Chapter 11 - Drooly Madly Deeply – The Final Chapter
I’ve always reserved an extra special place in my heart for the senior citizens of the feline world, perhaps because they age in a very similar way to us. Their hearing and eyesight get worse, they tend to suffer from arthritis, get very confused, they’re toileting habits fall to pieces, and eventually they start drooling without realising.
There is something so vulnerable about these frail creatures which once upon a time would chase leaves, jump into boxes, scale the highest of cat trees and constantly come up with new ways to manipulate us humans, but which, when approaching life’s end, would do so with a quiet stoicism. I’ve had the privilege of looking after a number of elderly cats each with their own little idiosyncrasies, and when they’ve died the sadness I’ve felt has been no less than if they’d been my own.
Polly was twenty when I first started visiting her. She was a petite cat, a fact that was disguised by her long black coat which was offset by a swathe of white fur that encircled her neck like an Elizabethan ruff. For a lady of her senior years she moved surprisingly well, and when she sat upright her little paws turned out as if she were a ballerina standing in first position. Yes, she was a bit snuffly and sneezy but other than that she was in fine fettle, something which I put down to her owners Amy and Ken who were both amazingly calm, and no doubt this rubbed off on Polly.
When I first met Polly she was reclining on Amy and Ken’s sofa with a ‘and you are?’ expression on her face as she eyed me up and down. Resisting the urge to courtesy I carefully sat down, making sure there was an appropriate amount of space between us, so she wouldn’t suddenly feel like her sofa-based domain was about to be taken over. I slowly moved my fingers towards her hoping she would approve of my scent. Her initial aristocratic countenance immediately fell away, and a sudden bash of her head on my hand heralded the moment when our friendship began.
She was in fact the sweetest little thing who loved nothing more than to sit on the sofa giving and receiving affection. I say nothing more, but she did have a huge love of cat treats, especially the meaty sticks that resembled chocolate matchsticks, but more smelly. When Amy and Ken were away Polly had the run, or should I say ‘walk’, of most areas of the house, except for the living room where she’d developed a habit of scratching the sofa. However, she was allowed to spend time in there when I visited, which was all well and good, but once she was on that sofa she made it clear that she had no plans to get off it again. It was only by leaving her a little trail of meaty stick pieces from the sofa to the door at the end of each visit, that I was able to entice her away from it. In fact she followed the trail with a surprising amount of speed, hoovering up the pieces of meat with enormous enthusiasm. Outside of the living room her favourite sleeping place seemed to be her mouse igloo. When I arrived she would usually be asleep inside its fluffy belly, and when she heard me her sleepy little head would appear out of the mouse’s mouth, which I always thought was quite ironic.
She always seemed excited to see me, but as a cat that obviously loved company I wasn’t going to kid myself that it was only me to whom he gave her favours so readily, in fact I was pretty sure that even if it had been the Wicked Witch of the East coming to see her she’d have been equally ardent.
Our times together consisted of a mutually affectionate greeting followed by affairs of a more practical nature, after which I’d open the door to the living room and Polly would follow me in. We’d then share a cuddle on the sofa and have a little gentle comb of Polly’s ruff, after which she’d settle down for a nap. It was so cathartic sitting there with her that I’d sometimes bring along with me assignments from the cat psychology course I’d embarked on, and spend a couple of hours quietly working, with Polly lying next to me gently snoring.
It was my coursework that gave me the idea for a little game that we could play together. I’d tried amusing Polly with a selection of catnip toys but it was feathers that she loved the most. Whenever I went for a walk in the country I’d pick up any feathers that appeared to be in good condition, even if they were on the large side. Elliott would always groan as I veered off track for the umpteenth time to pick one up, be it from a sparrow, magpie or even a pheasant, and leave it sticking out of my pocket like some strange tribal accessory. So I usually had a good selection with me on my cat sitting rounds, and it was patting a feather I’d attached to the end of a shoelace that was Polly’s favourite game. The play sessions never lasted that long, and granted they did all take place with Polly in her usual recumbent position, but at the age of twenty I was only too thrilled that she still had any inclination at all. It just goes to show, you can teach an old cat new tricks, or so I thought.
Knowing that Polly enjoyed the odd bit of frivolity I thought I’d volunteer her to help me with one of my course assignments. I’d been asked to undertake a research project, the object of which was to test out two established methods of animal training, by asking my cat participants to differentiate between two individual cardboard shapes. Now anyone who’s tried to ‘train’ a cat to do anything will understand that this is not an exercise to be undertaken lightly. Unlike dogs, who it seems will have a go at virtually anything in order to please their owners; a cat’s first reaction is almost always “what’s in it for me?” The truth is they’re just not motivated in the same way as dogs, and even less so when they’re in their twilight years. However, with Polly’s penchant for cat treats I thought my treat-based assignment might be a bit of fun for her. So during one of my morning’s visits I got out my cardboard shapes, lay them on the floor and lured Polly over to them using the bits of meaty stick she so loved. This part of the training worked a treat, so to speak. However, once Polly was on the shapes she clearly decided that she rather liked the feel of cardboard against bum and wouldn’t move. Like an intransigent pensioner she steadfastly remained in a position that was no good to me at all, then after a couple of minutes during which time no meaty stick was forthcoming, she flumped down, closed her eyes and fell into a deep slumber, and that was the end of that.
I wasn’t surprised, after all why would a cat do anything quite as pointless as show me that they knew the difference between a square and a circle? So with Polly giving me the clearest of indications that this had been a quite frankly ridiculous idea, I decided to let sleeping cats lie, quite literally in Polly’s case.
Sometimes, weather permitting we’d go for a little stroll in the garden where, especially during our final few times together, Polly would always stick close by my side. There was no danger of her disappearing off, in fact I’d only have to move a few feet away from her and she’d come hurrying back to me as fast as her ancient old legs would carry her. I was Polly’s temporary security blanket in what was now a big and scary outside world. However, this reluctance to spend time by herself outdoors hadn’t always been quite so pronounced. Amy had told me that during the warmer weather she would sometimes head off to find a sunny spot on the next door neighbour’s decking, where she could relax and watch the world go by, and on my very first visit this is exactly what I thought Polly had done. Not finding her in the house, nor in her own garden I peeked over the fence, expecting her to be sitting on the decking, probably daydreaming about times gone by. However she wasn’t there either and I panicked. At twenty years of age and with diminishing faculties’ she was vulnerable to all sorts of threats. I immediately got in touch with Amy and Ken to find out if there were any other places where Polly liked to wile away the time. They couldn’t think of anywhere obvious and told me that she’d probably turn up when she was ready, and if that happened to be after I had to depart, then not to worry. Polly didn’t turn up and I did worry, especially because I was only visiting her once a day, and the thought of leaving her outside on her own was awful, but it was the summer season and my busiest time of year for cat sitting, so I had no choice.
The next day I arrived with my heart in my mouth, not knowing what I would find. I went in the house and again there w
as no sign of Polly. Neither was she in any of the outside places I’d looked the previous day. I called out for her and shook her treat packet so often that its seam eventually split, scattering treats all over the road. Not wanting to attract other cats from far and wide, I scrabbled about collecting what treats I could whilst getting the distinct feeling that curtains were twitching. I eventually stood up, stretched my back and was about to go in search of a new home for the cat treats when I saw something that looked like a cat at the far end of the row of houses. Without my glasses I couldn’t be sure and given my enthusiasm for the species it wouldn’t be the first time I’d mistaken a plastic bag, piece of wood or a large stone for a cat. I called out her name and hoped that a) it was a cat b) it was Polly and c) that she’d come to me. I clearly had the ‘genie of the cat lamp’ on my side that day as all three wishes were granted. Slowly and cautiously Polly moved forward, probably enticed by the now yummy smelling bit of tarmac directly surrounding me. Rather than move towards her I decided to make for the open front door of her house in the hope that she’d follow. She did, and it was with huge relief that I was able to close the door behind her, lock the cat flap and ensure she didn’t go on any more little adventures, at least not whilst I was looking after her. I did wonder what had made her wander off in the first place; perhaps she’d just gone out, got disorientated and lost her way. Whatever it was, she no longer had the confidence to be on her own when outside and it’s sad to think that how age can rob us of this.
Even when I wasn’t looking after Polly I’d often wonder how she was, as I do all my ‘elderlies’. One particularly hot summer I received an update from Amy letting me know that Polly was suffering a bit in the heat, drinking a lot of water, sleeping more and had lost her miaow at times, but still seemed very content. Then one day towards the end of November of that same year Amy sent me another email simply entitled ‘Polly.’
Dear Kat. I wanted you to know that our beloved Polly died on Thursday. She was an amazing cat, much loved and we miss her very much. She was a grand old lady and quite mobile up until the last few days. She was very relaxed and was purring right to the end. I hope you too will have fond memories of her.
Yes I will - the fondest of memories.
Boo (short for Bootsie) was a younger ‘senior citizen’ being only twelve years old or thereabouts, when I first started looking after him and his feline companion Willow, who at the age of seven was just the other side of middle-age. When I first met their owners Sam and Neil they warned me that Willow was very timid and unlikely to want any kind of interaction, and over the years all I’ve ever really seen of her is the flash of a furry bottom disappearing out through the cat flap, or a pair of eyes looking anxiously at me from her hiding place on an old duvet underneath Sam and Neil’s bed. Boo, I was told was likely to be cautious at first but friendly once he got to know me. However, as it turned out Boo and I became the best of buddies right from the start.
He was a cat that to me looked older than his years. Although he had a Boo-tiful black and white smudged face and wore lovely knee-length white socks on his front legs, his body looked a bit bony, his fur a bit dandruff-y and he had sores under his chin, but for me it was love at first sight.
Heeding Sam’s advice about Boo possibly being a bit wary at first, I decided it would be best when I made my first visit to simply leave my cat bag open to allow him to indulge in a spot of catnip should he desire, whilst I went about my food preparation duties. From my location in the kitchen I could hear the rustling sound of cat exploring bag, the jingly-jangly sound of toys with bells on them being pawed at, and the sound of sneezing when too much catnip was inhaled. When I came out with the food I found him munching on the end of a shoelace. Having provided drugs and with food in hand, from Boo’s perspective I was clearly the bearer of all things good and he was going to make the most of me! So shyness and inhibition were abandoned and replaced with attention and affection, and thereafter all my visits consisted of a cuddly, but very set routine, and one which was completely dictated by Boo:
Kat arrives, wey hey! Give her big soppy greeting to make sure I get one back.
Enjoy playtime with strange smelly toys that make me feel good.
Wait for Kat to prepare my food.
Not bother eating it.
Run into living room and use most charming miaow in repertoire to make Kat follow.
Jump up on sofa; invite Kat to sit next to me by using appealing expression.
Place paws on Kat’s lap and lick my lips until she gives me bit of meaty cat stick.
Use paw to pull at Kat’s arm to initiate head tickling.
Repeat if tickling stops.
Sometimes he’d just sit staring into my eyes as if looking through my very soul, making me feel like I should be confessing my sins.
I was a bit worried when Kali arrived. She was a dainty but very lively little tortoiseshell kitten that Sam and Neil had brought home from a local rescue centre, and being a youngster I wasn’t sure how her kittenish antics would go down with Boo, after all some old cats like a bit of peace and quiet in their dotage. However, I needn’t have worried; although there was the odd bit of grumpy old man paw-swiping from Boo towards Kali when she ambushed him, on the whole he appeared to tolerate her naughtiness in the way that an elderly grandparent would their grandchild. In fact there was something quite poignant about seeing the two of them together, each at either end of their life.
As time went on Boo’s thyroid began to go into overdrive and food became more of a priority for him, but he still remained the cuddliest of old chaps and at each visit I made the most of every moment with him, wondering if it might the last. I had almost three years with Boo before I received an email from Sam with the news I’d been dreading. She told me that he’d developed a fast-growing tumour in his mouth and he was finding it hard to eat. The vet's prognosis wasn't good so Sam and Neil had to make the difficult decision to have him put to sleep.
I knew that my first visit after Boo’s death would be difficult. Not having Boo there to tell me what to do in what order, not feeling his little paw on my arm, and not seeing his lovely old face looking up at me made me wonder if in fact I could return at all. However, Kali was developing into the cutest little cat, very affectionate, but mischievous too, a really lovely combination, and the thought of watching her blossom into adulthood and beyond, and perhaps even one day getting to know Willow, spurned me on. Nevertheless, I still miss Boo, the sweetest, soppiest and most special of old gentlemen.
As grandmas go mine was a bit unconventional. Although she was pint-sized in height, she was stocky and very round, with short wispy grey hair that stood so dead upright any punk rocker would have been be proud to call it their own; and a small craggy face with a mouth that housed a single tooth right at the front. Her voice with its strong Irish accent had become gravelly and gruff through years of smoking, and if she had a point to make, which she often did, the volume got cranked up to the max. If ever there was a cat that reminded me of my grandma it was Kitzie.
Kitzie was a black and white cat, with short legs, short tail, tiny ears, a small face and a very round belly, but unlike my grandma she still had most of her teeth. However, it was their voices that bore the most similarities. Kitzie had a raspy miaow which sounded like a cross between Rod Stewart and Bonnie Tyler at full pelt, and it made me jump out of my skin every time I heard it. As far as I knew she didn’t smoke, so I put this down to old age. She also had a trait I’d not seen in any other cat, and that was her incredibly endearing look of slow-motion bewilderment whenever someone walked into the room after a period of absence, no matter how short or how long.
Kitzie turned up at Pauline and Frank’s house, a stray and fearful kitten, but thanks to their diligent care she’d decided to stay. When I first met her she was seventeen years old and was enjoying the warmth of Frank’s lap where I gathered she spent most of her days, two senior citizens enjoying their retirement together. However, e
ven after all her years with Pauline and Frank when it came to meeting new people Kitzie was still very much a stray cat, and when I walked into the room that first time it certainly wasn’t love at first sight, or even like, as far as she was concerned. In fact we spent the first three and a half years of our acquaintance completely ignoring each other.
Of all the owners I knew, Pauline and Frank were the ones who would go away most frequently, so that meant a lot of ignoring. At every visit I would go into the house and from the corner of my eye check whether she was there and was ok, and she would be doing the same, except I wasn’t entirely convinced about her worrying whether I was ok. I would then get on and prepare her ‘meal of many courses’. Yes, Kitzie was a cat that liked variety, and at a rate of little and often. The starter almost always consisted of freshly cooked chicken, which would then be followed by a meat dish, followed by cat milk for desert. I’d place all of these dishes on her feeding mat, wait for her to consume the contents then retrieve the empty saucers which would be re-stocked and re-positioned on the mat, so as to give her a choice of snacks to be going on with until my next visit. I’d then clean her litter trays, refresh her water bowls, re-fill each of her three hot water bottles, and leave a couple of catnip toys out before leaving. All of this would be undertaken with no eye contact on either side, and I often felt like a Victorian butler following the strict protocol of never looking directly at the mistress of the house.
After about two years of this routine things changed ever so slightly. Kitzie started to look straight at me when I walked through the door whilst at the same time using her raucous miaow to demand her first and subsequent courses. For my part I started to spend at least five minutes perched on the other end of the sofa to her, which meant that for those few moments during each visit we’d end up sharing the same space in an act of reciprocal conciliation.
A full three and a half years after I first met Kitzie the most remarkable thing happened. It was a dark winter’s evening and I’d just finished my Kitzie food duties. She was busily grooming herself on the back of one of the armchairs, a job she undertook with such vigour that she had on occasion fallen off. If this happened in the ignoring phase of our relationship I found it very difficult to a) not notice and b) not laugh. On that evening however there was to be no such embarrassment and she remained firmly attached to the seat. That is until I sat down on the sofa. At that moment she looked up and in one swift sequence jumped off the armchair, onto the sofa and onto my lap. I was so shocked that I just sat there stiff with disbelief, not knowing what to do.
All those years of ignoring Kitzie was simply something I’d done because I knew that’s what she wanted, and it now appeared that after all that time this cautious little character finally trusted me, and I felt overwhelmingly honoured. Annoyingly the moment was interrupted by a knock at the door by one of the neighbours, dressed only in a towelling robe and I wondered what it was about me that attracted neighbours in their dressing gowns like magnets.
So my first precious moment with Kitzie was curtailed, however, at the next visit she did the same thing, and the visit after that, and the one after that and at every visit since.
Kitzie is now twenty one and I’m still lucky enough to be looking after her. She’s been through some very difficult times, with episodes of recurring pancreatitis and the death of her beloved dad Frank, but this little lady is, just like my grandma was, a tough old bird. She still likes a morning hobble around the garden, will see off any other cat that dares enter her territory and retains her ear-splitting miaow, which continues to take me by surprise. She still eats little and often and sometimes, especially when she’s had her vitamin B injection, she eats the courses faster than I can serve them and I end up feeling like I’m providing food on one of those rotating conveyor belts used for sushi.
However, now when I arrive it’s almost always a cuddle she wants first. It seems bizarre that touch, being the one thing she never wanted, at least not from me, now appears to be the thing that brings her the most comfort as she heads towards the end of her days. She now spends as much time as possible glued to my lap, bashing my hand with her head, giving me nose to nose kisses and staring up into my face, although I do wonder how much she can actually see through her now opaque old pupils. Pauline says that Kitzie clearly thinks of me as her second mum. I’m not sure what you’d call this relationship where I’m Kitzie’s second mum and she’s my surrogate grandma, but whatever it called, it’s one I’ll treasure forever.
Postscript
Although many of the stories and characters contained in this book are fictional, some are based on my own experiences as a cat sitter. One of these is the final ‘tail’, that of Kitzie.
Since completing the book Kitzie has passed away. On the 7th of July 2015 her heart simply stopped beating. The sense of loss I felt was as if she had been one of my own, and I miss her every day. However, one thing that I am certain of is that she’ll now be back on the lap of her dad Frank, two old souls finally reunited.
Kitzie
~~~~
Thank you for reading my ebook. If you enjoyed it won’t you please take a moment to leave a review at the web site where you purchased it?
Thank You!
C. H. Hemington
About the Author
Clare Hemington ran her own cat sitting business for many years whilst studying to become an accredited cat behaviourist. She now has her own Cat Behaviour Practice giving advice to owners who are experiencing problems with their cats, from house-soiling to over grooming, aggression to general anxiety. She lives in Kent with her husband Iain and her two Siamese cats Billy and Jimmy.
Connect with Clare
Find out more about my cat behaviour work at:
www.clarescatcare.co.uk
Keep up to date with Kat’s hairy adventures by subscribing to her very own blog at: www.thehairytails.com
The Hairy Tails of a Cat Sitter Page 15