Mother's Little Helper

Mother, meanwhile, is lying in a darkened room with a cold compress on her forehead, trying to remember what life was like when she had to do her own kitchen stuff, unaided.

Object of desire

Take one plastic wrapper, two covetous cats, one short but insistent campaign by smaller cat, much rustling, and then - all change! This might go on all day.

Kevin and Neil, a lopsided relationship

Kevin had always shown a tendency towards strong feelings and dramatic reactions. A new collar would be enough to create alarm, protest and flight; visitors would be welcomed extravagantly; cuddles would involve head butting and violent purring that could knock him off balance. He delighted in drinking water from odd places, had a yowl that could carry across oceans, and preferred ordinary cat food to the most exotic treats. He would not yield to sickness or disease. He had character, and many people who loved him.

Kevin’s long and peaceful old age ended in a sudden decline, as his kidneys failed and he swelled up rapidly with fluid. I had been fully prepared for his end – after all, he was very old, and had kidney disease; there would be no element of shock as there had been with Harry. But for those last few days, the continuing watchfulness over Kevin had held an added element of anxiety: who would help him out of this life when the time came? Both vets, Neil and Claire, who had known and cared for him during his latter years, had left the practice, and my experience of their replacements when taking Lottie and Millie for their respective procedures had not been reassuring.

Neil the vet had been a treasure, friendly, caring and gentle, and always willing to explain things to pet owners without treating them like infants or idiots. Alas, Kevin hated him. Over the years, Neil had looked after him, cleaning his gnarly old teeth, removing a long blade of grass stuck in his throat, diagnosing and medicating his hyperthyroidism, later operating on his parathyroid, and never complaining about the copious amounts of ginger fur Kevin deposited on his clean green tunic top, or taking the loud hostility too personally.

But Neil left the practice, and was replaced in Kevin's unremitting hatred by Claire, although she and Kevin should have bonded: Claire was also a treasure, friendly, caring and gentle, always willing to explain things to pet owners without treating them like infants or idiots, but with the added advantage of being ginger too. Claire never complained about the fur either, or, indeed, about the Lake of Wee. In true form, Kevin wasn’t keen on her either.

In time, Claire too left the practice, and the remaining vets had to be got used to; a rather uncharismatic locum, who examined Millie, pre-op, in a systematic but bored way, and a dauntingly brisk and businesslike senior vet, who micro-chipped Lottie as though she were an inanimate object, and who made me feel like a twit for worrying about Lottie's need to be coaxed to eat. Neither made me feel that they liked or were interested in cats, although with two healthy young things this wasn’t too worrying.

However, as Kevin's long and happy life drew to a close, I was alarmed to think about the 'who and how' elements of this final process of letting go and putting him to sleep. Not a bored locum, and certainly not a brisk and businesslike vet who gave the impression that clearing the waiting room was of prime importance.

We needed a Neil or a Claire, vets who understood the emotional elements of bringing a cherished pet to the surgery, and who threw in little additional extras, like touching noses with your cat, using silly pet names with them, or relating to owners as sensible adults.

And so I tracked Neil down in his new independent practice. We talked on the phone about the next stage of Kevin’s journey, and planned for the inevitable. After this conversation, I felt that a large part of my anxious burden had been lifted.

The next day, Kevin's condition worsening rapidly, the big decision was made, and, very gently and sensitively, Neil helped Kevin out of this life and into wherever it is that cats go next.

And Kevin? Well, he showed his feelings for vets to the last, with an outraged yowl - though thankfully not his scared squawk - when the preparatory moves were made. Kevin was never a cat for fickle emotions or mild responses. I will miss him, the old ginger drama queen, and I won’t be the only one.

Oh, Millie!

Never ever before have I had a kitten whose adulthood has been as eagerly awaited as Millie's. She came as a wild hooligan, and that is what she's stayed. Full of curiosity, exceedingly distractable, naughty when there are visitors, in a perpetual hurry, and disobedient at all times. If she were a child, she'd be the one booked in by despairing teachers to see the educational psychologist, affronted mother in tow spluttering "What d'you mean, ADHD? She's just got lots of energy!" while said child climbed whooping onto the desk and knocked the flowers over.

She gets wildly overexcited by a fly coming indoors, and rampages round the house in hot pursuit, regardless of papers and objects scattered, curtains snagged, feet in cat food or water bowls. This is her one undistractable activity. Yesterday, I tried in vain to pin a fly screen net affair over the sunny back door, and before I'd finished, she'd pulled it down twice, having spotted a fly hovering on the other side. The rampage started up again, and continued until, debris everywhere, she'd caught that fly and chomped it with evident enjoyment.

But...but... what is truly endearing about her (and she has many endearing qualities) is her nose flute. When she is really busy, and concentrating fiercely (on flies, and where I've hidden her fur toy in a game of hide and seek), she breathes hard, and makes a little whistling sound through her nose.

Peep...peep...peep...Now, I ask you, who could stay cross with a little cat who does that?

Stop fussing, mother!

Well, apart from a large shaved patch (grey stripy skin!) and a tiny incision, you wouldn't know that Millie had been in surgery. Up early yesterday, and very puzzled by the lack of breakfast, she was utterly silent on the way to the vet, where I abandoned her and crept away feeling like a - well, a heartless cat-abandoner. Home later that day, she shot out of the cat carrier at the speed of light, and threw herself into her litterbox - obviously one of those over-genteel young ladies who couldn't possibly use any old loo - then onto her dinner. And she's been full of beans since. "Keep her in for 10 days" said the nurse. Ha! Fat chance. She's out in the back yard now, chasing flies.

Interestingly, Lottie had a lovely day without her, and scampered, played, trilled and flirted; when Millie arrived home, Lottie ignored her completely. Hmmm, maybe the mutual devotion isn't so mutual any more....

Today was Lottie's turn: she went in the car like the perfect passenger, through slow heavy traffic, to the vet, where she was microchipped with the hugest needle ever, without flinching. Either I had prepared her well, or had wasted a lot of time and energy worrying neurotically about how traumatised she would be - you'd think I was a novice cat owner. She's not as fragile as she looks, evidently.

Dull, dull, dull....

It's dull, grey and dreary here, after a night of ferocious rain. All that I have left to do before I go on holiday is dull, grey and dreary stuff like checking tyre pressures, filling up with petrol, bathing the dog, who smells appalling (how? why? she lives a small, citified, moderately sanitary life amidst soft furnishings and regularly-washed bedding, and has nothing vile to roll in) and packing. How I hate packing; it upsets the team, who strike attitudes of deepest despair at the first glimpse of a suitcase. They know that something is up, since the ironing board made one of its rare appearances yesterday, and are looking pathetic and martyred already, even though the suitcase is still wherever I last put it. (Note to self: find suitcase.)

The sudden extravagant outbursts of affection on my part might also be a giveaway, as I contemplate leaving them and their funny little ways/medication regime/ever-changing food preferences to the sainted Sandra and House Sitting Boy. Being clutched impulsively to your human's bosom as she tells you, in choked emotional tones, what a lovely dear old chap you are, yes you are, is enough to send any self-respecting geriatric cat into a state of alarm and refuse to eat anything put in front you for the rest of the day.

The next round of cats who come to live with me (I could never pretend to own a cat, as such; I know my place) will be trained to travel well and cheerfully in the car and will accompany me everywhere on holiday. Annie suggests that they might also be trained up to make all the holiday arrangements too. Now that would make for an interesting holiday brochure.