As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. He’s been caught almost red-handed climbing the curtains.
Of course, he is all innocence, because the evidence is circumstantial. He was sitting on the window ledge looking out, thinking ‘if only I could get out there’.
Now he’s thinking how much trouble he’s in and whether it will be his least favorite cat food for dinner.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. He is giving me the ‘Come back when you’ve rewritten the start’ look.
Yet another ‘disagreement’ over such a small matter!
Here’s the thing.
Like many authors with cats, I like to use Chester as my audience of one, my sounding board. It is better to be reading to him, rather than reading out loud by yourself.
Reading what you have written often points out tongue tangling or ‘drippy’ dialog, and unfortunate mix ups in words. Proof reading sometimes misses these.
Hitherto, Chester has been patient, lying on the floor, or sitting on the couch.
I guess a few pats doesn’t go astray in the process.
But, this morning, reading him the new start to ‘First Dig Two Graves’ the sequel to ‘The Devil You Don’t’, he just gave me one of his angry ‘meow’s’ and left.
Obviously he didn’t like it.
Of course, after I re-read it again, I could see the problem, so the days writing is not over yet.
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.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. Hiding.
He is the proverbial ‘scaredy cat’.
He is in hiding, buried at the back of the shelving in our walk in robe, one of the few places he thinks the grand children don’t know about.
Think again, Chester!
He pays scant regard to the fact he moults hair all over our clothes.
Efforts to fill the hole have been met with stiff resistance, the ‘blockage’ finding its way to the floor.
A bit like the blankets he doesn’t like on his bed.
Chester is 16 years old. He has had a tumultuous relationship with my grand children, who, at first, wanted to terrorize him, and now, older and wiser, want to make friends with him.
Sorry, no can do. You had your chance.
But …
He’s warming to the 12 year old. Perhaps because she is as tall as us, he is confused.
Her efforts to get him to sleep on the end of her bed have failed.
Perhaps we should switch beds, and I might win that battle after all.
This post was written some months ago, and was the last in the Conversations series. It would be true to say that everyone who knew Chester was heartbroken when I announced his passing.
Even now, I still believe he is here with us, in spirit, though sometimes I swear I hear him coming down the passage, or is sitting on the floor, behind me in the office, waiting to hear the next piece of writing and offer his often sage comments.
But, no. When I turn around he’s not these, and I stop, for a moment or two, and remember.
…
This was Chester.
For a few days, we have been monitoring Chester.
He hasn’t been talkative, in fact, I have been mistaking his usual taciturn nature in the mornings for what it really was.
A total lack of interest in anything.
He did not come down in the morning. OK, so, sometimes he cracks a hissy fit and totally ignores me.
But, this is different.
After a few days he returns and gives me the benefit of his wisdom.
Today, he hasn’t shown at all, so I went looking for him.
He was in his usual hiding spot, lying down. I give him a pat, he opes his eyes and looks at me. This is a cat who is not well.
I pick him up, and there’s no immediate fight back. He doesn’t normally like to be carried anywhere. Today, he’s putty in my hands.
I call the vet. She can fit him in now if I run. I’m running.
He goes into his carry basket without a fight. OK, now I know something is definitely wrong.
There’s not a sound between home and the clinic. Usually, he screams the place down, trying to get him into the carrier, and then makes as much noise as possible when driving.
Today there is nothing, not even a whimper.
The vet comes out. She has been seeing him for the last ten years and they are well acquainted.
We see her every six months. Without fail, for shots and stuff.
I take him out of the carrier and he lies down on the metal bench.
She looks at him, then picks him up.
She weighs him.
He’s lost two kilos, and that’s a lot for a cat.
I can see it’s bad news.
It is.
He’s 19 years old, long past the average life expectancy.
To keep him alive now would be inhumane. He has, apparently, reached the end of his life, and has lost the desire to eat or to do anything. There was nothing I could have done to prevent it.
She says, it just happens.
It will be quick and it will be painless.
I can see in his eyes that it’s what he wants.
I said goodbye, went outside and sat in the car, and cried.
There’s going to be a lot more tears before this day is out.
Not everything is fine in la-la-land, as he now calls it.
Not happy that I didn’t tell him about the second week of child invasion.
He should consider himself lucky that the school week started on Tuesday, and only one was staying home to do schoolwork.
The other has been able to return to the classroom.
One less tormentor, I heard him mutter as he slinked past the room where the homeschooler was working.
But a more sinister problem had arisen.
He’s stopped eating his food. I first thought this was part of a two-week standoff, where he cuts his nose off to spite his face.
This is not the first time we’ve been through this.
So, just to see if it is a fit of pique, I get him his absolute favorite food. Fresh Atlantic Salmon cut into small pieces just the way he likes it.
Yes, the aroma reaches him in his hiding spot, along with the call-out that I’d bought him salmon, but when he goes to the bowl, he takes a sniff, or two, then wanders away.
This is Chester. He’s now over having the grandchildren staying with us.
As part of the COVIS 19 restrictions in place, the grandchildren cannot go to school.
However, because their parents are both working (which is very fortunate as so many others are not) they have asked us to look after them.
So, they arrive Sunday night, stay the whole week, and go back home on Friday. It means they are homeschooling, so the internet is taking a beating, I have to feed them, morning tea, lunch. After school snack at three and then dinner.
Chicken nuggets, pies, and shoestring chips can only go so far, and, no, he does not like scraps from their plates.
And having to cater for four rather than two means a gentle shift in logistics. More shopping for food, having to do the washing every day, tormenting the cat.
OK, that last part is where Chester comes in, or, rather, he stays hidden away.
Remember that phobia he has when the grandchildren are around?
Now they’re here semi-permanently, he’s in hiding, and coming out only for food and water.
And to let me know just how displeased he is.
He wants his domain back.
Pity I haven’t told him yet they’re going to be back next week.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 