Cheesecake For Breakfast

In an update to this post, and then this one, and finally this one, CJ has gone to live with some friends in Glasgow.  She is not hunting rabbits in the country.  She’s in Glasgow.  I know and trust the people she’s with.  I am now the cat’s Auntie.

Dad delivered her on Saturday, taking along her favourite blanket.  I was not upset when she left, as I’d said goodbye many times before the day arrived.  It was hard to believe she was actually gone.  We opened all the doors and windows.  Because we could.

The flat seemed bigger.  And empty.  So we put our sunglasses on and left.  Pulled out of our funk by friends and food and beer.

I felt fragile, but happy, too.  Happy that she got such a sunny day for her new start.  That she was on her way to cuddles from non-allergic people.  I was also happy that I would no longer be confronted with Sarge’s actually bloody nose.  Although, after this morning when I blew my own nose too hard, and showed him, I can no longer complain.

‘Should I be worried?’

‘No,’ he said.  ‘It’s just sympathy snot.’

Last night, I reclaimed my reading chair.  The one that CJ used to sleep on.  I felt slightly guilty, but I read half a book.  My windows are open, people can come in the front door without playing defence first.  We called it Catch the Cat.

I don’t have to feel bad about keeping CJ out of the bedroom.  And even worse when she zoomed in anyway.  I don’t have to wave smelly packets of food to coax her out again.  I can have cheesecake for breakfast, because she isn’t here with the disdainful cat-face that said, ‘Don’t you have a wedding dress to fit into?’

My mother asked me if I missed CJ.  I do, but I love living in peace and fresh air with Sarge, his nose and our books.

This is our idea of an open plan flat!

Why My Electric Bill Is So High

An Open Letter to the Vet

What follows is the text of the letter going along with CJ to her vet’s visit today:

Hi,

This is CJ.  She’s 9.  She’s being re-homed up North, due to my boyfriend’s allergies.  We used to live on a farm, but she’s been a flat-cat since 2005, when we moved to Glasgow.

She is third-generation feral, and she was fixed when she was a year old.  I believe she had shots at that time.

She needed a booster when we lived in Glasgow and I wanted to get her chipped, but the vet could do neither at the time, due to an infected scratch on CJ’s neck.

What she needs now is a booster and a chip, and some kitty anti-depressants (milk pills?) for her upcoming journey, and also a vapouriser-plug-in-magic-thing for her new home.  Everyone will thank you for it.

I am sending her to you, accompanied by my boyfriend, because I am a big chicken.  I hate to see her stressed.

My boyfriend may be stressed too, because he thinks this whole thing is his fault.  It isn’t.

Please be nice to them both.

And my boyfriend doesn’t need a chip.

Thanks,

Lorna

CJ’s Human/The Cat’s Mother

P.S.  The background to this story, complete with more existential reasoning, can be found here.

CJ is disgruntled.

Who’s She, The Cat’s Mother?

Growing up, I wanted to be a lot of things.   Writer, nurse, Mom and bus-driver topped my list, written when I was 6, in rainbow block crayon.  I also wanted to be a lawyer, an artist specialising in Spin-art, and a country singer.  So it was a long list, and vet was not on it.  I am a people person from way back.

I have always loved dogs.  Big ones with bigger eyes.  Shrill, yappy ones have never been good for my nerves.

My Dad always had dogs.  I thought of them as siblings.  Mom had a cocker spaniel that I got for Christmas one year.  Dudley quickly became my Grandfather’s dog.  Maybe even as soon as the day after Christmas.

I tolerate most dogs, I’ve even loved a few of them.  Cats, not so much.  The frequency at which they growl and hiss actually makes me jump out of my skin, and continue the climb up the wall.

How a feline-phobic child became an adult with a fur-person is quite a story.

In truth, I was terrified of cats until I was 13 and only tolerated some of them after that.  But if I didn’t get over my rational-to-me dislike of them, I could not have lived in my house.

I had moved into a farmhouse on a hill attached to a working farm, complete with cows and a barn.  And barn-cats.

Two became three became eight.  They would take cover in our sheds and have yoga sessions in our garden.

Two of those became house cats, our house cats.  They had babies.  One of those babies was CJ.  CJ’s full name is Cappuccino Junior.  Her mother, Cappuccino, was so-called because she looked like a Capuchin monkey.  And because I like cappuccino.  Cappy was the first cat that chose me.  She slept at the end of my bed, and sometimes on my head.

CJ arrived, and she would crawl up my arm, settle on my shoulder and watch TV or read with me.  She was the first one to read some of my bad poetry, and I’d swear she missed me when I was away at University.

When Dad and I moved to Glasgow, CJ lived with me and CJ’s aunt, Kirby, lived across the car park with Dad.  We re-homed the others, and left them up North.

CJ has been with me in five Glasgow flats, making a break for it to explore the hallway whenever I left the flat, sometimes making me late for work because I had to herd her back in.

When I watched TV or read, she curled up next to me.  When I had friends over, she investigated their shoes.

One day, she investigated Sarge’s shoes.  She liked them.  He sneezed.  And sneezed again.  He is allergic to cats.  When he mentioned this, I was afraid.  Afraid that a guy I really, really liked would stop coming around because my house made him sick.

He loaded up on antihistamines for our movie nights, and sometimes woke up with CJ sharing his pillow.

In May last year, with CJ hopped up on happy pills, she and I made the journey to our new Edinburgh flat.  In this flat, she isn’t allowed in the bedroom, but she hangs out at the door and sneaks in whenever she can.  She perches near our living-room window, watching the bus stop.  She is depressed.  She is not a city cat.  I have been selfish.  And Sarge is still sneezing and losing his voice.  His allergy pills don’t work anymore.  His own house should not make him sick.

At some point in recent history, I made a decision.  Something I’ve been thinking about, but could not say out loud.  I had to find CJ a new home.

I presented this to Sarge.  He would never ask me to choose.  But humans come first.  Well, at least some of them.

At first, I wanted her in another Edinburgh flat, with people I knew.  So I could have visitation rights.  But that’s a bit like asking your kid to go to college close to home.

CJ is not the same cat that left the farm.  Every flat I’ve put her in has dimmed her spark.  She deserves to explore like she used to.  She deserves grass and mice and other country cat treasures.

And so, she’s going home.  I want to find her a home up North, through the same agency that placed her furry brothers and sisters.

One day soon, I’ll get in the car with my Dad, and make the difficult and bittersweet journey with my unlikely, but beloved friend.  Letting go, and growing up.

CJ a few years ago, unimpressed with another city move.

The Mascot

 

Her favourite hang out in my old flat.

 

This is the cat I belong to.  Her name is CJ and if ever a pet deserved their own blog post, it’s her.    Her mother was the first cat to tolerate my presence, and her name was Cappuccino.  This was another nod to my love of coffee.  And the fact that her markings were like that of a capuchin monkey.  Cappuccino Junior has the same markings, only in gray, with an extra splotch on her shoulders.

CJ likes expensive food and shoes.  She does headstands.  And if she really likes you, she’ll do a headstand in your shoes.  She is a merciless flirt, and a magnet to those who wear black.  Anyone who comes to visit gets antihistamines when they arrive and use of a lint-roller when they leave.

She is psychic.  She knows the precise moment anyone is going to sit on the couch, and she races to get there first.  She usually wins.

If I’m eating, she will jump up and nudge the fork away from my mouth.  This sometimes ends in disaster, for her, when something lands on her head.  You’d think there would be a photo opportunity when that happens, but she is too quick for the camera.  She’s quick, but she’s also a poser.

Sarge is allergic to cats, but she has accepted him as co-human.  She even lets him disturb her reading.