Seriously Mum, How Many Cats?

by Alan Parks

  Over the last couple of years, people have started to get in touch with us, asking if they can buy fleeces from our alpacas. This has led to us meeting new people, and even some strange meetings at motorway service stations where we hand over black bags full of alpaca fleece in return for a small bundle of cash. It all helps!

  When Lily had problems with the cria that was born prematurely, we had had a particularly hot April that year and she was fully fleeced. She seemed to be quite stressed and that was what caused the cria to come along early. So this year I was relieved to have got through shearing without this being an issue and hoped that, this time, she would be able to hold on until she was full term and then her cria would have a greater chance of survival.

  Chapter 18

  More about our Cats

  Throughout 2008, we saw glimpses of two kittens as they grew up. The mother cat was mainly black with white patches and looked very thin. One of the two kittens (growing up fast) was all black and the other was black and white, with practically the opposite markings to its Mum. Most of the time they stayed out of our way; the mother seemed to be providing for them, and none of them looked unhealthy.

  At the end of 2008 and start of 2009 we had had Neil, the cowboy builder, here, doing some work on The Olive Mill for us. At the time, of course, we didn’t know he was a cowboy, but the subsequent leaky roofs and plumbing problems we’ve had have left us with a constant reminder. When he was installing the decking around the fibre glass pool we had installed, we noticed him bringing cans of squirty cream to work with him. One day I went outside and there he was feeding the cream to a gorgeous, Siamese-looking, fluffy cat.

  “This is Poco!” he had exclaimed. “He was my cat when we lived here. He just vanished and now he’s come back. I’ll to take him home with me at the weekend.”

  Neil was working at The Olive Mill during the week and driving back to the coast at the weekends. It was amazing to think that this cat had returned, none the worse for wear, after being AWOL for over a year.

  The following Monday Neil told us more.

  “It’s like he’s never been away,” he said. “He went straight up to Caroline, got some treats, and the dogs and other cats have been fine with him. He’s back and we’re going to the vets this week to get him fixed.”

  “Great news,” we both said.

  What an amazing story, but it didn’t end there. After Neil’s next weekend at home he had an animal basket in the back of the car.

  “He can’t stay,” he said. “After his operation he went ballistic. He was attacking the dogs and cats, and he ripped Caroline’s arm to shreds. I’m going to have to put him back here.”

  Well, he had now been fixed, so it wasn’t really going to cause too many problems, and all the time Neil was there he was feeding Poco. After a couple of weeks Poco vanished again, never to return.

  In Spring 2009, the female cat again had kittens. We assumed the father was from the previous litter. She had three kittens and by now she was getting braver around us, maybe starting to trust us a bit. We had seen her feeding the kittens, plus the two bigger cats were getting a free meal too, so we gave her some food, trying to help to maintain her health as she fed five hungry cats. We didn’t want them to rely on us, but we also didn’t want them to die.

  In the new litter, there were two black kittens and one grey and white one. One of the black ones was very small, obviously the runt of the litter, and the mum kept trying to leave him in various places; either that or he just couldn’t keep up with the rest of them. Every day we would find him somewhere different, meowing for his life, and we’d pick him up and return him to the family. So now we had six cats. I was beginning to worry that we might be at the start of a cat problem. I didn’t want to be overrun as cats can breed pretty prolifically.

  One day we were sitting outside with the alpacas and surrounded by the cat family.

  “Look at the little one,” Lorna said. “Why don’t we call him Twiggy? Look at his little legs.”

  “Like the Royle Family.” We had been watching the series on DVD. “We could call the mum Barb.”

  So that’s what we did. The mum became Barb, the kittens from the year before were Dave and Jim, and the new kittens were R Denise (the pretty little grey and white one), Twiggy and Baby David.

  A few weeks later, R Denise was growing well, but the two black kittens were slow developers. One day we went out to the alpacas and only Barb and R Denise were there.

  We just thought the others would be around somewhere, but as days turned into weeks they never returned. There was no trace of them. We wondered if something had got them, maybe a bird of prey or even some kind of fox or wild cat. Whatever had happened, they were gone, and that left Barb with just R Denise to look after and our cat worries abated for a while.

  R Denise turned into a really friendly cat; she would come to the alpacas with us, sniff the baby alpacas and climb all over us. We even managed to get a flea collar on her. As the months passed, we realised we had made an error in naming her. Far from being R Denise, she was actually a Dennis. We tried to call her Dennis, but the name didn’t stick. He was always R Denise.

  In 2010 I suppose it was inevitable there would be more kittens, with R Denise’s new status revealed. In January, two new cats appeared, vying for the attention of Barb. They were both tabby cats and either Lorna or I would see them hanging around outside the fence, or if they ventured in they would get spooked and run away again. At night we could hear them fighting and we had no idea where these cats had come from.

  One day R Denise was limping, obviously having been caught up in one of these male fights. He slunk away for a few days to lick his wounds.

  A few weeks later the tell-tale bump appeared on Barb and we knew she was pregnant. We expected the babies to be born around April time and one day we came home and there was Barb. She was calling us, then, meow, meow, meow! turning around looking at us, as though beckoning us to follow her. I could just make out some blood on her hind-quarters.

  “She’s had the kittens, I can see blood on her. Let’s follow her.”

  “I hope she’s OK,” Lorna said, worried about the blood.

  We followed Barb around the back of the house and down a slope towards the fence. At the bottom of the fence we had used some old wooden gates to hold the fence down and stop Carlos and Geri escaping underneath. Barb crawled under the gate and into a dark hollow. We could hear mewing. By lifting the gate slightly at the top we were able to catch a glimpse of the tiny kittens. We came away to leave them to it.

  Eventually, Barb brought the kittens to the hay barn and kept them warm in there, and we were able to see that there were three of them. This time we had another black one, a tabby and a grey one. As it was World Cup year, I suggested that maybe, if England did well, we should call them Frank (Lampard), Wayne (Rooney) and Steven (Gerrard). As it happened, England performed dismally and Spain won, so we decided to use Spanish players’ names. The tabby one was Andres (Iniesta), the grey was Fernando (Torres) and the black one was Sergio (Ramos).

  That summer R Denise disappeared for a few days at a time, before returning for a few days. Each time he would be gone longer and longer and eventually we thought we’d never see him again. We did see him one day, chasing a rabbit on a farm near the top of the track about three kilometres from the house. He had a wild look in his eyes and if it wasn’t for the fact that he was still wearing the flea collar, I wouldn’t have believed it was him.

  Fernando became Fern and gradually the cats dispersed. Having now seen it for a couple of years, we had started to believe that maybe Barb was keeping numbers under control. This was her territory, there was only so much food to go around, and she had to keep herself alive to be able to keep some of her children alive. We often envisaged her sitting the kittens down, having a meeting and telling them it was time to move on. They would pack their bags, maybe with a spotted handkerchief on a stick and make their way in the world. Occasionally we had vis
its from male cats who returned for a few days, but the females never did.

  In 2011 Barb had two kittens in a tiny space inside an old chicken coop. We didn’t find them until weeks later when they were already growing and playing out in the open. With only two kittens to feed, Barb looked much healthier and the kittens grew well. These two were both black and white, but their markings were polar opposites. They curled up and fitted together to make a perfect circle. It wasn’t until later that I had the idea that we should have called them Ying and Yang, but by then it was too late, they were called Xavi and Messi; football again.

  It came as no surprise when one day over the winter Lorna said to me “I haven’t seen Xavi or Messi for days, I guess they’ve had their marching orders.”

  By 2012 we had become great friends with Ricardo and Rita and one day, when visiting our house and seeing our 2012 brood, Rita spotted the one we had called Silva. This little kitten was a beauty. All grey with blue eyes, he had faint tabby markings all over his body. There was also Pedro (white with tabby patches) and Iker (white with black patches).

  “Aww! Can we have him?” Rita said to Ricardo, and that was it.

  Arrangements were made that as soon as Silva was old enough Rita and Ricardo would come and collect him, and he would join their own cat, Zippy. They decided to call Silva, Zuli (Azul means blue in Spanish) and their vet even asked if he was a pedigree Russian Blue. Nope, just a regular, in-bred campo cat.

  Sadly, one day I found little Iker’s body on the track outside. We hadn’t seen the kittens venturing outside and his injuries were only to his head, so I doubted that he’d been hit by a car. I thought he had been grabbed by an opportunistic bird of prey; maybe he had struggled and the bird had dropped him and he was killed on impact. So that only left little Pedro, who, I’m sure on instruction from Barb, vanished over the summer. It was unexpected, as he was still very small and was very friendly after being picked up and man-handled by the children of guests that visited The Olive Mill.

  Barb was alone again, just the way she liked it.

  In 2013, for the first time, Barb had a litter of four kittens. Right from the start she was open with them and let us handle them without any fear. We could see from the word go that this time it was harder for Barb, as she was feeding the extra mouths. We decided to name the four kittens Eeny, Meeny, Miney and Mo, naming them in order of which we were able to pick up and stroke first. That meant that Eeny was the most friendly and Mo the least.

  “Alan. ALAN!”

  “What?” I said, as I came around the corner sweating from wheel-barrowing alpaca poo from the fields. Our wheelbarrow has seen better days and has had a flat tyre for two years. I have to pull it backwards along the gravel.

  “I haven’t seen Barb for days. Where do you think she could be? I’ve checked the barn and the stable and there’s no sign of her. She hasn’t come for food for three days either.”

  “Hmm! Maybe she’s sick somewhere, or just gone for a break from the kittens. I’m sure she will be back soon. Try not to worry.”

  Days passed with still no sign of Barb. The kittens of 2013 were still only small and Eeny, Meeny, Miney and Mo still needed their mum. Days turned into weeks and we had to face facts, it looked like Barb had gone.

  We had no way of knowing if she had been sick and gone off to curl up somewhere and go to sleep peacefully, or if she decided that four kittens were just too much and went to look for a retirement home somewhere up the road. We like to think it was the second option.

  So, rather than reducing the food we gave to the kittens as they grew and were taught to hunt by their mum, we had to keep feeding them. The four of them would huddle up on the patio furniture cushions at night to keep warm, and would not venture further than a few metres away from where we fed them during the day, only moving to follow the warmth of the sun.

  Over the past few years, Barb had kept on top of our cat numbers, sending the yearly litter away when they were big enough and had learnt to hunt, usually after about 6-8 months. This year we had no Barb to send them away, so all four kittens stayed around, venturing further and further into the surrounding countryside, but always returning to the safety of the house.

  “I was just feeding the alpacas and there was a grey cat out there; it looked just like R Denise, but I haven’t seen him for years,” I said to Lorna, coming in from the rain and taking off my aging Primark cagoule.

  “Really?” Lorna replied. “That’s odd, but remember, the tabby cats always used to come and hang around Barb around this time. I bet he’s here for the girls. It probably isn’t R Denise though.”

  “Nah, you’re probably right.”

  The next morning was brighter and we were outside trying to keep on top of the never-ending weeding issues around the house.

  “Look, there he is again.”

  I pointed to the grey cat. If it was R Denise, he was much thinner than before and whereas before R Denise was friendly and would enjoy a cuddle, this cat had a look of fear in its eyes.

  “I don’t know,” Lorna shook her head. “Maybe, maybe not, but I tell you something, it looks like those poor little cats are going to be having babies this year.”

  We had never had a cat problem at The Olive Mill. Even though Barb had yearly litters varying between two to four in number, we never had more than six cats hanging around at any one time. I guess it was all down to food supply; maybe we didn’t feed them enough to keep more than six of them. They are feral cats; we don’t own them and they just live here on the farm. In return for their board, we expect them to hunt and keep our barns free from mice and other vermin. That is the deal and up until now it seems to have been beneficial to both parties.

  After a couple of weeks, the cat that may or may not have been R Denise vanished back from whence he came, never to be seen again, and we assumed our little girls were pregnant. That would mean three females, Eeny, Meeny and Mo, all having litters around the same time.

  Now we may start to have a cat problem.

  Chapter 1 9

  Beards and Trunkies

  I hadn’t been back to visit the UK for over five years. In terms of family, I have Mum and my brother and both sets of grandparents still alive. Earlier in the year I got a phone call from Mum saying that she thought I should come back for a weekend, as her parents were having a party for their 60th wedding anniversary. She thought it was about time I paid them a visit and the grandparents on my Dad’s side.

  I didn’t really want to go back to the UK. I do miss friends and family, but I don’t really miss the lifestyle, all the rushing around and the crowds. I booked a flight to leave on the Friday and return to Spain on the Monday. I was sure I could manage that.

  In the build-up to my trip I had been messing about - asking questions like “Do cars fly in the UK now?” and “Will people be talking into smart watches and wearing Google Glass?”

  But the truth was very different, nothing really changes at all, and I think that’s my problem.

  I have become accustomed to our life here in the middle of nowhere. I am happy in my own company. Some people might even call me a hermit.

  My main concerns had been traffic on the roads and people in the streets. The thought of the sheer numbers of both these things brought me out in a cold sweat. On top of that I was nervous about leaving Lorna at The Olive Mill for the first time in five years. I just had to hope that everything would be OK, and if there was an emergency that somebody would be able to help.

  I was only going back for three days and I had it planned like a military operation: a meal with Mum and Mike on the Friday night, anniversary party on the Saturday night, followed by a football tournament with my old team on Sunday morning, and finally a barbecue with Dad’s side of the family on Sunday afternoon. No time to sit around being bored.

  Lorna dropped me at the train station in our customary way and I crossed my fingers that Frank would get her home in one piece. Hopefully with his new tyres on there wouldn’t be a p
roblem. I made sure I told Lorna to let me know as soon as she was home.

  I bought my tickets for the train and found my seat (yes that’s right, you get given a seat number here) for the journey. An hour passed in the blink of an eye. I quite enjoyed seeing the scenery on the way down to Malaga. When I got to Malaga station I had a slight problem as the platform and ticket machine were in a different place to the last time I was there and it took a few minutes to work out. Even after I found my way to the right entrance a man had to point me to the correct platform for the airport - I must have looked like such a tourist.

  The train that runs from Malaga to the airport was quite busy, full of holidaymakers and expats. I was beginning to feel a little uneasy and this intensified when I got off the train at the airport. Malaga Airport is huge these days. The last time I passed through there it was easy and although I have collected people after their flights, this was different. I walked past people sunbathing on the tarmac outside, cigarettes in mouths and covered in tattoos. Were they catching the last few minutes of sun before jetting back to the UK, or had they just arrived and were so desperate to get in the sun that they were sunbathing while they waited for a taxi? I didn’t hang around to find out.

  Checking-in was a relative breeze. I probably huffed and puffed a bit about having to wait 20 minutes in a queue with children in front and behind me, but on the whole it was pretty painless. The security check was equally relaxed.

  “Shall I put my deodorant in a plastic bag?” I asked one of the assistants. I thought it was a safe bet that they would speak English.

  “No pasa nada. Don’t worry about it.”

  A shrug of the shoulders and I was through.

  Once I got through the ‘check’ I was greeted by something far more daunting. The once small and relatively easy to navigate terminal of Malaga Airport has morphed into a huge shopping mall and the first thing I was met with was one the massive duty free shops that sells everything known to man and in massive quantities. There were people dousing themselves in perfume, kids screaming and demanding giant packs of Jelly Babies and 20-somethings grabbing as much alcohol as they could physically carry. I needed to sit down.