Chapter 8 - Rhythm and Poos - The Cat with the Nervous Tummy
You’d be amazed at the number of cats I’ve come across whose names are completely at odds with their appearance. There was Winston, you’d imagine a rotund cat with a great strategical brain, but who turned out to be a rather wiry and totally daft little thing whose hapless attempts at hunting endeared me to him no end. Bella was the most unprepossessing cat I’ve ever seen (if such a thing exists), and Spartacus was a tiny and very nervous cat, in fact so unlikely was his name that I imagined all the larger and more street-wise cats in the vicinity yowling ‘No, I’m Spartacus!’ each time they passed his house.
Then there are those cats who I can only hope had been named with the owner’s tongue planted firmly in their cheek; fluffy the Sphynx, and at the opposite end of the spectrum Kojak, a rather hirsute cat who’s daily battle with the grooming brush we both had to endure.
In my experience, and rather surprisingly, many owners blamed their children for the inappropriate naming of their family feline. In some cases I found this questionable especially in the case of Aimee, the three year old little girl who had apparently called her cat Engelbert Humperdinck. Not only did I doubt that she would be into ‘Humpy’s’ particular genre of music, but it was highly unlikely that she’d ever be able to pronounce it. And yes, I have actually come across a cat called Hitler. If you’ve seen any of the numerous ‘Cats with Hitler Moustaches’ web sites you’d be forgiven for assuming that this particular cat sported an engaging pattern of fur, shaped like a black toothbrush moustache, underneath a little pink nose. However, you’d be wrong. In fact I could initially think of no reason why this cat was called Hitler. First and foremost she was a girl and not only that but she had the sweetest little personality, liking nothing better than to snuggle up on the nearest warm lap and to stay there until you got cramp in your legs. It wasn’t until I caught her at a hungry moment that it clicked. She had the angriest and most intense miaow I’d ever heard. I half expected all the other cats in the neighbourhood to appear, hypnotised by her frenzied and flamboyant call to what would undoubtedly turn out to be a rally on the evils of the bird population.
So in terms of unlikely names, Twiggy was a case in point. Not the skinny little feline you’d imagine, but a rather matronly looking female cat of larger proportions who reminded me somewhat of Hattie Jacques in her role as ‘Matron’ in ‘Carry on Doctor’. However, despite her mature appearance, she was only two and a half years old, with dense short fur that resembled a beige carpet.
Twiggy was owned by Bruno and his partner Gareth, and their devotion towards their ‘Twigsy’ showed no bounds. As Bruno showed me around downstairs during my ‘no obligation’ pre-engagement visit, I noticed faux fur leopard print throws adorning the sofa and chaise longue, no doubt for the exclusive use of the pampered feline, along with a number of highly stylised cat donuts and igloos which had either been recently dry cleaned or no cat paw had ever passed over their threshold. Other than the bed-related items, the house seemed devoid of any other cat paraphernalia, except that is for... how many litter trays? The suspiciously large number, mainly of the hooded variety, led me to believe that there must be a bevy of fabulous felines living at the property.
“So, there’s just me, Gareth and Twigsy,” Bruno declared as he no doubt saw me looking askance at the array of trays.
“What a lucky girl she is to have such thoughtful owners! She’s clearly a highly cherished member of the household,” I gushed.
Bruno nodded enthusiastically, “oh yes, she’s definitely one of us.”
That I very much doubt, I thought whilst doing my own fair share of head nodding as we continued our tour of the house.
Another thing I couldn’t help but notice when I first walked into the house was an overpowering smell of what I was reasonably sure was ‘Eau de Lilly of the Valley’, in homage, I thought, to the boys’ beloved cat. I checked out the bathroom on our way past, feeling certain I’d see something smelly in an elegant holder gracing the top of the toilet’s cistern. Sure enough, there were the obligatory wooden scented sticks. However, as we moved from room to room I noticed more and more of the wretched things. They were everywhere! Surely nobody could love Lilies that much? No wonder the poor cat was hiding, no doubt trying to get away from the overwhelming odour; in fact even I was starting to feel a bit queasy.
Eventually we came across Twiggy, tucked in the back corner of an open cupboard in the room used as an office, funnily enough, as far as I could see, the only room in the house not to contain the dreaded scent sticks and also one of the only rooms not to house a litter tray. I was experienced enough to know that if a cat was ‘resting’ then it was best to let her be. However I also knew that most cat owners have an instinctive desire to show-off their bundles of feline gloriousness and Bruno was no different. He insisted on dragging Twiggy out of her safe house, bringing with her every piece of fabric and non-fabric item that she could dig her claws into. She looked distinctly disgruntled as Bruno carefully unhooked the material from her claws and began rocking her like a baby.
“She loves it!” he cooed. Something my husband Elliot says repeatedly when he decides he’d like to wear our little Siamese cat around his neck like some weird living fur stole. I sincerely doubted that Twiggy ‘loved’ being held tightly and rocked to within an inch of her life, but smiled, told him what a gorgeous girl she was and suggested we go back downstairs to the kitchen so we could discuss her care regime. Bruno reluctantly put her down and we watched as she scarpered back into the cupboard from whence she came.
Downstairs in the kitchen Bruno showed me Twiggy’s food cupboard. It struck me that there was an awful lot of pouches of food in there and barely more than two of the same type. Bruno went on to explain that Twiggy was a bit picky about her food, so they had to try her with lots of different varieties in the hope of finding one she would like for more than two meals.
It was just as he was showing me the stainless steel food bowl that had been their most recent acquisition from the designer pet accessories shop down the road, that the most nauseating stench pervaded my nostrils. It was so overpowering that no amount of Lilly of the Valley scent sticks could disguise it. Seeing the rapid change in my pallor a very flustered-looking Bruno dashed out of the room and shot upstairs as fast as his Burberry slippers would take him. I was left to soak up the ambience in the kitchen whilst listening to the unmistakeable sounds of litter cleaning activity taking place somewhere above me.
“Oh God, not again!” The front door swung open and a smartly dressed man with a very elaborate hair-do strode in. I assumed this was Gareth and I was clearly not the first person he expected to see. “Oh, I thought you were Bruno...” he faltered, just as Bruno descended the stairs looking flushed and embarrassed.
“I’m mortified!” Bruno said looking in my direction but not making eye contact, whilst Gareth shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot. I suddenly felt very sorry for them both and decided to put them out of their misery.
“Please don’t worry, I’ve smelled worse. Why don’t we sit down and go through Twiggy’s routines?” I suggested, and with that we made our way to the living room.
As we sat down I couldn’t help but notice an exaggerated look from Gareth to Bruno that said ‘you could have handled that better’ whilst Bruno responded with a silent mouthing of ‘I just panicked’. Over the years I’ve developed a talent for lip reading and what’s never ceased to amaze me is the intensity of the emotions evoked by cats that can cause mayhem between cohabiting couples. I’ve lost count of the number of menacing looks I’ve seen pass from one to the other as if fighting an imaginary ‘I-love-my-cat-more-than-you-do-and-I-therefore-know-best’ battle. I’ve even seen the odd, rather crude, hand gesture.
“What are her stools normally like?” I asked before realising that perhaps this shouldn’t have been my opening question. Although knowing the shape, consistency and size of a cat’s stool puts me in a better positio
n to judge when something isn’t quite right, my lack of diplomacy, given what had just happened was enough to tip poor Bruno over the edge.
“I need to come clean with you,” he said. Interesting choice of words I thought given the current circumstances, but simply nodded and looked at him with my best expression of encouragement. It seemed that Twiggy was prone to frequent episodes of diarrhoea which they put down to ‘her nerves’. I silently wondered if there could be a more scientific explanation, but let him continue. “When a cat’s gotta go, a cat’s gotta go,” he stated, explaining that when Twiggy got the urge and wasn’t near a litter tray, she would evacuate where she stood. They’d been living with this problem ever since they’d acquired her two years previously and had simply been fire-fighting it by introducing ever more litter trays and ever more Lilly of the Valley scent sticks.
Bruno explained that Twiggy had been seen by the vet who, after extensive tests, could find no underlying physical cause and had diagnosed these bouts of diarrhoea as a stress-related condition, or in other words a nervous tummy. I chastised myself for my initial scepticism and also began to wonder if I hadn’t incorrectly judged Twiggy as being a bit portly when perhaps she was just permanently bloated.
I suddenly found myself feeling terribly sorry for the poor cat and decided there and then to embark on a mission to get her back onto the straight and narrow, poo-wise. However, it seemed like my plans were about to be scuppered.
“What d ‘you reckon, Gar? I’m beginning to think it’s not a good idea for us to go away and leave Twigs after all.” he said. “No offence, Kat,” he continued, “but I’m wondering if it was the presence of a stranger that set her off this time.”
Inwardly I surmised that as the problem was present most of the time, it was more likely to be those people who were also present most of the time who were a contributory factor, but thankfully before I could respond, Gareth intervened as the voice of reason.
“I don’t agree Bru, if we don’t go away we’ll never know how she copes without us, and Kat obviously has a lot of experience.” I could only guess that going away had been Gareth’s idea and although Bruno had gone along with it, when it came to the crunch he couldn’t actually bear to be parted from his Twigsy, poo ‘n all.
So whilst the two of them batted their thoughts back and forth I sat between them, head swivelling from side to side like an enthusiastic tennis spectator.
Ultimately it was Twiggy herself who swung it. Whilst the exchange between the two boys continued, she had appeared at the door, cautiously sidled into the room and, after a bit of hesitation, made her way towards my magic bag of cat toys. I carefully slid the catches of the bag open to allow her full access, and within moments she was fully immersed in the bag, wallowing in the catnip and letting out the odd little sneeze as she inhaled a bit too much. Bruno and Gareth stopped their discussion and sat open-mouthed as Twiggy rolled around with a large and very smelly valerian-filled rat.
I was worried that it was the amount of loose catnip now coating their carpet that was the cause of the heavy silence, but my fears were soon allayed...
“OMG, I’ve never seen her like behave like that!” Bruno blurted out.
Gareth nodded in agreement and seized the opportunity to take the advantage.
“See, she’s going to have a terrific time with Kat!”
Bruno could only concede the point and whilst the going was good Gareth persuaded him to put some dates in the diary.
With me as a witness it was all fixed. In two weeks time they would be flying off to Budapest where they had a holiday apartment, which sadly they hadn’t used since Twiggy had entered their lives. I was more determined than ever to help this cat and by doing so help facilitate some more trips away for the boys whose relationship was clearly in need of some TLC.
Two weeks later and with Bruno and Gareth safely installed in their Budapest love nest I found myself walking back though their front door for my first visit. Once again I was immediately confronted by a pungent aroma of ... what was it this time? It seemed that Lilly of the Valley no longer did it for the boys and they had turned to some other perfumed concoction to try and disguise the ever present ‘malodour’. I went to investigate.
Peppercorn?! I was aware that there was still a certain type of old-school cat owner who would put pepper down as an antidote for cats that soiled in the house, but had never come across the peppercorn scent-stick trick. However, it seemed that it was working to some degree as I managed to get all the way to the bottom of the stairs before I was able to identify the unmistakeable smell of nervous tummy wafting down from above. With an impressive amount of self control (and breathing through the mouth only), I decided not tackle the source of the smell immediately, but would instead potter calmly around downstairs and wait for Twiggy to appear. I was about to test the theory that had started formulating in my head at that first meeting with Bruno and Gareth...
I’d got the distinct impression that Bruno in particular was carrying a lot of nervous tension around with him that Twiggy was perhaps picking up on. Speaking of picking up, I was also sure that being rocked back and forth like a baby wasn’t really helping her either.
Added to this was the fact that this was the home of a clearly fastidious couple who enjoyed the finer things in life, and I imagine each time Twiggy did a not-so-little whoopsie, it threw them into desperate turmoil. No wonder she was a bit stressed and a bit nervous. It seemed to me that this was one big vicious circle and I had deliberately put myself right in the middle of it. This was the start of ‘operation stinky poo eradication’.
The Hairy Tails of a Cat Sitter Page 11
