HE WAS SOME CAT....

16 years is a long time to live with someone regardless of how many legs they have.  In our house we live with as many four leggeds as with two leggeds and the bonds of love are strong. 

This week our oldest four legged – Simba died.  He had been in decline for months but my philosophy for elderly animals is that as long as they are enjoying life I would prefer them to fade slowly away.  I am not inclined to interfere with nature’s natural leisurely journey towards the end unless there is pain or discomfort involved.  Simba had lost weight and also his hearing but he was happy and still enjoying life right until the last day or so.

It was Carla, our eldest who brought Simba home to our first house in Shankill when she was about 11 years old.  She found him in some old woman’s shed where a cat had just had kittens and the old woman said she could keep him.  He was probably a bit too young to have been taken from his mother but I had a baby myself and probably wasn’t fully paying attention and so Simba stayed. 

He was cute like all kittens are and very playful.  But as he got older we discovered a dark quirk to his large rambunctious personality.  He wasn’t that keen on children or older people.  It began when he took a swipe at some of the cousins, all of whom were very young.  He missed but we realised that if young visitors came to the house we would have to lock Simba into a room for their safety. 

This was also a problem when we hosted parties for the girls, with lots of kids running about the house Simba was invariably released from his captivity.  So with the next party on the horizon I decided to visit the vet and investigate how best to deal with his behavioural quirk.  The vet advised some behavioural realignment using cat valium.  Yes, I kid you not.  I came away with a month’s supply of cat valium which would hopefully teach Simba to chill and not attack children.

The problem with the cat valium was that they were tiny tablets and the vet told me administer one quarter of a tablet per day.  So for three days I attempted to quarter a tiny tablet which resulted in bits of cat valium bits about my kitchen.  Not ideal when I now had two small children who spent a lot of time crawling about on the floor.  So I gave up.  Instead I decided that I would administer a tablet on the day of the party to keep him calm and the visiting children safe. 

Simba was a pig when it came to food so it was no problem to get him to take the tablet.  I will never forget the faces of the parents who dropped their little darlings off, when they spied a huge fat cat comatose on the back of an armchair with his mouth open and tongue hanging out.  He was happily out of his head for hours... and no one got hurt at the party.  The supply of cat valium lasted through the parties at home stage and Simba had no recollection of any of them.

Simba grew up into a huge, lazy, vocal, affectionate cat who loved being around us and in the house.  In winter no one got as excited as he did on a cold evening when we lit the fire.  He would be in, staking his place in front of the hearth at the first sound of coal being rattled. 

He grew and grew so much that I got tired of visitors asking when ‘she’ was due to give birth.  Then someone arrived one day who looked at me as if I were really thick.  “That cat has a tumour or something” he said.  “I’ve never seen a cat that size.  Have you taken him to the vet?”  “No”, I said sheepishly. 

Next day, full of guilt I took Simba to the vet.   “What’s the problem” he said.  I recounted the story of the man who said he must have a tumour.  The vet examined Simba and then asked me two questions.

“Does he eat a lot?”

“Oh yeah,” I said “he loves his food”

“Does he take much exercise?”

“Em, no not really,” I answered “he likes to be indoors, with us. He’s kind of lazy”

“Exactly,” said the vet.  “He’s just fat.  Fine but fat.”

We were kindred spirits in many ways – me and Simba.

He was a constant in our house for the last 16 years.  He loved dinner time – watching me as I prepared food in the hope that I would drop a tasty morsel for him.  He would then join us at the table – sitting on a free chair preferably at the head of the table from where he would listen to our conversations and wonder what our food tasted like.

He thumped down off beds and down the stairs in the manner of a large child.  He talked a lot and was the only cat who always answered us when we greeted him.

Although he had issues with some two leggeds he loved other cats.  We have fostered many kittens and older cats for the DSPCA and Simba never objected to a new arrival.  In fact without Simba we would have struggled to win around some of our very nervous fosters.  It was Simba who would give them the confidence to come out of hiding and feel safe in the world.  His greatest achievement in this regard was the rehabilitation of Oprah, the feral kitten who came to us at Christmas.

Simba was the last of our first generation of cats.  In hindsight we should have staggered our cat adoptions a bit better.  Like the way most of our white goods blew up in year seven of our marriage, over the last 18 months or so I have held the paws of four beloved cats as they left this world. 

Simba knew the end was near and took himself off to die at the end of the garden. Unfortunately he (we assume) took a tumble into a little inaccessible stream at the end of our garden and it took us some hours to locate him.  In the end it was Mia (13) who found him and she had to come back to get help to reach him.  While she did that, another of our cats, Diego took up position beside the dying Simba until Paul arrived with a ladder and took poor Simba home. 

He was weak and his body was shutting down so bundling him into a soft blanket we took him to the emergency veterinary hospital in UCD where they agreed that we should help him on his journey.  So he died as he lived – mainly peacefully with a bit of drama. 

We took him home with us and on Wednesday evening in a soft rain, as the light drained from the sky, Paul dug a grave for our beloved boy and we lay him to sleep by the lilac tree in the garden.  Diego watched from the wall.

We now have four young cats – the oldest is about 2 and so I guess in another 15 years or so I will once again be shedding salty tears as they take their leave.  It’s always sad and you never get used to it.  But it is a tribute to the animals any of us chose to live with, that they connect with us in a deep and meaningful way, that they colour every day of the life we live together and that they become true members of the family.

Simba will live on in our hearts and the stories of his life will be told for years to come.  He was some cat!

KITTY. 2003 - 2013

Yesterday we lost our beautiful little 'kitty'.  She was ten years old and until Monday she had been very well.  Kitty was a wonderful cat - with a coat as soft as feathers and a girly meow which sounded more like a squeak.  She was part of our family and we are all very sad that she went so unexpectedly and so early.  We never knew she had a huge tumour.  She died peacefully at 7pm yesterday helped on her way by our Vet and in my arms.

As a tribute I have edited two previous posts from the archives. 

She enriched our lives for a decade.  We will miss her.

FROM MAY 2010..... BANG BANG BIRDIE

I am very glad that I don’t own a gun and that I live in country where it is generally against the law to own one. Because if I had a gun, last week I would have shot my dog, Dylan. He had a charming dose of the trots.  This week I would shoot Mrs Blackbird. Yep, that’s right. Mrs Blackbird. I would point my gun and BANG. Feathers all over the place. And then PEACE. QUIET.

Now before you rush to judgement – let me ask – have you ever heard an agitated Blackbird?  They make the most annoying racket and it goes on and on and on. The problem Mrs Blackbird with this particular bird is that she is a mammy. She must have a nest full of baby blackbirds in the tree at the end of the garden. I am also assuming that this particular Mrs Blackbird was a bit sloppy when it came to doing her background research on a suitable location for her nest. She clearly saw the tree and letting her heart rule her head, decided “This is it”. “This is my tree. This will be my new home.” Had she come back for a second viewing before finally making her mind up (and had she bothered to tune into Kirsty and Phil she would have known all this), she would have realised that she was making a nest at the end of a garden belonging to four cats.

Now my cats are generally laid back, lazy moggies who venture into the garden to lie in the sun or do their business. They have a cat flap to facilitate these comings and goings. Youngest of the foursome is Kitty and she occasionally brings home a field mouse. She has never (to my knowledge) caught a bird. But anytime any of the cats venture into the garden at the moment, Mrs Blackbird comes flying out of her fabulous tree, roaring and bawling all kinds of birdie obscenities. She perches on the swing and keeps up her tirade until the cat in question retreats indoors again. But when Kitty puts one paw into the garden she goes ballistic altogether. Squawking and screeching at the top of her lungs and dive bombing Kitty as she wanders down the path.

But this morning took the biscuit altogether. I was sitting at my laptop trying to work on a story. I have gotten somewhat used to the incessant squawking but all of a sudden it seemed to go up a gear and get louder. “Oh shut up” I roared as I turned around to see Kitty sitting indoors on the window sill and Mrs Blackbird perched on a patio chair directly outside the window telling Kitty exactly what she would do with her if she even put one leg into the garden. I was stunned.

I will admit to admiring Mrs Blackbird’s tenacity and her dogged protection of her offspring. But clearly her hormones have gotten the better of her and I am worried for her sanity. Without a gun I am just praying that all her babies fledge successfully and soon. And that Kitty stays as lazy as she is, so we can all live happily ever after!

A FEW DAYS LATER I POSTED AN UPDATE.....

I believe in Karma – otherwise known as what goes around comes around.

The Mrs Blackbird – v- Kitty saga has continued apace since I posted ‘Bang Bang Birdie’ last week. Although I wouldn’t have thought it possible, Mrs Blackbird has upped her game. Kitty now only has to pass a downstairs window and Mrs Blackbird zooms up the garden, screeching bloody murder. 

Kitty’s favourite daytime haunt is Mia’s bedroom, where she either curls up on the bed or sits on the window still surveying the garden. No more. Mrs Blackbird (who clearly has a powerful set of binoculars in her nest) spots her immediately and takes up position on the outside sill, yip yipping for all she’s worth.

Kitty is now terrified of going into the back garden and has taken to exiting and entering the house through windows at the front of the house. Needless to say we all think this is hilarious and have been regaling neighbours, friends and family with stories of Kitty being totally intimidated by a blackbird. “Kitty is a scaredy cat” and “Kitty’s afraid of a blackbird” echoes through the house regularly and guess who laughs loudest – yep, yours truly. What I had missed however, was the gimlet eye Kitty was throwing my way in the last day or two.

Last night, Kitty clearly decided to take matters into her own paws in order to restore her feline credibility. And so she did what Kitty does best and caught a mouse. A little field mouse, which she (brace yourselves ladies) brought into my bedroom, through an open window, at 1.30am this morning. Needless to say she had chosen her moment cleverly as my other half was away. 

So I woke up, alone in my bed, aware that Kitty was making odd sounds in the bedroom. I sat up and turned on the light. And there she was staring straight at me, saying “scaredy cat? Lets see who is scared now?” At her feet was the little mouse. As the implications of this situation seeped into my sleep fuzzed brain, I prayed “please God in heaven may this mouse (who was not moving) be dead”. 

With that the mouse took off under my chest of drawers. And Kitty decided to leave him there as she vanished under the bed. By now I was up and out of bed and lifting anything off the floor that I thought a mouse might climb into (shoes, bags etc), I then opened the curtains so that the open window was clearly visible and accessible, on the off chance that Kitty might think enough was enough and remove the mouse from whence it came. Wishful thinking all. Mouse stayed put and so did Kitty.

There was nothing for it but to leave them to it and hope that by morning Kitty would have done her worst and I could then remove dead mouse from the room. I decided to sleep in the spare bed in Mia’s room. But as soon as I lay down, my mind was full of what could transpire during the night. Mouse caught up in my duvet, taking refuge in my pillow, my dressing table being thrashed as Kitty pursued him across it, Tom and Gerry style. No, I decided I had to be grown up about this and go in and get rid of mouse. So I took a deep breath and woke up Mia.

Mia, I should explain is my youngest. She is 9 years old and she (like us all) loves animals. But Mia loves animals in a different way to the rest of us. When she was a toddler I would regularly find her barefoot in the garden with ants crawling over the legs. She loved wood lice and made homes and cities for them. She collected snails. And lately she has been bugging me to get her a pet mouse!

"Mia I need your help!”   

Mia readily agreed to be the one to remove the mouse. I equipped her with my industrial workman gloves and got a torch and we re-entered the room. All was as before and Mia on hands and knees reported that “ahh, he’s cute and yeah he is there, under the chest of drawers”. We discussed tactics which broadly speaking involved me moving the furniture and shouting instructions while Mia calmly and swiftly cornered little mouse, cupped him in her gloved hands and headed for the window from where he was launched into the night.

Mia also intervened when I attempted to grab Kitty and launch her after the mouse!

 And so it was that at 3am this morning Mia and I were in the kitchen having a celebratory glass of juice and me handing over the €5 bribe reward to my darling, brave, heroic, animal loving daughter. As we retired back to bed, we passed Kitty on the stairs and I swear she was grinning from ear to ear! I don't think I will slag her anymore!

Tiger 1996 - 2012.

I remember very well the day in winter of 1996 when I went to collect you.  You were lounged nonchalantly on a bed in a small townhouse in Bray where the owner had christened you Florence.  You were about 3 months old.

I took you home to our little rented house in Blackrock where our then 10 year old daughter rechristened you Tiger.  You lived an indoor life for a few months and then we all moved a few miles further south when we bought our house in Shankill.  Do you remember the endless entertainment your still kittenish self had with the hidden water sprinkler in the back garden of our new house?

In Shankill you were on hand to welcome home our babies, Roisin in November 1998 and Mia in September 2000.  You also knew my father, Michael before he passed away in 2002.

Then one day you were gone.  I called and called you.  We searched our neighbourhood.  I drove up and down the nearby motorway looking for a body.  All in vain.  You had just vanished.  We were all sad as the realisation gradually dawned that you were gone.  But life was busy – with two babies, a teenager and both Paul and I working hard.  By now our family had expanded to include another cat – Simba.

On a Saturday morning, some months later, I arrived half asleep into the kitchen to find you were back.  Sitting up on the high stool and meowing your head off, clearly telling me of your adventures which hadn’t seemed to have taken any toll on your beautiful appearance.  We were delighted and stunned and never ever discovered where you went for those missing three months.

We moved again in 2002 to this house in Cabinteely and the following year added another two cats to the household.  But you Tiger were always the matriarch.  Beautiful, elegant and slightly aloof.  You were no lap cat preferring on occasion to sit beside someone but rarely on a lap.

When Dylan the dog joined us five years ago, it was you Tiger who very definitely taught him that he was the very bottom of the food chain in the house and that cats rule!  You taught him well – he has never forgotten.

Tiger helps Mia with her homework.

You were so affectionate. Like lots of cats – an open book or newspaper on the kitchen table was a signal for you to come and make yourself the focus of our attention instead of our chosen reading matter.  You would head butt the paper and wind yourself around a book making reading or doing homework a challenge.

You were always here Tiger.  As you got older the outdoors was fine for an hour or two in the sun on mild days but what you really loved was to curl up on your blanket under a radiator.

Your other favourite thing was to sit on the back of the chair and look out the front window where you could watch the neighbourhood comings and goings.  You also had a handbag fetish and loved nothing more than investigating a good handbag – the more expensive the bag the more you loved it.  More than a couple of friends left this house with their designer handbag covered in cat hair!

Like many of us in this house, you were a great talker. You knew your name and often responded to being spoken to with a series of meows.  Those meows took on added impetus in the morning when you demanded to be fed at once! Paul was your food slave!  And like Simba, you loved it when I started preparing dinner.  You sat on the floor to the left of the cooker (while he took up position on the right) and waited till I dropped a piece of chicken or some other tasty morsel.  Sometimes you stretched up and tried to hook a piece of meat for yourself!

Your last year or so were marked by your inability to groom yourself as effectively as you would have liked but that meant that we could give you a girly grooming session in the garden which you loved.  Only last weekend we spent about 30minutes together at the picnic table at the end of the garden and as I brushed your coat you purred your pleasure.

Sometimes we both got distracted at My Kitchen Table and spent long minutes watching birds in the garden or just thinking about life.

In the last week or so we knew you were fading Tiger and we vowed that as long as you were comfortable, eating and sleeping we would not force any intervention.  That stage came to an end yesterday when we knew you were no longer comfortable.  It was an unbearably sad morning as we all spent what we knew were our last hours with you.  But ever the lady and a cat who always knew her own mind you spared both of us the trauma of euthanasia in the Vets surgery as you breathed your last in the car beside me.

Tiger you were witness to all the events, big, small, happy and sad of our family life over the past 16 years.  Your constant presence in our home is no more but you remain in each of our hearts and our memories.
Tiger Sherwood Scully, cat, friend, part of our family left us on Saturday 25th August 2012.

Cats are synonymous with female energy, magic and the moon...

I hope Tiger that somewhere you are winding yourself around the legs of one Mr Neil Armstrong and that you might find a celestial kitchen table where you can sit and he can regale you with tales of how it felt to walk on that moon!  You'd like that!

In memory of Tiger Sherwood Scully.

1996 - 2012.

Thank you Tiger -  we will miss you but never forget you!

WELCOME TO MY KITCHEN TABLE

Pull up a chair, coffee is brewing, make yourself at home. You are very welcome!

Regular readers and followers will know that this is my new blogging home. Seeking Serenity is no more. So does this mean I have found what I was looking for, Serenity, here at the Kitchen Table? Probably not. But this new blog marks my intention to make my writing more of a priority in my life and to be comfortable with the fact that yes, I do write at the Kitchen Table.

So I do hope my Serenity followers will follow on here. I hope you will check in often and keep leaving the great comments which I enjoy reading so much! Again regulars will be familiar with some of my January posts which I have imported over, in order to give new readers a flavour of what may go on at my Kitchen Table.

Finally I want to take this opportunity to thank my eldest cat, matriarch of the animal kingdom in our house, Tiger. She watched me as I tried to set up the shot that I wanted for my blog header. She knew, just as I did, that something was missing from The Kitchen Table. And so she elegantly climbed up and struck a pose, nonchalantly looking out the window. What a cat! Thank you Tiger – “now get off the Kitchen Table, that’s not allowed and not hygienic.”