Although dear old Milo has departed this life, Whizz and I occasionally have the opportunity to ‘enjoy’ other people’s pets. Both my girls seem to be ‘cat people’ and by that, I don’t mean they have pointy ears and flicking tails, no, I mean that they adore cats. Horace, when small and on holiday somewhere hot, would spend much of her time ignoring health and safety advice and petting every stray cat that slunk on a street corner or curled under a bush. Her arms bore a permanent map of scratches from fingertip to elbow.
Mavis, is a little more reserved with her feelings, but we’ve been dragged to visit a cat garden centre in Nottingham and, on a recent break in Stratford upon Avon, one of her high points was a visit to the Shakespaw Cat Cafe. This was an expensive exercise. You have to pay to even get through the door, then of course there’s the impossible-to-resist coffee and cake to be consumed while watching cat-lovers, including Mavis, crawling on the floor, awwing and oohing over cats called Romeo and Horatio and, believe it or not, Bottom (whose face did look as if it had been sat on). It’s all in a good cause of course, the owners take rescued cats and socialise them until they are ready for adoption.
It’s not that I don’t like cats. We have owned cats in the past and they’ve been great company but I think pets are like children: your own are adorable but other people’s, less so. There is one cat in particular that is my nemesis. A little black darling called Bean that belongs to Horace. Bean is unwell and therefore tetchy with all strangers but she has me picked out as the particular object of her hatred.
Horace tells me it’s because I outstared her once, about ten years ago, and she (Bean, although I don’t think Horace was amused either) took objection and has never forgiven me. This may be true but if you ask me, ten years is a long time to hold a grudge.
Whenever we visit Horace and Kerching in Lancashire, I hear Bean before I see her. She has an evil hiss, and when she does eventually appear, the most vicious-looking teeth imaginable.
Bean is small and black and camouflages herself on the equally black chair at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, the one nearest the door. She’s watching for me to pass innocently by so she can take a swipe. Other times, she crouches out of sight on an armchair until I put my unsuspecting hand on its back and hear the dreaded HISS as her claws make contact with my tender skin. Everyone in the family now watches Bean so they can warn me where she is when I enter a room.
You see what I mean? One look at me and…
At home in Pebbleditch, Beamish’s dog Grabber is the antithesis of aggressive. To be fair, he’s healthy and content so has less reason to lash out. He is easy going and often spends a night at Beamish’s friend Bizzy’s. Bizzy owns two border collies and Beamish occasionally minds them while Bizzy goes out on the town or away for a few days to a conference or a jolly. One of her dogs, Mabel, I think, sleeps on Bizzy’s bed while Bizzy is away while Beamish and Hooper sleep in the nearby spare bedroom.
On a recent pet sitting visit, Beamish awoke to the most wonderful dawn chorus. It was early to be sure, but it was such a delightful sound he felt it worth the lack of sleep. Then he realised that Mabel would sensed the house was coming to life and woken up too so he dragged himself from his pit and staggered into Bizzy’s bedroom to collect Mabel for her morning ‘visit’. The dawn chorus really loud now. In fact it was so loud, it would have woken Bizzy up had she been there.
It was her alarm clock.