My current situation is two cats. One is 16. Her name is Mindy. She was named by my then 4 year old daughter. George (pronounced with a soft, french 'g') is four years old. They hate each other.
Here is ancient Mindy
And this is gorgeous George
George's acquisition is a story for another day. This is the story of how Mindy almost died shortly after we (and by that I mean me) acquired her.
Apparently, the decision to acquire a helpless homeless kitten is something that should be discussed prior to said acquisition, to ensure marital harmony. We already had a cat - Molly, the 3.5 legged part Burmese former child substitute (long story about the 3.5 legs). We had two children, Elle, four, almost five, and Billy two, almost three. Elle loved Molly. She used to put Molly in her doll stroller and wheel her around the house and garden. Much to the horror of my mother in law (a DOG person) Molly used to sleep in her cot when she was a baby, and snuggle up next to me when I was feeding her. Molly was getting on in age, and I thought, reasonably, that getting a kitten would be good for both Molly and my children.
When I heard about Mindy (then unnamed) through a work colleague I decided to bring her home. If I was completely honest I would say that I knew if I asked The Lawyer would have said 'no' as that is generally his first response to anything that may require effort. And often it is easier to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.
He didn't speak to me for a week (winning) but the kids were thrilled beyond expectations and it was all lovely. Mindy was soon being wheeled around in the stroller and sleeping on the bed, and I was forgiven by The Lawyer in due course.
One sunny summer afternoon, The Lawyer came home from work early. By early I mean before 6pm. He didn't come home early out of a burning desire to spend quality time with the family or to cook dinner. He came home while it was light to practice his golf swing for a corporate golf day the next day. It was still sunny, and I look back now and it seems like a scene from a 'family' movie - everyone in the back garden, dad with his golf clubs, the two kids on the trampoline (breaking the rule about only one at a time because they were having fun, not arguing, so no mother would interfere with that, EVER), me dressed up nicely about to go out to the 'god help me why did I not sit on my hands when they called for nominations' kindy committee meeting.
Both Molly and Mindy were in the back yard too. Molly was sitting imperiously and regally watching proceedings. Mindy was chasing a bit of white paper dancing around the grass in the breeze.
From the trampoline, Billy said:
'Daddy, can we get a dog'.
As The Lawyer pulled his club back, he replied:
'One of the cats will have to die first'.
At the very moment he brought the club down, that little piece of white paper flew across the lawn, followed by Mindy so that just as the paper and Mindy came in front of him, the club came down with an almighty 'thwack'. One small black and white kitten went flying across the back yard landing on a tiled area. Lifeless. Elle screamed. I screamed. The Lawyer and I rushed over to her. Billy shouted:
'Daddy killed Mindy'.
Just as we reacted her, she stood up, and staggered, crab like, sideways with her tongue hanging out of her mouth.
I shouted to The Lawyer to get the cat basket. I raced the kids into the car. I knew the vet was open til 7. Got Mindy into the car. I had to drive, The Lawyer was traumatised. Elle was weeping. Billy was asking far too many questions to which I didn't know the answers. At one point he shouted 'Mindy is vomiting'. Excellent. I thought I was going to as well. I was rehearsing how to explain death.
Our nice family movie had turned into a horror movie. We raced into the vet surgery, and the vet came straight out, and asked what had happened. The Lawyer was still mute, and pale. Before anyone said anything, Billy yelled in excitement:
'Daddy hit the kitten with a golf club'.
The Lawyer could not go into the consultation room. Mindy had, as it turned out, a broken tooth, but no bones, and probably a mild concussion. I cried with relief. When we went back out to the waiting room to see the poor ashen faced Lawyer sitting with his head in his hands, the vet said simply:
'Don't worry mate. It takes a lot to kill a cat'.
And he was right. She is 16 now. And whatever time of the night The Lawyer comes home, even if it is midnight, she knows, and she greets him, yowling for food. Which he gives to her. Cats are clever.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
