'I'm just a cat
And we'll get along fine
As long as you remember
I'm not yours, your mine.'
My 19 -year old cat died at Christmas and as I cleared away all the cat paraphernalia around the house it dawned on me just how well she had managed to domesticate me.
Like, for example, the wooden box standing by my bed because the arthritis in her hips made it difficult for her to climb that high, the fact that I invariably bang my shins on it is neither here nor there.
The glass of water on the cabinet that I used to enjoy at night had long since been commandeered for midnight sips while MY water was consigned to an inelegant plastic bottle to keep her out.
There was fish and chicken in the freezer despite the fact that I'm a vegetarian and I certainly wouldn't cook it for anyone human. Pride of place in the bathroom was the litter tray I faithfully cleaned out every day when she came IN from the garden to fastidiously adorn it with her offerings because she didn't like getting her claws dirty. Mind you that didn't prevent her requiring the outside door remain open rain, hail or shine, just in case.
I stopped wearing black or navy because the cat hairs show up too much and I never complained about the constant vacuuming, even when SHE disappeared every time the machine was turned on.
Those nice chair-covers I spent hours choosing JUST the right shade for the room were completely obliterated with cat cushions and covers for her to lie on and the armchair closest to the fire was out of bounds to humans. Never mind it was the one best suited for watching the TV and it wasn't the cat who was a) watching it or b) paying for the license.
Then there were the special tiles in the kitchen that acted as a place setting for her bowl and oh, yes the pint jug of water, the water gets just toooo warm in a shallow dish.
She taught me to type one-handed while she sat on my knee if I was working at the computer, keeping my lap at the correct horizontal, perfectly flat angle at the same time of course - couldn't have her slipping off when she nodded off.
Was she a trial I hear you ask? Not a bit of it, she was one of God's blessings. She answered to her name with an inquiring mew and came to greet me every time I walked in the door. A clever cat, she let me know when the phone was ringing or when someone rang the doorbell, just in case I missed it. She carried on endless animated conversations with me though neither of us understood a thing. She saw me through 1 divorce, 3 bereavements and 7 house moves. She curled up on my lap every evening when I needed the peace and was a constant joy in her curiosity about chasing light and shadow across the sitting room and she made me laugh aloud at her indignation when she couldn't catch them. She cosed in on the cold nights, her subdued purr often accompanied me into sleep and her deep rumble woke me in the mornings.
Would I have missed one minute of those 19 years? Not on your life. God Bless the Pussy Cats.
