out for her. It’s been lovely to see her rolling around with the toys everyday looking like she doesn’t have a care in the world!

  I didn’t mention it at our first meeting but I operate a strictly ‘no touch’ basis until a cat has got to know me and feels comfortable around me. This seemed to work really well with Twiggy. I found the more I left her alone, the more curious she became about me and the more she wanted to engage with me. On several occasions she even fell asleep on my lap!!

  Whilst you were away I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help with regards to her tummy problems. I already had some cat sensitivity biscuits at home which worked wonders with my cat so I thought “I’m sure Bruno and Gareth won’t mind if I try them out on Twigsy”. It really does seem to have done the trick and she’s been as ‘solid as a rock’ for the last few days! I’ve heard that cats like to forage for their food so I also thought it was worth hiding some of the biscuits in different places for her to find.

  You’ll see that I’ve left a cardboard box out for her. It was the box that the cat litter came in. I barely had time to remove the litter before she’d jumped in it, which I assumed was her way of telling me that she’d like it to stay please! I’ve also left one of the catnip toys from my supply. She did tell me that she might get tired of it and asked me to put in a word for her about perhaps having some more. She was worried about asking you herself as you’ve spoiled her in the bedding department and she didn’t want to push her luck!

  Best wishes

  Kat

  I thought it best not to mention the fact that I’d removed most of the peppercorn scent sticks, I just hoped they’d get the hint...

  I felt bad knowing that there were elements of the note that were a bit disingenuous, but it was important to keep the boys on side if my plan was to have any long term success. I was also certain there would be some mixed emotions; happiness that their pride and joy had got on so well during their time away, and sadness that she was clearly a different cat around them. Would the not-so subtle messages in my note work?

  Later that evening I received a gushy text from Bruno letting me know he and Gareth had arrived home safely and had been elated to see their Twigsy again.

  A few days later I was surprised to receive a phone call from Gareth.

  OMG, had they discovered litter granules in their bed after all?

  “First of all” he started ominously.

  “I’d like to say thank you for taking such good care of our Twigsy.”

  What a relief.

  “She seemed like a different cat for the first couple of days after we got back, but...”

  Here we go.

  “...since then she’s been regressing somewhat and I wonder if I could have your honest opinion on something that’s been worrying me.”

  I braced myself.

  “Do you think that Bruno and I are to blame for Twigsy’s diarrhoea?”

  The directness of the question caught me completely off guard.

  “Erm, what makes you say that?” I said, buying some time.

  “It just seems obvious really,” he said rather dejectedly. “From what I can gather, she was clearly more relaxed around you and producing lovely little packages, but with us she seems a bit n
ervy and what she evacuates from her back end is really rather extraordinary.”

  I’m not sure I’d ever describe poo as ‘lovely’ but he’d hit the nail on the head and it was heartbreaking.

  “Well, it’s not unusual for a cat to act differently when its owners are away,” I said trying to be as diplomatic as possible, “and sometimes if there’s a problem, the owners might be so bogged down coping with it that it’s only when someone comes in afresh that the whole situation can be seen from a different perspective.”

  I went on to say that in Twiggy’s case Gareth and Bruno would have been spending all their time just fire-fighting the diarrhoea and that it would be incredibly difficult for them to detach themselves from the whole situation and try and objectively figure out what could be causing it.

  “So what do you think is causing it?” he insisted.

  There was no getting around it I was going to have to be forthright.

  “In all honesty, and only based on what I saw when I first came to see you, I think that Bruno might be too attached to Twiggy. In his eyes she’s his baby and it could be that he sometimes forgets she’s a cat and mightn’t want the same type of contact with him that he does from her.” Gathering momentum, I continued, “he also gave me the impression that it mightn’t be unusual for him to get himself into a bit of a tizz, and if this is the case, then yes, it could be having an effect on Twiggy’s emotional state too.”

  There, I’d said it and I was fully expecting Gareth to tell me never to darken their door again. But to my surprise he said “I totally agree, but what can we do about it?”

  I went on to suggest that they both, but Bruno in particular, try and be as calm as possible around her; that they buy her some catnip toys and instead of cuddling her to death, get some shoelaces and play with her. I also suggested they speak to their vet about keeping her on the sensitivity food and for good measure added “to be honest, I can understand why you’ve got so many scent sticks around the house, but I don’t think they’re doing Twiggy any favours.”

  “Thank God,” he said. “I’ve had to live with those bloody things for the last two years.”

  Bruno and Gareth became regular clients and although Twiggy still had the odd ‘accident’, the situation was much improved, Bruno and Gareth were more relaxed and it seemed that Gareth had eventually got his way because when I next visited the scent sticks had disappeared and gone to the great home for scent sticks in the sky, although I’m pretty sure that even St Peter would have turned away the peppercorn ones.