Carol’s Column

It’s a cat’s life

THERE was a stranger in my bed last Monday night.

Which was a shock, as you can imagine.

I’d just anti-wrinkle creamed my face and done four push ups when I sank, exhausted, on to the marital bed.

Only to shoot up in horror as I made contact with a small, furry creature.

“A rat, a rat!” I shrieked.

Appeared

My youngest unmarried son appeared at the door and peered at me through his new Joe Cool sunglasses which he wears to do maths homework.

“Ma, that’s Motor,” he remarked quietly, observing my distress.

“Motor?”

I looked closely at the fluffball. Rats don’t come in ginger stripes.

“It is not a rat?” I ventured.

“Ma, it’s a cat,” explained Jamie slowly in words of one syllable lest I misunderstood. I wasn’t happy.

“Well, what’s a cat doing in my bed?” I asked querulously. “And he doesn’t even look like your father,” I added somewhat belligerently.

“Ma, he’s a new member of the family,” replied Jamie.

I sighed inwardly and outwardly, ruffling the frill of my see-through nightie with the purple roses. Who needs a new member of the family? This family is already bursting at the seams.

The tale was tragic. The SPCA, inundated with an avalanche of cats, kittens and other creatures, had to put several hundred down. Which is how Motor, rescued by a stout-hearted Jamie Lazar, from a fate called death, landed up in my bed.

“Look, I know you’re allergic to cats,” said Jamie thoughtfully, “so I reckoned we’d keep him away from you and you’d be okay.”

His logic was unassailable.

“So why’s he in my bed?” I inquired.

“Because he was shivering and you’re the only one with an electric blanket.”

I didn’t have to ask why he’d been named Motor — the raucous purr was self explanatory.

I banished Motor to the kitchen and Jamie to bed.

At which stage my financial asset entered the dispute.

“That’s a good kid,” he said, “he has a heart.”

Liver

“And a liver, spleen and kidneys too,” I muttered.

“He’s a compassionate child,” he added. “It’s not everyone who would bring home a poor, defenceless, starving kitten.”

Lucky everyone, the thought crossed my mind.

“Just stay away from Motor,” said my husband. “Let the kids feed him — otherwise you’ll come out in bumps — you know how allergic you are to cats.”

Motor settled in nicely. He took over the kitchen, lounge and my bed.

He was, without doubt, the ugliest scrap of kittenhood you’d ever seen. He looked as if someone had done a quick spray ’n paint job and missed. A ginger scrap of fur, he had pointed ears, a long nose and skinny legs. He looked not unlike a close relative on my husband’s side of the family.

This was re-affirmed when my spouse remarked: “That cat has a distinctly familiar look about him.”

On Tuesday night I heard a yowling in the kitchen. “Feed him somebody,” I yelled.

So I did. And within a day, Motor established his ownership over me. No matter that my eyes are swollen my nose is streaming, my skin’s lumpy and I’ve taken to wearing goggles and a protective boiler suit.

No matter that Motor developed snuffles and I had to trade in my mother-in-law in order to pay the vet’s bill.

Only this morning my husband awoke surrounded by Motor, my sneezing nose and me.

“You’ve really got a thing about that cat, haven’t you?” he said as Motor settled himself on my double chin.

Didn’t someone write a book called “101 Ways To Kill a Cat?”

Ah.

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