Tuesday 02 October 2001

What's up, pussycat?

Okay already, lame-ass title but I couldn't resist ... 

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I have a decided cat dependency. I've had two cats in my life so far; Rocky, a rather stodgy black and white male who lived to 14 years old, and Bella, my cutie tortoiseshell and white sweetie who is 18 and still going strong ... When I made the decision to move hemispheres, I said a lot of goodbyes and so-longs to human family and friends, but I realised that I'd probably never see Bella again (18 is pretty old for a cat), so it was harder to say goodbye to her than anyone else in a way.

Bella had turned up on our doorstep one February day when I was in Year 11 at High School, that would have been 1985, and stayed. She was about six months old when she turned up, and had obviously had an unhappy childhood. She was frightened of men, particularly men in boots, wasn't particularly sociable for years and stuck to me like glue. When we took her to the vet for a check up and to have her spayed, the vet noted she had old injuries and abrasions, some commensurate with being kicked about and also with being thrown from a car ... Ugh.  

Anyway it soon became apparent that Bella was my cat (or given catlogic, I was her person); she honestly liked me better than anyone else, and was much friendlier and cuddlier with me. In time she became more sociable and happy around other people, but I was her main person. Whenever I was sick in bed with a migraine or bad pain episode she would stay with me, sleeping on my feet or at the small of my back, and would only get up to feed, then come back to her post. Most comforting and soothing. And thus my cat dependency was fed and fuelled.

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So once I'd settled in a little to my new home and country, getting a kitten became of primary importance. I don't think Sam was too keen on the idea, really, as he'd never had a cat and wasn't a "cat person". However it was one of those non-negotiable things, so ... a few weeks back I called the Cat Protection Agency, to ask about adopting a kitty. First though, someone had to come for a house visit and interview me for my suitability as an adoptive parent. Personally I think this is a brilliant practice; the CPA doesn't want to deliver poor abused kitties to an even worse environment, after all.  Anyways I "passed" - in fact the shelter folks said they wished there were more like me - and so Sam and I prepared for the new arrival; a proper catbed, litter and tray, food bowls and food, ID collar and harness, a carrier, even a couple of cat-toys. 

Sunday 16 September 2001: Sam and I went to the CPA to pick out our wee girl. There were a few kitties and several older cats, but this particular one just got to me. She was penned with her mother and was obviously seriously freaked out; she was a RSPCA case and had been brought in with her mother and siblings, and did not like humans very much at all. Also her mother was being way overprotective, probably from some separation anxiety as the other kits had gone to homes the day before. The wee one was so freaked that when I went to talk to her and pet her (and yes, I do know how to approach cats) she scratched my face in three places. Not just defence but attack, poor sweetie ... but by then I already thought of her as my kitty, regardless of her psychological state, and I wasn't leaving without her. I mean, you have to be serious about wanting a cat when she's just sliced open your bottom lip.

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The first few days were really quite distressing; she cowered and spat and swore at us if we came anywhere near her or tried to cuddle her - though when I did hold her close, talk soft and low and stroke her she would calm down. She was also totally freaked by the house and the amount of space, so we confined her to the kitchen with her bed, toys, food and litter-tray, so she could get used to us walking around, and learn that we weren't actually going to beat the shit out of her. I knew we'd rounded a big corner the night she cried and cried when we said goodnight and shut the door on her - up until then she had been relieved (apols if I'm over-anthropomorphising!) when we left.

In just a couple of weeks of TLC she's a different kitty altogether; sociable, incredibly affectionate, relaxed and playful and plain funny. She has already started to develop some cute little routines, including the syndrome known to all cat-owners as the attack of the midnight crazies (even though it commences at approx. 1830 hrs), where she goes bombing around the house chasing things only she can see and crashing into the sofa/stairs/walls ... She loves cuddles and follows us about the house to see what we're up to, pouncing out or mewing at us when she thinks we haven't noticed her. She will play with anything; bits of fluff, used Strepsils packets, a peg rattling around in the empty laundry basket ... fortunately she hasn't discovered the snake-pit of cable and cords under the computer desk yet.  She's litter-box savvy, thank heavens, and sleeps in a cat-bed on the floor of my side of the bed. It's way too big for her now, she only takes up about a third of it, so I "donated" my plush Tigger toy for her to cuddle up to.

She's absolutely adorable looking; mostly black, with white toes/spats on the front feet and short white socks on the back and a white streak down her chest and a pretty little black face with a white streak across her face just below her nose then a black chin (think milk moustache effect). She has big ears and yellow-green eyes, and is of delicate and slinky build (so far at least - she may end up built like a Sherman tank, who can say?).  She's four months old and has had her first shots, has been flea'd and wormed and microchipped, and we'll have her spayed in a couple of months (I don't want to be a grandma just yet, thanks). She is the only cat I've ever met whose meow really does sound like "meow". "Meow meow meow", she wails, in a pathetic, rather incompetent kind of way.

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At first we thought to call her Katie (Kat for short, ha ha) but it really didn't suit her, so I tried out a few different names. I was going for Millie, until Sam told me that's a really crude disgusting Northern Irish slang word for a 13 year old prostitute. Hm. I finally landed on Jessie, which somehow suits her perfectly. I didn't catch on until later that one of my great-grandmas was called Jessie, and two of my favourite journallers are Jessies ... so she's in excellent company there. Also, Jessie is an affectionate slang term for eejit or idiot, as in "ahh, ye big jessie", which also suits her as she really is a bit of a nutcase. 

Aaaawwwwwww but its just wonderful having a kitty around again, you can imagine - I really was suffering from serious cat separation anxiety. I'm as happy as could be with our lovely sweet funny pussycat.

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