Two Old Fools - Olé!

by Victoria Twead

  The cause? The FIFA World Cup, and Spain was in with an excellent chance. On the 16th of June, they were due to play their first game in the contest, against Switzerland.

  But first, Joe and I had a vet visit to worry about, and getting all the kittens into the travelling box was a major hurdle. As fast as we put one in, another squirted out. Finally, we succeeded and drove off to rendezvous with Sandra from Alstrays, Smut and Beauty howling like banshees, Chox the picture of placidity.

  Our kittens’ appalling behaviour didn’t end there. Sandra had brought other strays and we entered the surgery together. All Sandra’s kittens behaved beautifully and their treatment was swift. Even Fleur, a cute little tortoiseshell kitten with a broken leg, purred.

  “Ach so, and vat do ve have here?” asked the German nurse, resting her hand on our kittens’ crate.

  “Three kittens,” I said. “Two months old.”

  The nurse opened the door of our travelling box and lifted Smut out. But Smut was having none of it. She wriggled out of the nurse’s grasp, shot across the surgery and into the operating theatre, disappearing under a bank of storage units.

  The formidable German nurse was going to stand no nonsense.

  “Ach!” she said, and seized a broom, succeeding in hooking Smut out and grabbing her. Of course Smut howled and fought but was powerless in her experienced hands. Inside a minute the medication had been administered. The nurse applied antiseptic to the scratches on her arms, and turned to deal with Beauty. Beauty protested but was no match for the nurse. I heaved a sigh of relief. Chox would be a piece of cake after his hooligan sisters.

  “Vell, zis is a very nice cat,” said the German nurse as Chox purred in her arms. “He has very beautiful blue eyes. I have written his name on the card, ‘Choccy-Paws’.”

  “What is the meaning of ‘Choccy-Paws’?” asked the vet in Spanish.

  “Feet of chocolate,” explained Sandra and the vet nodded, scratching Chox between the ears and making him purr even louder.

  “He’ll be no trouble,” I said. “He’s a lovely little cat.”

  That day, Chox was not a lovely little cat. He was dreadful.

  Events went like this:

  Take One: Chox flatly refuses to open his mouth, despite Joe’s and my efforts. Attempt fails.

  Take Two: Sandra takes Chox and holds him while the nurse gently forces his mouth open. The vet tries to insert tablet. Phhhhhtttt, Chox spits tablet across room. Attempt fails.

  Take Three: Sandra holds Chox. The nurse pulls his mouth open. The vet inserts tablet and blows in Chox’s face. Vet holds Chox’s mouth closed. Vet releases hold. Phhhhhtttt, Chox spits tablet across room. Attempt fails.

  Take Four: “Donner und Blitz...” says the nurse. They try again. They lever Chox’s jaws open. The vet inserts the tablet and holds Chox’s mouth shut for a full minute. Vet releases hold. Phhhhhtttt, Chox spits tablet across room. “This Feet of Chocolate is a bad boy,” chuckles the vet. Joe and I are not amused. Attempt fails.

  Take Five: “We will have to do the water trick,” says the vet. The nurse nods. “Don’t vorry,” the nurse says to Joe and me. “Sometimes ve must do zis.” She goes to the sink and turns the tap on so that it’s dripping fast. The nurse and vet turn Chox onto his back, open his mouth, insert tablet and hold him under said tap. Chox gulps. Tablet is swallowed. Success!

  The kittens behaved better on the journey home. I think they were exhausted because, when I peeped through the bars, all three were entwined, fast asleep.

  When we got back to the village, some unusual activities were unfolding in our street, so we quickly took the kittens through the back gate and into the garden. They seemed none the worse for their adventure and galloped over to MumCat, who gave them all a thorough washing. Then we sauntered outside to find out what was happening.

  The villagers were preparing for Spain’s first match of the World Cup. Work on The Monstrosity had stopped and the Ufartes had set up a large flatscreen TV in the street, the power cable of which snaked through the window of their house. They’d carried out all their chairs too, and the three-piece suite, and set them down in the road. Papa Ufarte was already on the couch with Geronimo, deep in conversation. Both were growing animated, hands waving as they discussed the forthcoming match.

  As a mark of respect, Granny Ufarte had the seat of honour in the front row, although I thought it unlikely that she was Spain’s most lively football fan.

  Mama Ufarte and Lola drifted in and out of their house, collecting tapas and bread, and laying them out on the table they’d prepared. Lola seemed a little sulky, and I guessed it was because Geronimo was too wrapped up in the approaching game to pay her much attention.

  The Ufarte twins, dressed in red shirts and white shorts, were helping, although I noticed they sampled the dishes more enthusiastically than they set them out. Their brothers, Jorge and Scrap, couldn’t sit still, and were practicing goal kicks, waiting for the match to begin. Fifi charged after their ball, thankfully too intent on murdering the football to notice Joe.

  It was a Wednesday, so Paco and Carmen-Bethina were absent, but I guessed they’d be watching the game in their city home. Carmen-Bethina had confided in me that Sofía had broken up with her policeman boyfriend. She said that Sofía had discovered that her ex-boyfriend had a ‘roving eye’ and I wondered if he’d been caught in flagrante with Lola Ufarte.

  Other villagers strolled down the street carrying their own chairs and packs of beer. Dogs weaved through their legs and cats appeared high on the roofs, always on the lookout for a food opportunity. Soon the street outside our house was packed, the atmosphere heavy with expectancy. Mighty Spain against little Switzerland? Haha! This was going to be a walkover, a slaughter! Switzerland didn’t stand a chance! A fine start to the World Cup.

  “Come and join us,” said Mama Ufarte, waving her one free hand to indicate the chairs and food. Snap-On stared at us from his perch on his mother’s hip.

  “Thank you, but we’ll watch inside,” said Joe.

  Fifi looked up at the sound of his voice, but we quickly disappeared inside before she decided to charge.

  We turned the TV on, settled down, and began to watch the match as much as the kittens would allow. The reason we had chosen to watch it on our own TV was because we wanted to hear the commentary in English. Our satellite dish was massive and we could pick up most British channels.

  “Do you know,” said Joe, making himself comfortable, “that next month I’m going to be in utter heaven?”

  “Why?” I asked, my mouth full of juicy, locally grown peach.

  “Because, would you believe it, on my birthday, it’s the British Grand Prix, Moto GP...AND...the World Cup final? Wall-to-wall sport! Now, if you were to serve me tapas, naked, it would be the best birthday ever!”

  I snorted. As if!

  We concentrated on the game. Although we were watching the same game as the villagers outside, our channel delivered it a good few seconds earlier. So when Spain looked as though they were going to score a goal, we shouted encouragement. Seconds later, the villagers shouted encouragement. When Andres Iniesta failed to score, we howled. Seconds later, the villagers howled. It was most disconcerting, like having an echo.

  But the blow came in the 52nd minute when, to the world’s astonishment, Switzerland scored. The whole of Spain went deathly silent, trying to digest this horror, then groaned in unison. The Spanish players redoubled their efforts but as the final whistle blew, the score remained unchanged: Spain 0, Switzerland 1.

  What? Mighty Spain had been beaten by Switzerland? I peeped through our shutters to see what was happening in the street. Outraged, Papa Ufarte kicked his couch. Geronimo, the picture of misery, sat with his head bowed, hands covering his face. The other villagers were melting away, taking their chairs with them, their lips tight lines of pain. I looked up the street to see men sitting on their doorsteps, elbows on their knees, heads in their hands, eyes downcast in disbelief and shame. Spain
was in mourning.

  “It’s embarrassing,” said Joe philosophically, “but not disastrous. Spain will come back fighting, you mark my words.”

  The phone rang. It was my niece Becky. She was coming to stay for a week and was asking whether we needed anything from England. The answer was ‘no’ except for something we just couldn’t find in Spain.

  “Could you bring three catnip mice, please?”

  “Sorry for laughing, I thought you said ‘catnip mice’!”

  “I did.”

  So I told her the whole story of how we came to be fostering three kittens.

  “We’re not keeping any of them, of course. We still look after Sylvia and Gravy and we can’t take on any more cats.”

  It was lovely picking Becky up from the airport. She hadn’t changed a bit since we last saw her five years before. Attractive, blonde and blue-eyed, she still had the same infectious giggle and fondness for a glass of something cold and alcoholic.

  Joe and I were a little concerned that she’d be bored. There were no bars or restaurants in El Hoyo, so how would we keep her entertained?

  We needn’t have worried because Becky was perfectly happy sunbathing on the roof terrace, working hard on a deep golden tan to take back to England. Being on the roof meant she was on flirting level with the builders who were working on the house on the other side of Paco’s. I don’t believe the workmen got much building done that week.

  Becky loved cats, so she spent lots of quality time with the kittens.

  Becky with kittens

  The catnip mice were a huge success, particularly with Chox. The girls liked theirs and patted them around the garden a few times, but Chox and his mouse became inseparable. Wherever he went, the mouse went, too. Within 24 hours the mouse was soggy, filthy and misshapen, but Chox didn’t care. He’d chew it, bat it, roll on it, or lie on his back and juggle with it using all four paws.

  Being such a gregarious little chap, he’d drag the mouse by its ratty, frayed string tail and bring it into the house, dropping it on Joe’s bare feet.

  “Ewww! Get that disgusting thing out of here!” Joe would yell, kicking it away.

  Chox thought this was all part of the game and pounced on his mouse, picking it up again and dropping it on Joe’s feet once more.

  “Vicky! I’m trying to wash the dishes! Throw that cat and his wretched mouse out!”

  I loved the little girls, but Chox was special. He was so full of character, so comical, so affectionate, a joy to be with. When he was sleepy he’d ask to be picked up, and if I sat down, my lap was never empty for long. When I typed, Chox would lie on his back on the desk between me and the keyboard, occasionally patting my cheek with a velvet paw. I refused to think of the day when Chox would leave and I’d never see him again.

  Becky’s visit coincided with the festival of San Juan. San Juan (St. John) is an important event in the Spanish calendar. It marks midsummer and the shortest night of the year. All day, families prepare by setting up tables and chairs and building huge bonfires on the beach. Rather like the Brits, who hoard their combustible trash ready for Guy Fawkes’ night on November the 5th, the Spanish do the same for San Juan. Mountainous piles of wooden pallets, old furniture, logs and bits of timber sprout up on the beach all day. Barbecues are set up and when night falls, the crowds arrive in droves.

  We arrived at the beach well before midnight and joined the jostling throngs. Finding a space to park wasn’t easy and people were still arriving. The beach was already packed with people of all ages, from tiny babies to ancient grandmothers. A million lights flickered on the water and the sky was inky dark. Waves crashed, bonfires blazed and Spanish guitar music and smoke filled the air. Not having a bonfire of our own, we ordered drinks from a beachside café, sat down and watched.

  Some groups were barbecuing, others dancing and singing, but, as midnight approached, the atmosphere changed. Encouraged by cheers and applause, athletic individuals jumped over the smaller bonfires, which, according to legend, cleanses the body and soul. Then midnight struck, and, like lemmings, the revellers, en masse, marched into the sea. It is believed that the water will wash away evil spirits. Fireworks soared into the sky and exploded. It was a magical night.

  Becky and I went to the beach next morning expecting to see the party’s aftermath. But at daybreak, as the last party-goers drifted away, tractors had arrived and raked and cleaned the beach until not a scrap of charcoal remained.

  Sadly, Becky’s visit came to an end, and I waved her goodbye at the airport.

  Back in England, I knew Operation Sage & Onion was under way, and I wanted to hear all about it.

  27 Operation Sage and Onion, and Vuvuzelas

  Spanish Chorizo and Calamari Salad

  I wasn’t present, of course, and had to rely on the accounts of those who were. I was fascinated to hear how Gin Twin Sue would cope with her first-ever pets and the rescue of the ex-battery hens. Her husband had given her a chicken coop for Christmas and, having recovered from the shock, she had registered for some ex-batts way back in January. But she had to wait until the summer when some deserving hens would become available.

  Now summer had arrived. Mark, Sue’s husband, painted a pretty good picture of events in this letter to me.

  Mark wrote:

  ‘West Sussex British Hen Welfare Trust seemed to have run out of ex-battery chooks so we were put in touch with Dorset and went with Gin Twin "Chicken Whisperer" Juliet and Sue to Dorchester (3hr round trip for some aged hens ???). Operation Sage & Onion was under way. There must have been 200-300 to choose from in a large barn so Gin Twins 1 and 2 picked the nearest 3 that "looked nice". We'd come armed with regulation size boxes with regulation size air holes (BHWT are very strict on transportation boxes). Juliet sat in the back talking to the chooks all the way home to keep them settled.’

  The chickens were put into their new coop and the question of names came under discussion. Mark and Sue named one Jalfrezi, Ruth, Sue’s daughter, called hers Beaker, while brother Joe’s was Lady Henrietta as she already seemed to have assumed the Top Hen slot.

  The Gin Twins stayed in the garden with the chickens and a bottle of gin: a Hen Party.

  Hen party

  To celebrate, Beaker actually laid an egg, albeit a shell-less one that looked as though it had been laid in clingfilm, but an egg nevertheless. A few days later, another egg appeared, a sound one this time, which was eaten for breakfast with much lip-smacking and appreciation. The girls settled in well, even though Mark’s vegetable plot suffered.

  But disaster loomed just around the corner.

  Mark wrote:

  ‘All went well until one day poor Henrietta looked off colour. No amount of encouraging her with tidbits did any good, and 3 days later she passed away to the Chooks Cloud in heaven (or that's what I told Sue). Juliet, devastated by the news, came round the next day but only burst out laughing when shown a bin-bagged parcel the exact shape of a hen (rigor mortis had set in). I think she still feels bad about laughing.

  Barely a week had gone by when I got a text at work. "Phone home as soon as you can." Sue was in tears - poor Beaker had been ambushed by a fox in broad daylight and was no more. Nothing for it but to get another couple - Kiev and Tikka.

  Whereas the first 3 got along together fine, Jalfrezi and Tikka decided that Kiev was the lowest of the low and definitely bottom of the pecking order. They picked on her mercilessly, so much so she was soon a bald oven-ready bloody quivering mess and clearly in imminent risk of death. On to the internet ( as you do) to research what could be done, and discovered something called "anti peck" spray that the website said discouraged cannibal behaviour in hens and pigs. This clearly was the stuff to sort the problem and a can was duly acquired from the local small holder store. Unfortunately the first attempt to spray poor Kiev alarmed her so much she flew screeching from the nesting box - have you ever tried to recapture a traumatised chicken? Not easy, but eventually she was back in the coop, where, despite sti
nking to high heaven of "anti cannibal" spray, was pecked all the more. Back to the internet.

  "Badly pecked hens must be segregated in a separate coop" it said. Good advice if you happen to have a spare coop - but we didn't, so muggins had to go to B&Q for wood, wire mesh and a new saw (couldn't find the old one - shows how much DIY I do). So, 2 days in the garage sawing and nailing with a cold led to a week off work with laryngitis.

  Kiev now looks like a hen again, as opposed to road-kill, but still lives a separate life from the others. Her earlier traumas have completely stopped egg production, Jalfrezi seems to have retired from laying, leaving Tikka providing 1 egg every other day. Taking into account the cost of the first coop (£150), Kiev's personal confinement coop (£100), electronic ultrasonic fox deterrent (£40 and clearly didn't work), anti-cannibal spray (£10 also didn't work) plus numerous other food additives, feeds, straw and other pampering; and the average cost of each egg must be a fiver each.

  Sorry, didn't mean to write so much.

  Cheers,

  Mark x’

  “Pah!” said Paco, thumping the table with his balled fist. “That daughter of ours is never going to find a husband.”

  The corners of Carmen-Bethina’s mouth turned down sadly as she nodded her head in agreement.

  “Perhaps the policeman boyfriend was not the right one for her,” I suggested, recalling what we had seen at the cemetery that night. “I’m sure the right one will come along.”

  “Where will she find a husband?” asked Paco. “She doesn’t like anybody in the village. She doesn’t like anybody at her work. She doesn’t like any of our friends’ sons in the city. I think Little Paco will get married before she does.”

  Little Paco, who was watching TV and sharing the couch with Bianca, pulled a face and shuddered at the thought. He was thirteen now and his only love was football.