Category: Pets

Conversations with my cat – 74

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This is Chester.  Somehow he has worked out it’s Christmas.

He comes down to the office and discovers I’m not there.  I can hear him wandering around until suddenly I realise there is a presence in the kitchen doorway.

Chester, a mischievous look on his face, sitting and waiting.

Waiting for what?  I stupidly ask why, and almost instantly regret it because I know what’s coming.

You’ve blocked off the path to my basket, again.  Why have you got a tree growing in the house?

You know why.

You mean to say it’s Christmas again.  I thought we got that over with years ago.

No, it happens every year.

So, what’s in the pretty coloured paper boxes?

Presents.

Oh, is there one for me?

Several actually.  Everyone decided to get you something this year.  Especially since you decided to let the grandchildren pat you.

I see him visibly shudder.

Once doesn’t mean forever.

You want those presents?

He wanders off towards the tree, and I can see he’s working out if he can climb it.  He had tried before with another tree, and I will not detail the mess that turned out to be.

I come out of the kitchen, and see him sitting a few feet away.

Chester, I say sternly, there will be no climbing the tree, am I understood.

He turns his head.  OK.  No climbing the tree.  He heads off towards the new location for his basket.

Next morning, questions need to be asked.  Decorative balls on the ground, and tinsels bits in his bed.

Good thing then he’s missing.  I’ll be just another problem to deal with Christmas morning.

 

 

 

 

Past conversations with my cat – 35

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Chester and the great escape.

It’s like watching that movie, you know the one, with Steve McQueen and the motorcycle?

I accidentally didn’t close the back screen door properly and Chester, a cat with many talents, managed to prise the door open wide enough for him to squeeze through.

And, then there’s that momentary elation of having escaped.

Out into the wide open space, where the air is fresher, the sky is blue, the sun is warmer.

And he is no longer restricted.

But…

Why is he standing just three feet away from the door, on the concrete path?  Has he seen a creature he can chase, or worse, torment?  Is he savouring that first few moments of freedom, and soaking up the sun’s warm rays on his back?

Or is he waiting to see if I’ll follow, and try to either catch him or bring him back?

He turns, and looks at me, as if to say, well, what are you going to do?

There’s a certain sense of smugness in that look.

I shrug.  “Just remember there’s no one out there who will wait on you hand and foot like we do.”

I’m sure that was not what he was expecting.

I open the door wider, and add, “Make up your mind now, because once the door closes, that’s it.  You’re out.”

He turned to look back at the great outdoors.  I can see the wheels turning.  A life of luxury or a life on the run?

I almost caught his tail in the door as it closed.  Who said cats weren’t smart?

Conversations with my cat – 73

This is Chester. He has suddenly become delusional.

I’m not sure if a cat can become so, but since I gave him a role in one of my stories, he’s started acting weirdly.

I’m sure if he could wear sunglasses indoors he would. As it is, it’s head in the air, looking straight ahead, ignoring everything and everyone around him.

I think about opening the concertina doors that lead into the dining room just to see if he crashes into them.

He thinks, no doubt, that I think he’s just sniffing the air to see if there are any mice to be caught, but I’m on to him.

As he strolls past I say, “Perhaps I might turn that role into a walk on.”

He stops in mid step, and turns his head.

“You can’t. I’ve read the latest chapter. I’m integral to the plot.”

I smile. “You do realise often the best roles end up on the cutting room floor, or in this case, perhaps I’ll start editing early. There’s such a thing as the delete key.”

Smug, or is that haughty, look gone.

“Just go back to being your usual self,” I say, “and I’ll reconsider your role.”

“Does that mean no fresh fish for lunch today?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

I’m sure cats can’t shrug, but he gives it his best shot, and continues on his way minus the attitude.

For now. Who knows what tomorrow will bring

Past conversations with my cat – 34

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This is Chester.  We are having a robust discussion about ethnicity.

I think it may have been a good idea not to bring up the subject of our forthcoming trip to China.

I’m not sure if it is because we’re going away, or because we’re going to China that has set him off.

Chester is Tonkinese.  As far as I’m aware, a Tonkinese is a cross between a Siamese and a Burmese.  They do not come from China.

That doesn’t deter him and he maintains that if I take him with me, he might be able to meet up with some distant relatives.

Maybe, if we were going via Thailand where it’s possible, but I suspect the Siamese relatives wouldn’t want anything to do with him.

Besides, I add, there are quarantine regulations to deal with, and whilst leaving the country might not present a problem, getting into another might.

You might have to stay in a cage for about a year to make sure you’re clear of any diseases or health problems.

Which sounds like a good idea now that you mention it.  You can torment a whole new group of people, and I can truly have a holiday.

You don’t mean that.

I don’t answer.

He sighs.  Maybe I might stay home then. It’ll be a holiday for me too.

Conversations with my cat – 72

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This is Chester.  He’s finally got a starring role in one of my stories.

The thing is, I tried to keep it quiet so he wouldn’t get delusions, but it failed.

I made the mistake of leaving the page with the ‘cat’ part on the screen.  The screen saver should have kicked in, but I think a well-placed paw brought it back to life.

So, the next morning, I come down and see him sitting on the desk, waiting.

It can either be good news or bad news.

“I see you’ve finally written a cat into the plot.”

“It was only a matter of time.  I think you made your case a week ago by sitting on the keyboard until I agreed.  Now, you’re in.”

“Yes.  I see.  Who’s idea was it to call the cat Herman?  I mean to say, really, Herman?”

“I thought it was a great name for a cat.”

“What type of cat is it?”

“I don’t know.  A cat’s a cat isn’t it?”

“Why not a Tonkinese, like me?”

“Alright, I’ll change it.”

“You made him jumpy, skittish even.  I’m not like that.”

“It’s not you in the story.”

“So you’ve found another cat, who is it.  It won’t last long when I get to them.”

Maybe it’s easier to write him out of the story.  I don’t think I can take this criticism.

 

Past conversations with my cat – 33

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This is Chester.  Our discussion about me going away is not finished.

Not by any stretch of the imagination.

I’ve been trying to make the bed, fully away of the icy stares I’m being given.  THew old age issue is still very raw, and I found him back in his bed, frumping.

You do realize, comes the plaintiff cry, that no one ever remembers to come and refresh the water and food.

News to me.  Every time we go away, he had a constant stream of people coming to see him.

Old age, I say, is making you forgetful.

And when you sent me away to your brothers, I could barely tolerate that cat of his.  Common alley cat if there ever was one.

Class distinction, I didn’t see that coming.

We’re not all just cats, you know.

Perhaps not, but over the years we’ve had a variety of different cats, but not a purebred like Chester.  I’m not sure how that came to pass, but I think I preferred the non-fussy, undisdainful, and easily pleased ‘alley cats’.

Would you like me to send you to my brother’s then?

No, I didn’t think so.  Bed made, the discussion is over.

In a word: Rabbit

Have you ever heard of someone rabbiting on, you know, endlessly rattling on about nothing?

That’s just one use of the word rabbit.

The most obvious is the animal, a rabbit.  You know, that burrowing, plant-eating, long-eared, short-tailed animal that goes by the name of Bugs Bunny, maybe.

Nearly every child has a stuffed, cuddly one.

Of course, it’s of some significance at the moment because its Easter, and that there are countless chocolate versions of the so-called Easter bunny.

Then there is that 6-foot high invisible rabbit called Harvey, or not necessarily a rabbit, but a pookah.

We use the expression rabbit ears to describe those old interior television antennas.

There’s rabbit stew, rabbit pie, and white rabbit beer.

But my favourite is when the magician pulls the proverbial rabbit out of a hat.  It’s an expression we also use for someone who pulls off an impossible task.

Conversations with my cat – 71

This is Chester.

When I come down to the writing room he’s sitting on the table next to the keyboard.

I take this gesture to mean that he’s not trying to be confrontational.

He’d be sitting on the keyboard if that was his intention.

Or, perhaps he’s trying to lull me into a false sense of security.

I try to read his expression, forgetting that cats down have expressions, just a single look.

Contempt.

I sit down and we’re now eye to eye. Could it be that he is doesn’t like the idea of looking up at me? Might that almost suggest that I am the master and he is the cat?

Perhaps I’m just tired and writing too much into it. Maybe he just saw a mouse and wanted to get an overview of where it might have gone.

Plenty of hiding places in this office. Chester knows some off them himself because there are times when I can’t find him.

Then he deigns to speak. “I think it’s time you cleaned this room up.”

It seems it’s a universal request from everyone, grandchildren included.

“Sorry. Not sorry. I’m going for the grumpy grandfather’s study children are forbidden to enter look. Piles of books, shelves overloaded with more books, messy tables, and papers scattered everywhere. And nowhere to sit because seats are places to pile more stuff.”

He looks around.

“Done a good job of it then. How do you find anything?”

“I found you.”

“I wasn’t hiding.”

“Oh, I thought you were.”

I’m sure there was that imperceptible shake of the head in disdain, before he jumps down and leaves.

Dodged a bullet there. I was sure he was going to complain about his food … again!

Past conversations with my cat – 32

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This is Chester.  I’ve just told him we will be going away for a few days.

What, again?  You do nothing but go away these days!  That look of disdain is meant to move me, but, sorry, it doesn’t.

It is retirement, you know, I say.  I’ve waited for 65 years so that I can do what I want.

Poor you!  Any idea how old you think I am?

15, mate, and lucky to have lived that long, despite the fact you’ve tried to escape.

That’s a matter of opinion, but not cat years, fool, human years.

I’d never quite worked that out.  We had a dog once, and I know that for every dog year it’s seven human years, so it was, in human terms, rather old.

But cats?

I’ll look it up on the internet.

Interesting.  The first two years are worth 24 human years and 4 years for each successive year.  That makes you, wow, 76.

A smug expression takes over.  Old, he says, you don’t know what it is to be old.

Except at your age, you’re too old to be travelling.

He wanders off, the tail indicating his annoyance.  I don’t think it was what he wanted to hear.

 

Conversations with my cat – 70

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This is Chester.  He’s checking the outside temperature.

And the heat goes on with no relief in sight.

Chester has taken to spreading out on the cool tiles floor, trying to get some sleep.

He tells me its too hot for the mice to come out.

I believe him.

I was going to chat about the so-called climate emergency, but here’s the thing. It’s been this hot before, endless days of relentless heat, days where the temperature hits 40 degrees centigrade in the shade.

It happened when we came to Queensland for a holiday 30 odd years ago, and long before Chester was thought of.

The first day it rained. After that it was nearly two weeks of very hot days.

We live in the tropics. You could expect more rain, but rain is a fickle thing.

We have bushfires everywhere, and Chester can’t sit at the doorways because of the pervading smoke permeating in the atmosphere.

I should be writing he says, but instead I’m on a settee in the living room, under a slowly rotating fan.

He jumps up and joins me, the sitting on my lap, not exactly the coolest spot to be. He’s getting the effects of the fan, I’m not and I’m guessing that’s the point.

I tell him he can go for a run outside, something I’ve never let him do.

He sees it for the gesture it is and climbs down, back to the cool floor. I get a long cold stare, and then he leaves me in peace.

No work today, for either of us. I can do without the verbal sparring.

Perhaps there will be a cool change tomorrow.