The daffodils are blooming. The hedges are beginning to turn green at the edges. The man who cuts our lawn has put the first stripes down for the year. Birds are nesting in the eves. It is light when the alarm goes off. And, it's not always dark when I get home from work. Birmingham City seem intent to throw away their automatic promotion spot. The car park has not resembled a swimming pool for at least a week. And, they are forecasting snow and an "Artic Blast" for next week. So it is official: spring is in the air!
Spring is in the air and Maslow, the furball baby, our cat, is acting up. He keeps catching mice. He keeps catching mice and bringing them home. Presents for mom and dad. He keeps catching mice, bringing them home and playing with them on the laminate floor of the dining room, under the dining room table. He doesn't kill them. OK he chews them a bit, but he rarely punctures them. Occasionally a weak-hearted one might die of fright, but that is just nature's way of weeding out the runts. Very Darwinian.
Actually, the fact that Maslow doesn't kill the mice he catches is kind of the problem. They escape. He has a poor attention span. He loses them. He forgets where he puts them. Or they run away and hide. That is why, in the past, we have awoken in the middle of the night with a mouse climbing up the curtains of our bedroom. That is why we find mouse droppings behind the wine rack in the dining room. Once, we even found mouse droppings in the spare bed. That is why, when we had stripped the old kitchen out, we found evidence of a mouse nesting in the silver insulation of the boiler! And, that is why C and I are not content to let Maslow bring his presents without taking action. Action means catching the little critters and attempting to liberate them. Or giving the weak-hearted ones a decent burial. In the corporation dust bin.
Maslow brought one in last night. We had just finished dinner. C was stacking the dishwasher and I was in the lounge when C shouted. I rushed into the dining room and closed the door to the lounge behind me. C had already closed the kitchen door so that the mouse could not get at her. Maslow was whirling around the room in pursuit of his quarry.
This mouse was slightly bigger, older than the others that Maslow had brought in recently. It was slightly wiser and a lot, lot quicker. So, quick I couldn't grab it. At one point I was lying on my front under the table, my head between chair legs, with Maslow flitting about before my very eyes. I grabbed for the mouse. I missed. I lost sight of the mouse. Maslow lost sight of the mouse. I thought that I felt the mouse run across my outstretched leg. And, then it was gone. Vanished. I looked everywhere for it. Maslow looked everywhere for it. I moved the bookcases. I moved the wine rack. I checked the pockets of my jacket that was hung on the back of a chair. I checked behind the radiator. Vanished. I checked behind and in the wellies by the cat flap. I checked under the draft excluder and under Maslow's litter tray. Nothing. Mouse gone. Vanished.
C told me it couldn't have escaped so we opened the back door (a path to freedom) and she and I retreated to the lounge, being careful to shut Maslow and the mouse behind us. We left it for a while. Until we got a bit cold in the draft. Then we both went to close the back door and to survey the scene. It was at this point that I felt something in my trousers. Ooh, er, missus. I felt something in my trouser leg. I shook my trouser leg. And, mouse dropped out. Mouse fell to the laminate. Mouse was not well. Mouse was slightly flattened. Mouse was dead. It had not been a weak heart or the shock that had killed mouse. It was me. Obviously, when I thought I had felt mouse run over my leg, it had actually run up my trouser leg. Obviously when I had taken refuge in the lounge, on the sofa, I had sat on him. And, killed him. Sorry mouse.
This is quite scary. This seems to be further evidence that I am turning into my dad. I had nightmares all night about mice, and rats, and small dogs, and Maslow. This has reminded me of an earlier instance described in my post - My Family & Other Animals - when my dad sat on my pet gerbil, Tom. Serial-killing seems to be genetic...........
Showing posts with label Pets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pets. Show all posts
Thursday, 15 March 2007
Wednesday, 7 February 2007
Fighting Part 1
Another common attribute of the Middle Manager is competitiveness. You have to enjoy a good fight. I certainly did and I did so from a very early age. Well, when your local newspaper says of your birth “Miracle Baby!”, what would you expect. An immaculate conception? I have been dining out on that particular headline for years. It actually probably means that my mom was a fighter too. After all, it was she, not me, who lost all the blood. I just had to hang on in there and survive. I came out the wrong way up, back to front, choking myself with my own umbilical chord. But, I survived to be told the story of it.
I can remember with some clarity one of my early “lessons for life”. This time from my mom. I guess I must have been about 3 years old. Indeed, it may well have been prompted by the “Battle of Batman’s cape” at Playgroup back in Selly Oak. (See Early Education - an earlier posting). “If anyone hits you, “ mom said, “you just hit them back. Stick up for yourself!”
And so I did. And so I do. If anyone has ever hit me I have always hit them back. That is, with the exception of any women (and there have been a couple who have given me a slap or two over the years). Hitting a woman is a big taboo. Real men do not use their fists on women. But men, no matter how big or how many, I always hit back. Never show fear. Never back down. Sometimes I got my hitting in first – what Americans might call “pre-emptive” hitting. On occasions I would take a beating. But, mostly I won. I was pretty hard. I am still quite capable of aggression if called upon but I rarely play the hard man these days. And, I hope I won't have to.
I learnt mom’s lesson quickly. Not long after this the “incident with the dog” happened. My aunt and uncle (he of the Marvel comic collection) had a boisterous boxer dog, Spicer, that was just about the same height as myself. On one particular visit the boxer dog apparently came whelping into the lounge, its bobble tail firmly between its legs, followed by yours truly with blood around my mouth, declaring: “Doggy bit me so I bit him back!” Sorry doggy. I guess I’ve always been more of a cat person. And, for those of you who are interested........it DOES taste just like chicken! Sorry Spicer.
There have been other notable scraps through the years. At the Junior School I was once concussed enough to be sent to a doctor after being set upon by "Big Boys" from the local comprehensive. Apparently they had entered the playground, stolen our ball and dared us to go and get it. And so I did. And so I received a bit of a kicking until a teacher came and chased the gang away. I got the ball.
There was the time I hit LH around the head with a cricket bat. LH was one of the rare black kids at Junior School and was by far the hardest kid in school. But, at least he respected me after being knocked for six. He turned out to be a thoroughly nice guy once you got to know him, but, I admit that this was a rather extreme ice breaker. Sorry LH.
Then there was the time I made the boy in the year above me at the Junior School cry, and, apologise to my sister. I forget his name, but he was bullying my sister. He made her cry. I twisted his arm until he apologised. He didn’t learn his lesson though for some years later, when I was about 15 or 16, my sister came home from school in tears. This same boy, who went to another all boys Grammar School and big rival of my own, recognised her on the bus on the way home. He hurled abuse at her all the way. Without a word to anyone, not to mom, not to my sister, I sought him out. I took a different route home. In the full uniform and regalia of my own school, alone, I got onto the number 40 bus which carried Erdingtonians home from Aston. He was sat right at the back, in the middle of the back seat, on the top deck of the bus, surrounded by his mates. When I stepped up it was like a scene from a Western bar-room gunfight. The whole bus went quiet as I walked the length of the bus. It seemed a very long way. As I neared him there was an instant of recognition. Calmly, I simply told him, “Don’t you ever make my sister cry again” and then pummelled him in the face. No-one intervened. And, when the 16 year old bully began to cry in front of all his mates, I simply turned on my heel, walked back down the bus, and got off at the next stop. I said not a word when I got home. He never made my sister cry again. I hope he has never made anyone else’s sister cry either. Bullying and cowardice often go hand-in-hand.
Grammar School itself was one big fight. Even the organised “sports” were violent, with punishments meted out by hard men. The gym teachers. Ex-Royal Marines and utter bullies. Most of the “games” organised by this pair involved cruelty, torture or pain of some kind. Never their own. Their behaviour would not be tolerated today – the kids would sue. But, it did help to make men out of most of the boys.
PE (Physical Education) consisted mainly of two games – “Pirates” and “British Bulldog”. Pirates was rarer because it involved getting every piece of gym equipment out, and we only had an hour. The “trial” consisted of being chased around the room by the two best athletes in class. If (i.e. when) you were caught, or, if you put a foot on the floor, you were sent to the Sacrificial Altar. You would be made to take off your PE vest (not as rare an occurrence as you may think in days when you played games in either “colours”, i.e. with vest on, or in “skins”). You would be made to lie face-down over a buck with arms by your side. And, then, the gym teacher would slap you hard in the middle of the back with the palm of his hand! The game would not end until an inspection proved that every boy wore “the mark”……
British Bulldog was much simpler. It involved all of the class except the two biggest boys standing at one end of the gym hall. The Bulldogs stood in the middle. The boys then had to run from one wall to the other without being “captured”. To be “captured” you had to be lifted physically off the floor. This was the job of the Bulldogs. These two twin brothers were very good at it. They were big, black, and proud. They were both giants from a family of giants. Just look up any history of British athletics and you will find a member of their family, famous for throwing something very heavy a lot further than anyone else. In these days that included me and my classmates. There was just one rule. Boys had to resist. If you were not considered to be resisting enough then the Sacrificial Altar would come into play. Once “captured” you joined the twins as a catcher until there were no more boys to catch.
I do not remember a single boy complaining about such treatment. They did not dare. To show such weakness was an unwritten taboo. I am sure that no parent was ever told, otherwise there would have been complaints, parents to see the Headmaster. I t never happened. The only complaint that I can remember being made against these two complete b*stards involved a boy in another class but in the same year as myself. He was the boy who smelled. Every school has one and he was ours. He was scruffy, he had no school blazer, his hair was long and unkempt, and, he smelled. Apparently after one particular PE lesson he refused to join his classmates in that other ritual humiliation which came with PE – the communal showers. This humiliation involved stripping naked in front of your classmates. You have to remember that this was a time before central heating and power showers, before boys discovered underarm deodorant. We were the talcum powder generation. The generation who bathed once on a Sunday or after football. We were also at an age when involuntary erections were common. Adolescence, what fun! Once naked you had to run the gauntlet of cold water jets.
This boy refused to strip. I don’t know what kind of home life the poor wretch may have had. I cannot imagine what lack of parental care produced such a feral child. And I did not care. None of us cared. We were young boys and all we knew was that he smelled. The gym teacher lost it. He stripped the boy himself. He produced a wire brush – often used to cajole slow gauntlet runners. He yanked the boy into the shower and he scrubbed him clean. This boy complained……
Such institutionalised violence was not without side effects of course. Violence often erupted in the Quadrangle and elsewhere. From time to time boys would organise mass contests of British Bulldog involving the whole school, and all ages. The other Quad favourite was Murder Ball. This involved two teams whose purpose was to score by throwing a tennis ball through the opponents goals (hitting the wall between two wall-mounted dustbins). That was rule one. Rule two (and there were only two) was that whoever held the tennis ball could be murdered – punched, kicked, wrestled, anything went…..
I can remember with some clarity one of my early “lessons for life”. This time from my mom. I guess I must have been about 3 years old. Indeed, it may well have been prompted by the “Battle of Batman’s cape” at Playgroup back in Selly Oak. (See Early Education - an earlier posting). “If anyone hits you, “ mom said, “you just hit them back. Stick up for yourself!”
And so I did. And so I do. If anyone has ever hit me I have always hit them back. That is, with the exception of any women (and there have been a couple who have given me a slap or two over the years). Hitting a woman is a big taboo. Real men do not use their fists on women. But men, no matter how big or how many, I always hit back. Never show fear. Never back down. Sometimes I got my hitting in first – what Americans might call “pre-emptive” hitting. On occasions I would take a beating. But, mostly I won. I was pretty hard. I am still quite capable of aggression if called upon but I rarely play the hard man these days. And, I hope I won't have to.
I learnt mom’s lesson quickly. Not long after this the “incident with the dog” happened. My aunt and uncle (he of the Marvel comic collection) had a boisterous boxer dog, Spicer, that was just about the same height as myself. On one particular visit the boxer dog apparently came whelping into the lounge, its bobble tail firmly between its legs, followed by yours truly with blood around my mouth, declaring: “Doggy bit me so I bit him back!” Sorry doggy. I guess I’ve always been more of a cat person. And, for those of you who are interested........it DOES taste just like chicken! Sorry Spicer.
There have been other notable scraps through the years. At the Junior School I was once concussed enough to be sent to a doctor after being set upon by "Big Boys" from the local comprehensive. Apparently they had entered the playground, stolen our ball and dared us to go and get it. And so I did. And so I received a bit of a kicking until a teacher came and chased the gang away. I got the ball.
There was the time I hit LH around the head with a cricket bat. LH was one of the rare black kids at Junior School and was by far the hardest kid in school. But, at least he respected me after being knocked for six. He turned out to be a thoroughly nice guy once you got to know him, but, I admit that this was a rather extreme ice breaker. Sorry LH.
Then there was the time I made the boy in the year above me at the Junior School cry, and, apologise to my sister. I forget his name, but he was bullying my sister. He made her cry. I twisted his arm until he apologised. He didn’t learn his lesson though for some years later, when I was about 15 or 16, my sister came home from school in tears. This same boy, who went to another all boys Grammar School and big rival of my own, recognised her on the bus on the way home. He hurled abuse at her all the way. Without a word to anyone, not to mom, not to my sister, I sought him out. I took a different route home. In the full uniform and regalia of my own school, alone, I got onto the number 40 bus which carried Erdingtonians home from Aston. He was sat right at the back, in the middle of the back seat, on the top deck of the bus, surrounded by his mates. When I stepped up it was like a scene from a Western bar-room gunfight. The whole bus went quiet as I walked the length of the bus. It seemed a very long way. As I neared him there was an instant of recognition. Calmly, I simply told him, “Don’t you ever make my sister cry again” and then pummelled him in the face. No-one intervened. And, when the 16 year old bully began to cry in front of all his mates, I simply turned on my heel, walked back down the bus, and got off at the next stop. I said not a word when I got home. He never made my sister cry again. I hope he has never made anyone else’s sister cry either. Bullying and cowardice often go hand-in-hand.
Grammar School itself was one big fight. Even the organised “sports” were violent, with punishments meted out by hard men. The gym teachers. Ex-Royal Marines and utter bullies. Most of the “games” organised by this pair involved cruelty, torture or pain of some kind. Never their own. Their behaviour would not be tolerated today – the kids would sue. But, it did help to make men out of most of the boys.
PE (Physical Education) consisted mainly of two games – “Pirates” and “British Bulldog”. Pirates was rarer because it involved getting every piece of gym equipment out, and we only had an hour. The “trial” consisted of being chased around the room by the two best athletes in class. If (i.e. when) you were caught, or, if you put a foot on the floor, you were sent to the Sacrificial Altar. You would be made to take off your PE vest (not as rare an occurrence as you may think in days when you played games in either “colours”, i.e. with vest on, or in “skins”). You would be made to lie face-down over a buck with arms by your side. And, then, the gym teacher would slap you hard in the middle of the back with the palm of his hand! The game would not end until an inspection proved that every boy wore “the mark”……
British Bulldog was much simpler. It involved all of the class except the two biggest boys standing at one end of the gym hall. The Bulldogs stood in the middle. The boys then had to run from one wall to the other without being “captured”. To be “captured” you had to be lifted physically off the floor. This was the job of the Bulldogs. These two twin brothers were very good at it. They were big, black, and proud. They were both giants from a family of giants. Just look up any history of British athletics and you will find a member of their family, famous for throwing something very heavy a lot further than anyone else. In these days that included me and my classmates. There was just one rule. Boys had to resist. If you were not considered to be resisting enough then the Sacrificial Altar would come into play. Once “captured” you joined the twins as a catcher until there were no more boys to catch.
I do not remember a single boy complaining about such treatment. They did not dare. To show such weakness was an unwritten taboo. I am sure that no parent was ever told, otherwise there would have been complaints, parents to see the Headmaster. I t never happened. The only complaint that I can remember being made against these two complete b*stards involved a boy in another class but in the same year as myself. He was the boy who smelled. Every school has one and he was ours. He was scruffy, he had no school blazer, his hair was long and unkempt, and, he smelled. Apparently after one particular PE lesson he refused to join his classmates in that other ritual humiliation which came with PE – the communal showers. This humiliation involved stripping naked in front of your classmates. You have to remember that this was a time before central heating and power showers, before boys discovered underarm deodorant. We were the talcum powder generation. The generation who bathed once on a Sunday or after football. We were also at an age when involuntary erections were common. Adolescence, what fun! Once naked you had to run the gauntlet of cold water jets.
This boy refused to strip. I don’t know what kind of home life the poor wretch may have had. I cannot imagine what lack of parental care produced such a feral child. And I did not care. None of us cared. We were young boys and all we knew was that he smelled. The gym teacher lost it. He stripped the boy himself. He produced a wire brush – often used to cajole slow gauntlet runners. He yanked the boy into the shower and he scrubbed him clean. This boy complained……
Such institutionalised violence was not without side effects of course. Violence often erupted in the Quadrangle and elsewhere. From time to time boys would organise mass contests of British Bulldog involving the whole school, and all ages. The other Quad favourite was Murder Ball. This involved two teams whose purpose was to score by throwing a tennis ball through the opponents goals (hitting the wall between two wall-mounted dustbins). That was rule one. Rule two (and there were only two) was that whoever held the tennis ball could be murdered – punched, kicked, wrestled, anything went…..
Wednesday, 31 January 2007
My Family And Other Animals Part 4
Maslow and the "Killer" Instinct
On one occasion, Maslow, our pet cat and furball baby, was having to go to the vet for a general anaesthetic in order to have his teeth cleaned. Consequently he was not allowed food or the liberty of the great outdoors that night. Being the soft parents that we are, with concerns over anaesthetic risks, Maslow was allowed to sleep upstairs....never the best tactic for a restful night, but eventually we all settled down and managed to get some sleep despite the "boy" fidgeting at our feet and the sound of his gentle snoring. It could have been C but I don’t think so. It certainly wasn't me.......
At 5am in the morning I was awoken by this strange scratching noise. At first I thought it must be Maslow seeking attention but then realised he was still fast asleep at the foot of the bed. I listened again to locate the sound and opened my eyes to see a dark shadow climbing up the bedroom curtains. I leapt (yes, even at my age) out of the bed and switched the light on, which prompted mutterings of complaint from both Maslow and C alike. I went to the curtains and there, sat on the curtain pole, and looking down at me, was a field mouse. When I made a grab for it, it leapt to the floor and took refuge behind the wardrobe. The big, heavy, immovable wardrobe.
Maslow is a flawed mouser! There then followed a couple of hours of Maslow and I running from corner to corner of the bedroom, in a Benny-hill-like pursuit, trying to catch the blessed rodent....to no avail. Maslow eventually got bored and went in search of food and liberty......in vain. He couldn’t be fed until after the vet. C and I eventually got bored and decided to shut all other doors except the bedroom and leave a clear path for the mouse to he front door, which we left open. It was very cold........Fortunately, Maslow survived the anaesthetic and came home with pearly white gnashers. He has been given some toothpaste to help keep them that way, which he absolutely adores. Also, fortunately, the mouse has not been seen again…..unless he sprouted wings.
One summer morning I was awoken with a start. C had leapt out of bed and ran out of the room to the sanctuary of the spare room, shutting the door firmly behind her, shouting “F*ck, f*ck, f*ck!”. I came around quite quickly. I soon located the source of C’s distress. A bat! A furry little vampire mouse on wings, circling our bedroom.
I opened the curtains. I opened the two windows, but to no avail. The bat, being blind, could not see it's way to freedom. Unlike birds, bats do not fly towards the light.The bat also seemed unable of smelling (do they have a sense of smell?) the fresh air of freedom, nor could his sonar detect the open windows. The bat continued to circle, swooping ever so closely to my head. I don’t like bats. Not when they are so close you can see their teeth. Clearly, this winged rodent was not going to find its own way out. So, I retrieved a towel from the washing basket, climbed onto the bed, and proceeded to twirl the towel around my head in an attempt to drive the bat towards the open windows, without attempting to hit it of course.
Thank goodness, it was not later. If this had been 9 am on a Sunday morning instead of 5, the pony club that passes the house at that time, may have had a bit of a shock if they had looked up to see a 40 year old beardie, fully naked, jumping up and down on the bed, twirling a bath towel around his head……..
Fortunately, after about 20 minutes or so, it worked. I managed to drive the little critter to the right height and eventually, it found the hole, the great outdoors, and, freedom!
On one occasion, Maslow, our pet cat and furball baby, was having to go to the vet for a general anaesthetic in order to have his teeth cleaned. Consequently he was not allowed food or the liberty of the great outdoors that night. Being the soft parents that we are, with concerns over anaesthetic risks, Maslow was allowed to sleep upstairs....never the best tactic for a restful night, but eventually we all settled down and managed to get some sleep despite the "boy" fidgeting at our feet and the sound of his gentle snoring. It could have been C but I don’t think so. It certainly wasn't me.......
At 5am in the morning I was awoken by this strange scratching noise. At first I thought it must be Maslow seeking attention but then realised he was still fast asleep at the foot of the bed. I listened again to locate the sound and opened my eyes to see a dark shadow climbing up the bedroom curtains. I leapt (yes, even at my age) out of the bed and switched the light on, which prompted mutterings of complaint from both Maslow and C alike. I went to the curtains and there, sat on the curtain pole, and looking down at me, was a field mouse. When I made a grab for it, it leapt to the floor and took refuge behind the wardrobe. The big, heavy, immovable wardrobe.
Maslow is a flawed mouser! There then followed a couple of hours of Maslow and I running from corner to corner of the bedroom, in a Benny-hill-like pursuit, trying to catch the blessed rodent....to no avail. Maslow eventually got bored and went in search of food and liberty......in vain. He couldn’t be fed until after the vet. C and I eventually got bored and decided to shut all other doors except the bedroom and leave a clear path for the mouse to he front door, which we left open. It was very cold........Fortunately, Maslow survived the anaesthetic and came home with pearly white gnashers. He has been given some toothpaste to help keep them that way, which he absolutely adores. Also, fortunately, the mouse has not been seen again…..unless he sprouted wings.
One summer morning I was awoken with a start. C had leapt out of bed and ran out of the room to the sanctuary of the spare room, shutting the door firmly behind her, shouting “F*ck, f*ck, f*ck!”. I came around quite quickly. I soon located the source of C’s distress. A bat! A furry little vampire mouse on wings, circling our bedroom.
I opened the curtains. I opened the two windows, but to no avail. The bat, being blind, could not see it's way to freedom. Unlike birds, bats do not fly towards the light.The bat also seemed unable of smelling (do they have a sense of smell?) the fresh air of freedom, nor could his sonar detect the open windows. The bat continued to circle, swooping ever so closely to my head. I don’t like bats. Not when they are so close you can see their teeth. Clearly, this winged rodent was not going to find its own way out. So, I retrieved a towel from the washing basket, climbed onto the bed, and proceeded to twirl the towel around my head in an attempt to drive the bat towards the open windows, without attempting to hit it of course.
Thank goodness, it was not later. If this had been 9 am on a Sunday morning instead of 5, the pony club that passes the house at that time, may have had a bit of a shock if they had looked up to see a 40 year old beardie, fully naked, jumping up and down on the bed, twirling a bath towel around his head……..
Fortunately, after about 20 minutes or so, it worked. I managed to drive the little critter to the right height and eventually, it found the hole, the great outdoors, and, freedom!
Tuesday, 30 January 2007
My Family And Other Animals Part 3
Maslow’s Fall Without Grace
Much of one Friday recently was spent at the Vets with Maslow the cat. This is because, not only is Maslow crap at catching mice but he is also somewhat deficient in the "climbing" and "landing" areas of his cat repertoire. This has led us to question whether or not he is indeed a pure blood pedigree Norwegian Forest cat as previously assumed. You would think that climbing and landing would be second nature to such a breed.......
On Thursday night, as usual, I returned from London and was sorting my mail on the dining room table. Maslow's sociability and curiosity got the better of him.....it'll be the death of him, I fear. Maslow decided he would assist in the mail sorting and promptly "attempted" to leap onto the table. I am not sure whether he was still tired (I had of course woken him from a deep slumber), or, if he slipped on takeoff on the laminate flooring (which is very tasteful, genuine, look-a-like oak, Cheshire-quality laminate I hasten to add), or, if he had "probably had a seizure", which was my mom's rather non-optimistic suggestion (based upon the fact that our 21 year old family pet, Tom Jones the cat - I know, I know - suffered a stroke at the end of his 9 lives).
Whatever. I caught the moment Maslow leapt for the table in the corner of my eye. Time slowed down and Maslow appeared to move Matrix-like, in slow motion. There was a sudden realisation that he had not made it. Maslow's eyes sought mine with a look of incredulity, tinged with embarrassment, mixed with fear and confusion. To give him his due, he did his very best to rectify the situation as evidenced by the deep gouges and one claw that he left behind in the table top. My initial thought was that my wife had trained him to do this - she has been making noises about new dining room furniture for some time now.......But then he fell backwards.
Unlike the mythical felines of old, poor Maslow did not twist miraculously in the air and land on his feet. No, more like a piece of dropped toast, he fell buttered side down. He fell right on his arse. It obviously hurt him as he proceeded to speed around the house like a whirling dervish, beginning with an instance of comedy running on the spot as he sought and failed to gain purchase on said laminate before hurtling upstairs. I was worried about him so sought to catch up with him to check he was OK. But poor Maslow was merely seeking to run away from the pain - the actual pain in his arse, and, that other pain in the arse which was me trying to chase him. He hid in C's study under the chair; he hid under our bed; he hid under the bed in the spare room. Eventually he ran outside, where he got into a fight with the Beast of Bradwall, the horrible moggy called Henry that belongs to one of neighbours. He came back inside and he hid behind the sofa.
Maslow did not come out from behind the sofa until I had gone to bed and C was able to coax him out with food. C checked him over and came to bed quite distraught. Maslow's beautiful fluffy tail with which he signals pleasure and displeasure was doing a very good impression of a feather boa and a very poor impression of a tail. It was hanging limp and lifeless behind him. We feared it was broken and a fairly sleepless night ensued as we envisioned amputation or worse. Maslow did not greet me at the lounge door as usual when we got up. He stayed behind the sofa. I called the Vet and was there within minutes of opening.
Maslow came home on Friday afternoon after he had recovered from (yet another) general anaesthetic. X-rays revealed (thankfully) no breakage or dislocation of his tail or nether regions. A thorough investigation found no evidence of puncture wounds or infection. "Thorough investigation" unfortunately involved him being shaved around the base of his tail. Maslow looked not unlike a baboon. The verdict was that Maslow was suffering from a very badly bruised and swollen bum. He was also suffering from cabin fever (he had to be locked in all weekend until he recovered from the anaesthetic), sleeping sickness (a consequence of the course of pain killers), and, a real lack of cool - the shaved-arse baboon look is not the best............Unfortunately, Maslow has been left with a kink in his otherwise perfect, fluffy tail.
Much of one Friday recently was spent at the Vets with Maslow the cat. This is because, not only is Maslow crap at catching mice but he is also somewhat deficient in the "climbing" and "landing" areas of his cat repertoire. This has led us to question whether or not he is indeed a pure blood pedigree Norwegian Forest cat as previously assumed. You would think that climbing and landing would be second nature to such a breed.......
On Thursday night, as usual, I returned from London and was sorting my mail on the dining room table. Maslow's sociability and curiosity got the better of him.....it'll be the death of him, I fear. Maslow decided he would assist in the mail sorting and promptly "attempted" to leap onto the table. I am not sure whether he was still tired (I had of course woken him from a deep slumber), or, if he slipped on takeoff on the laminate flooring (which is very tasteful, genuine, look-a-like oak, Cheshire-quality laminate I hasten to add), or, if he had "probably had a seizure", which was my mom's rather non-optimistic suggestion (based upon the fact that our 21 year old family pet, Tom Jones the cat - I know, I know - suffered a stroke at the end of his 9 lives).
Whatever. I caught the moment Maslow leapt for the table in the corner of my eye. Time slowed down and Maslow appeared to move Matrix-like, in slow motion. There was a sudden realisation that he had not made it. Maslow's eyes sought mine with a look of incredulity, tinged with embarrassment, mixed with fear and confusion. To give him his due, he did his very best to rectify the situation as evidenced by the deep gouges and one claw that he left behind in the table top. My initial thought was that my wife had trained him to do this - she has been making noises about new dining room furniture for some time now.......But then he fell backwards.
Unlike the mythical felines of old, poor Maslow did not twist miraculously in the air and land on his feet. No, more like a piece of dropped toast, he fell buttered side down. He fell right on his arse. It obviously hurt him as he proceeded to speed around the house like a whirling dervish, beginning with an instance of comedy running on the spot as he sought and failed to gain purchase on said laminate before hurtling upstairs. I was worried about him so sought to catch up with him to check he was OK. But poor Maslow was merely seeking to run away from the pain - the actual pain in his arse, and, that other pain in the arse which was me trying to chase him. He hid in C's study under the chair; he hid under our bed; he hid under the bed in the spare room. Eventually he ran outside, where he got into a fight with the Beast of Bradwall, the horrible moggy called Henry that belongs to one of neighbours. He came back inside and he hid behind the sofa.
Maslow did not come out from behind the sofa until I had gone to bed and C was able to coax him out with food. C checked him over and came to bed quite distraught. Maslow's beautiful fluffy tail with which he signals pleasure and displeasure was doing a very good impression of a feather boa and a very poor impression of a tail. It was hanging limp and lifeless behind him. We feared it was broken and a fairly sleepless night ensued as we envisioned amputation or worse. Maslow did not greet me at the lounge door as usual when we got up. He stayed behind the sofa. I called the Vet and was there within minutes of opening.
Maslow came home on Friday afternoon after he had recovered from (yet another) general anaesthetic. X-rays revealed (thankfully) no breakage or dislocation of his tail or nether regions. A thorough investigation found no evidence of puncture wounds or infection. "Thorough investigation" unfortunately involved him being shaved around the base of his tail. Maslow looked not unlike a baboon. The verdict was that Maslow was suffering from a very badly bruised and swollen bum. He was also suffering from cabin fever (he had to be locked in all weekend until he recovered from the anaesthetic), sleeping sickness (a consequence of the course of pain killers), and, a real lack of cool - the shaved-arse baboon look is not the best............Unfortunately, Maslow has been left with a kink in his otherwise perfect, fluffy tail.
Monday, 29 January 2007
My Family and Other Animals Part 2
Maslow's Arrival
Now my wife, "C", and I have our own special addition to the family. We have three Godchildren – my two nephews and the daughter of one of my best mates from university. More importantly though (though I am sure that they would disagree), there is our own child substitute – the furball baby, Maslow our cat. I can remember the day he arrived almost as vividly as I expect any father does the birth of his child………….
The weekend of Maslow’s arrival was supposed to be an easy, hassle-free one - a quick dive into the Trafford Centre in Manchester to collect C's new glasses (they are Gucci don't you know, darling). While I don't know how much they cost, I do know they are probably one of the first things I will save in the event of a house fire. And, you would have thought that something so expensive and made by Gucci deserved a better name than "glasses". The shopping trip was to be followed by a Sunday of stripping yet more woodchip from our ancient walls at home in preparation for the visit from a plasterer on Wednesday (fingers crossed, and a fair wind that is – they are so bloody unreliable). I hate all forms of decorating and DIY.
Hassle-free? It didn’t quite work out that way. Why? Well the weekend began pretty much according to plan with a lie-in followed by the drive to the Trafford Centre, the recovery of the Guccis and a couple of hours following my beloved around very similar shops selling very similar things. C would circle around in some apparently random way before selecting armfuls of the said similar things and disappearing into the changing rooms for hours on end only to return empty handed as nothing had taken her fancy. And then onto the next shop for more of the same……
After a while she noticed that I had taken to not accompanying her into the similar shops and had taken refuge outside with all of the other bored husbands. She found me there sobbing ever so slightly and chewing my arm. She took pity on me and we were allowed to return home with nothing more than her Guccis and the two CDs which I had managed to acquire in about 30 seconds while her back had been turned. Men are so much more efficient at shopping than women!
Once home I had to rush to the local iron mongers (yes, we still have iron mongers....this is Cheshire!) to purchase a wallpaper steamer for the following day's task of woodchip removal and just had time enough to get showered and changed before going round for an evening of alcoholic jollity at one of the neighbours. Another of our neighbours, M, the 3 times, undisputed heavy-weight kick boxing champion of the world, (and, consequently, one of my very best buddies) was on the TV quiz show ‘Dog Eat Dog’ hosted by Ulrika Johnsson (the lucky bast*rd!). While he had been forced to go to his parents to watch it (much to the chagrin of his girlfriend, J), the rest of us neighbours gathered together to watch his five minutes of fame. And so, as M was being (unfairly) described as "all brawn and no brains" by his fellow contestants, being voted off second without the chance to take a “physical challenge”, and nailing his own coffin by getting his general knowledge question wrong and hence losing all the money, we were well into the first few of several bottles of wine. The girls were chattering on about how Ulrika's neck and breasts were looking so much better these days. The blokes were wondering when they had ever been anything other than perfect. Shopping, and judging the quality of female TV presenters breasts are clearly two thing best left to the male of the species.
Following a ridiculously large amount of a Chinese take-away banquet and far too much wine we made our weary way next-door-but-one to home at around 1 am.
At 1.10 am there was a knock at the door. It was our neighbour, clutching a tiny, pitiful, whining ball of fluff. It was a little, tiny kitten, complete with cat flu. It must have been dumped by its owner (it happens quite a lot in the countryside). It was all skin and bones, with its eyes and nose all glued up as a result of the flu. We had been nominated as foster parents - our neighbour has a dog.
So, a cat bed was hastily constructed out of a PC Monitor box, torn up newspaper - the Guardian of course - and one of C's old dressing gowns. The kitten wouldn't take milk or water but liked being held - it could sit on the palm of my hand with room to spare - and soon began to relax. But, we were not too hopeful of it getting through the night. And so, with the prospect of wallpaper stripping just a few hours away I did the decent thing and went to bed, leaving C to stay downstairs to administer to our new guest.
And there she stayed all night, without sleep, tending to the poor little mite, bathing its nose and eyes, listening to its ragged breathing, and doing deals with God in the hope that the little furball would be still with us in the morning. At 7 am she began telephoning the emergency vets and at 9.15 she came and woke me.....................
The kitten had survived the night and the kitten had acquired a name - Maslow. This is what happens when you have a Counsellor and Psychotherapist in the house - your foster child gets named after a guy who came up with the "Hierarchy of Needs". C thought it was appropriate as the little furball was clearly right at the bottom of that hierarchy, being totally dependent upon us........well that is the plastic credit card side of "us" it would seem.
And so the day began with a trip to the vet. Maslow was declared a boy, about 5 weeks old, with cat flu. He was given a couple of jabs and we were given ointment for his eyes, anorexia cat food for his belly, a couple of syringes for administering food and water, antibiotics for the flu, and another appointment with the vet for Tuesday evening. In return for this, huge mounts of dosh were now owed. And so we were packed back off home with Maslow, medical supplies and our cardboard box.
And then the search for the essentials of life began - cat litter. None of the neighbours had any so I was dispatched to Crewe to the pet supply shop. I have never been in one before. How gullible are these pet owners that they get so easily ripped off in these huge pet superstores? And so a little while later, and financially lighter, I returned home with litter tray, 20 kilos of cat litter (urine absorbing stuff – the type that clumps), matching food and water bowls, a book about how to look after your kitten (which we should, perhaps, read sometime. Much to my wife’s annoyance I am not a huge fan of instruction manuals to say the least. I hold the same view as one of our friends who recently described such things as “the last refuge of the incompetent”), and two special mats for Maslow to snuggle up on.............
Mother and child were bonding when I got back. C was sticking to her task of cleaning and cuddling and administering said medicines. I made soup for us humans and rushed around in the afternoon stripping woodchip from the bedroom walls. At least I did get the job done.
Showered and refreshed I returned downstairs to discover that not only were we the proud owners of Maslow but also of a colony of fleas! You would have thought the bloody vet would have noticed! The little horrors were getting into Maslow's icky eyes and were presumably the reason why he had worn the fur away on his front legs, trying to clean his eyes. Where on earth do you find flea stuff for kittens (it has to be less than napalm strength otherwise it can make them poorly) at 6pm on a Sunday evening in downtown Bradwall? Well the Late Shops let me down although they did furnish us with more cotton wool balls to replace our much-diminished stocks for cleaning Maslow’s eyes and nose. But, I did manage to get some anti-flea stuff that was not too harsh for such a young kitten from one of the neighbours.
Maslow perked up a lot in the evening. His cat bed had been furnished with a hot water bottle and one of C's t-shirts. We had managed to syringe a whole can of anorexia cat food into his now swollen belly. His fur had been combed and the worst bits of hedge that were stuck in it had been cut out. His fleas had diminished. His breathing had improved a little as we had bathed eyes and nose and he was now accompanied by the scent of Karvol wherever he went. He had made himself at home. Home seemed to be on the settee - he would not stay on the floor - or, his favourite, he would sit on C 's or my shoulder, purring and rubbing his head against your cheek....presumably to get rid of some of the fleas.
It did and still does feel like being a parent. In those early days, the house was a mess as various kitten accoutrements filled the space (a myriad toy mice and “jingle balls” still pervade today). Someone had to be with the little thing all day long. And he ate better than we did - he would not leave us to eat our dinner in peace. But we were strong in the evening and locked him downstairs on his own with his hot water bottle and as yet untested litter tray as we went to bed. He cried a bit. I stood the other side of the door for a while until his cries gave way to a slight sob and I went to seek some sleep.
And so Maslow arrived. He is now a permanent fixture. A fully signed up member of the family. An amusing, furry, lovable, loving, entertaining and much-spoilt fixture at that.
Now my wife, "C", and I have our own special addition to the family. We have three Godchildren – my two nephews and the daughter of one of my best mates from university. More importantly though (though I am sure that they would disagree), there is our own child substitute – the furball baby, Maslow our cat. I can remember the day he arrived almost as vividly as I expect any father does the birth of his child………….
The weekend of Maslow’s arrival was supposed to be an easy, hassle-free one - a quick dive into the Trafford Centre in Manchester to collect C's new glasses (they are Gucci don't you know, darling). While I don't know how much they cost, I do know they are probably one of the first things I will save in the event of a house fire. And, you would have thought that something so expensive and made by Gucci deserved a better name than "glasses". The shopping trip was to be followed by a Sunday of stripping yet more woodchip from our ancient walls at home in preparation for the visit from a plasterer on Wednesday (fingers crossed, and a fair wind that is – they are so bloody unreliable). I hate all forms of decorating and DIY.
Hassle-free? It didn’t quite work out that way. Why? Well the weekend began pretty much according to plan with a lie-in followed by the drive to the Trafford Centre, the recovery of the Guccis and a couple of hours following my beloved around very similar shops selling very similar things. C would circle around in some apparently random way before selecting armfuls of the said similar things and disappearing into the changing rooms for hours on end only to return empty handed as nothing had taken her fancy. And then onto the next shop for more of the same……
After a while she noticed that I had taken to not accompanying her into the similar shops and had taken refuge outside with all of the other bored husbands. She found me there sobbing ever so slightly and chewing my arm. She took pity on me and we were allowed to return home with nothing more than her Guccis and the two CDs which I had managed to acquire in about 30 seconds while her back had been turned. Men are so much more efficient at shopping than women!
Once home I had to rush to the local iron mongers (yes, we still have iron mongers....this is Cheshire!) to purchase a wallpaper steamer for the following day's task of woodchip removal and just had time enough to get showered and changed before going round for an evening of alcoholic jollity at one of the neighbours. Another of our neighbours, M, the 3 times, undisputed heavy-weight kick boxing champion of the world, (and, consequently, one of my very best buddies) was on the TV quiz show ‘Dog Eat Dog’ hosted by Ulrika Johnsson (the lucky bast*rd!). While he had been forced to go to his parents to watch it (much to the chagrin of his girlfriend, J), the rest of us neighbours gathered together to watch his five minutes of fame. And so, as M was being (unfairly) described as "all brawn and no brains" by his fellow contestants, being voted off second without the chance to take a “physical challenge”, and nailing his own coffin by getting his general knowledge question wrong and hence losing all the money, we were well into the first few of several bottles of wine. The girls were chattering on about how Ulrika's neck and breasts were looking so much better these days. The blokes were wondering when they had ever been anything other than perfect. Shopping, and judging the quality of female TV presenters breasts are clearly two thing best left to the male of the species.
Following a ridiculously large amount of a Chinese take-away banquet and far too much wine we made our weary way next-door-but-one to home at around 1 am.
At 1.10 am there was a knock at the door. It was our neighbour, clutching a tiny, pitiful, whining ball of fluff. It was a little, tiny kitten, complete with cat flu. It must have been dumped by its owner (it happens quite a lot in the countryside). It was all skin and bones, with its eyes and nose all glued up as a result of the flu. We had been nominated as foster parents - our neighbour has a dog.
So, a cat bed was hastily constructed out of a PC Monitor box, torn up newspaper - the Guardian of course - and one of C's old dressing gowns. The kitten wouldn't take milk or water but liked being held - it could sit on the palm of my hand with room to spare - and soon began to relax. But, we were not too hopeful of it getting through the night. And so, with the prospect of wallpaper stripping just a few hours away I did the decent thing and went to bed, leaving C to stay downstairs to administer to our new guest.
And there she stayed all night, without sleep, tending to the poor little mite, bathing its nose and eyes, listening to its ragged breathing, and doing deals with God in the hope that the little furball would be still with us in the morning. At 7 am she began telephoning the emergency vets and at 9.15 she came and woke me.....................
The kitten had survived the night and the kitten had acquired a name - Maslow. This is what happens when you have a Counsellor and Psychotherapist in the house - your foster child gets named after a guy who came up with the "Hierarchy of Needs". C thought it was appropriate as the little furball was clearly right at the bottom of that hierarchy, being totally dependent upon us........well that is the plastic credit card side of "us" it would seem.
And so the day began with a trip to the vet. Maslow was declared a boy, about 5 weeks old, with cat flu. He was given a couple of jabs and we were given ointment for his eyes, anorexia cat food for his belly, a couple of syringes for administering food and water, antibiotics for the flu, and another appointment with the vet for Tuesday evening. In return for this, huge mounts of dosh were now owed. And so we were packed back off home with Maslow, medical supplies and our cardboard box.
And then the search for the essentials of life began - cat litter. None of the neighbours had any so I was dispatched to Crewe to the pet supply shop. I have never been in one before. How gullible are these pet owners that they get so easily ripped off in these huge pet superstores? And so a little while later, and financially lighter, I returned home with litter tray, 20 kilos of cat litter (urine absorbing stuff – the type that clumps), matching food and water bowls, a book about how to look after your kitten (which we should, perhaps, read sometime. Much to my wife’s annoyance I am not a huge fan of instruction manuals to say the least. I hold the same view as one of our friends who recently described such things as “the last refuge of the incompetent”), and two special mats for Maslow to snuggle up on.............
Mother and child were bonding when I got back. C was sticking to her task of cleaning and cuddling and administering said medicines. I made soup for us humans and rushed around in the afternoon stripping woodchip from the bedroom walls. At least I did get the job done.
Showered and refreshed I returned downstairs to discover that not only were we the proud owners of Maslow but also of a colony of fleas! You would have thought the bloody vet would have noticed! The little horrors were getting into Maslow's icky eyes and were presumably the reason why he had worn the fur away on his front legs, trying to clean his eyes. Where on earth do you find flea stuff for kittens (it has to be less than napalm strength otherwise it can make them poorly) at 6pm on a Sunday evening in downtown Bradwall? Well the Late Shops let me down although they did furnish us with more cotton wool balls to replace our much-diminished stocks for cleaning Maslow’s eyes and nose. But, I did manage to get some anti-flea stuff that was not too harsh for such a young kitten from one of the neighbours.
Maslow perked up a lot in the evening. His cat bed had been furnished with a hot water bottle and one of C's t-shirts. We had managed to syringe a whole can of anorexia cat food into his now swollen belly. His fur had been combed and the worst bits of hedge that were stuck in it had been cut out. His fleas had diminished. His breathing had improved a little as we had bathed eyes and nose and he was now accompanied by the scent of Karvol wherever he went. He had made himself at home. Home seemed to be on the settee - he would not stay on the floor - or, his favourite, he would sit on C 's or my shoulder, purring and rubbing his head against your cheek....presumably to get rid of some of the fleas.
It did and still does feel like being a parent. In those early days, the house was a mess as various kitten accoutrements filled the space (a myriad toy mice and “jingle balls” still pervade today). Someone had to be with the little thing all day long. And he ate better than we did - he would not leave us to eat our dinner in peace. But we were strong in the evening and locked him downstairs on his own with his hot water bottle and as yet untested litter tray as we went to bed. He cried a bit. I stood the other side of the door for a while until his cries gave way to a slight sob and I went to seek some sleep.
And so Maslow arrived. He is now a permanent fixture. A fully signed up member of the family. An amusing, furry, lovable, loving, entertaining and much-spoilt fixture at that.
My Family and Other Animals Part 1
My Family And Other Animals
We have had only a few family pets in my lifetime. So far. Apparently, when I was a babe in arms there was a dog. I don’t remember the dog. I don’t even remember the dog’s name. In fact, my parents couldn't remember the dog's name when I asked them about it recently. It was a "lovely Alsatian cross" though. The dog died. I do remember being told that he had died, and, how. It may have been suicide, but that theory probably does not hold water. For a start, there was no note. Most suicides leave a note, I'm told. And, to all intents and purposes, the dog had been happy until he ran out of the shop door at the off-licence above which we used to live and of which my mom was manager (actually, she was the manageress – this was the days when gender differences existed; days before political correctness). Indeed, by all accounts the dog had been happy right up to the point that he ran under the wheels of the speeding car. After that he was mostly flat. And dead. Flat and dead.
Sometime after this mom and dad bought my sister and I new pets - two gerbils that we called Tom and Jerry. Don’t ask me why Tom and Jerry. Clearly this was something to do with the Hanna-Barbera cartoon, but, neither of Tom nor Jerry was a cat. Indeed, neither of Tom nor Jerry was a mouse. Moreover, both Tom and Jerry were lady-gerbils, I think. Whatever, they were brought home (to the off-licence) in a nice cage, complete with big wheel and water bottle. I was very young, maybe 3. We were very excited and mom and dad decided we would have a welcome party. And so, much jelly and pink blamanche (my auntie Joan’s speciality – in the shape of a rabbit sat on a bed of green grass jelly with currants for eyes) was moulded, many a sachet of Angel Delight was mixed, much meat paste was spread on white bread sandwiches, many a cheddar cube and chunk of tinned pineapple was impaled on a tooth pick, and, many a bowl was filled with crisps and KP nuts. This was the early 1970s after all. All of our friends and cousins were invited and orange squash and Corona "pop" was swilled and spilt with abundance. Fortunately, 1970s carpets, like cinema carpets of the modern era, were designed to hide the stains.
Whatever happened to "pop" by the way? In those days "pop" was a drink for kids, not music for morons. There used to be a "pop" man that would come around the streets, selling "pop" from a van, in much the same way that an ice cream van does sell ice cream. These were the days of Dandelion & Burdock, Cream Soda, and, Shandy rather than 7 Up, Pepsi, Coke and Doctor Pepper.
Of course, once the squash had kicked in - these being the days before e-numbers had been discovered or their after-effects understood (these were the days of Angel Delight rather than Sunny Delight, Nesquick and hundreds and thousands - sugar, sugar, sugar) - a hoard of over-excited, Spam-filled toddlers wanted more. Pushing sticky little salt ‘n vinegar fingers through a cage door and prodding small rodents with your Nesquick-coated drinking straw or a twiglet just wasn’t enough. Besides, the crisps had run out. The cage was full of crisps. Gerbils don't like salt n' vinegar. It was decided that it would be nice to let Tom and Jerry “run around”.
Now, my mom and dad were not stupid. They were well aware that 2 small rats and several over-excited, over-tired hobbits, is a less than safe environment (mostly for the rats). And so, we children were instructed to sit around the edge of the room with our backs to the wall. We were lectured on the need to keep still and to keep quiet. Ssshhhh! And then dad brought in the cage and opened the little wire door. Tom and Jerry nervously edged their way into the strange world outside of the cage as every toddler gave a collective “ooh” and shuffled excitedly in their terry nappies and training pants. No disposables in this decade. We were all going through that stage when our bums definitely looked big in absolutely everything.
Tom and Jerry quickly grew in confidence and began to explore. It was at this point that my dad decided to practice what he had preached and to join the many munchkins on the floor, his back to the wall. It was at this point that, in the middle of the forced collective silence, there was a small crack. Dad had sat on Tom. Dad had crushed Tom. Tom was dead. And, flat. Another mostly flat and dead pet. This was becoming a bit of a theme.
To be fair, it could have been Jerry that died that day. We never really knew. They all look the same, gerbils. It was just that after the event, once many a small child had had his or her tears dried (what is it with moms and damp handkerchiefs?), and packed off back home with a sherbet dip and a piece of home-baked cake (much more effective than any modern form of post-traumatic stress counselling), we all decided that Jerry was a much more appropriate name for the remaining gerbil. Tom was buried in the back yard. Presumably, in something like an A4 envelope, maybe a jiffy bag. He was, after all, very flat. And very dead. Flat and dead.
Jerry was always a bit nervous from this point on. Especially around my dad. And jiffy bags. Clearly, something needed to be done to cheer Jerry up. So, we got him a friend. We got him a cat, who we called Tom. To be fair, Tom found us. He had been abandoned in a sack with his fellow feline siblings at the band stand of the park opposite our off-licence in Selly Oak, Birmingham. The circus was in town and the circus master who had found the sack, brought them round and asked us if we wanted one. Tom (although un-named at this point) was the runt and cutest of the bunch. He was black with white socks and white cheeks. Cute. Cute. Cute. We had clearly got better at naming pets. Actually, we probably just lacked imagination and post-rationalised our choice on the basis that a) he was a tom cat, b) he was noisy and reminded us of Tom Jones (our family name) singing, c) having already got a mouse/gerbil called Jerry then that old Tom and Jerry thing kind of made sense this time around.
Tom and Jerry were inseparable. That is to say that Tom would sit on top of Jerry’s cage most of the time. He was constantly trying to kiss and stroke Jerry through the cage. Hmm. To be honest, I do not think this helped Jerry recover from the shock of losing the first Tom. At some level, I think the fact that we had given the kitten the same name merely sought to remind Jerry of her previous playmate. Mostly, Jerry just looked anxious. It was not long until Jerry also died. She was discovered stiff as a board at the bottom of the cage. Mom and dad tried to tell us that she had died of a broken heart, mourning Tom the gerbil. Even at the tender age of 3 or 4 though, I kind of knew the cat did it. Jerry died in a state of absolute terror. Sorry Jerry.
Tom, the cat, was with us some 18 years. He was my cat. Or at least, I thought so. He was a very forgiving cat. He forgave me when I tried to dress him up in my sister's doll's clothes. He forgave me when I picked him up. He forgave me when I dropped him. He forgave me, mostly, when I pulled his tail. He forgave me when I slipped crème de menthe into his milk. He didn’t forgive us, though, when mom agreed to take in a friend’s cairn terrier. Indeed, when Tom was first introduced to the dog, Tom leapt 6 feet into the air and clawed his way up onto mom’s shoulder, leaving deep scars, and, pis*ed himself. Mom was quite damp. Tom then spent the next few days sulking and hiding in the front room. Fortunately, the dog didn’t last long as it brought on my mom’s asthma attacks. Tom made us feel very guilty for a long time. At least the cairn terrier survived with life intact and un-flat!
Tom died from a stroke while I was away at university. This was a real shame. When I used to phone home from Oxford on a Sunday evening, Tom used to recognise my voice and jump onto mom’s lap and purr down the earpiece at me. When he had the stroke he only settled when he was wrapped in my old school blazer. It was while wrapped therein that they killed him (put him to sleep). And, wrapped in my blazer, he was buried. That blazer would have come in bloody useful at many a fancy dress/theme party since. But, Tom was a good cat. I don’t begrudge him the blazer……much.
We have had only a few family pets in my lifetime. So far. Apparently, when I was a babe in arms there was a dog. I don’t remember the dog. I don’t even remember the dog’s name. In fact, my parents couldn't remember the dog's name when I asked them about it recently. It was a "lovely Alsatian cross" though. The dog died. I do remember being told that he had died, and, how. It may have been suicide, but that theory probably does not hold water. For a start, there was no note. Most suicides leave a note, I'm told. And, to all intents and purposes, the dog had been happy until he ran out of the shop door at the off-licence above which we used to live and of which my mom was manager (actually, she was the manageress – this was the days when gender differences existed; days before political correctness). Indeed, by all accounts the dog had been happy right up to the point that he ran under the wheels of the speeding car. After that he was mostly flat. And dead. Flat and dead.
Sometime after this mom and dad bought my sister and I new pets - two gerbils that we called Tom and Jerry. Don’t ask me why Tom and Jerry. Clearly this was something to do with the Hanna-Barbera cartoon, but, neither of Tom nor Jerry was a cat. Indeed, neither of Tom nor Jerry was a mouse. Moreover, both Tom and Jerry were lady-gerbils, I think. Whatever, they were brought home (to the off-licence) in a nice cage, complete with big wheel and water bottle. I was very young, maybe 3. We were very excited and mom and dad decided we would have a welcome party. And so, much jelly and pink blamanche (my auntie Joan’s speciality – in the shape of a rabbit sat on a bed of green grass jelly with currants for eyes) was moulded, many a sachet of Angel Delight was mixed, much meat paste was spread on white bread sandwiches, many a cheddar cube and chunk of tinned pineapple was impaled on a tooth pick, and, many a bowl was filled with crisps and KP nuts. This was the early 1970s after all. All of our friends and cousins were invited and orange squash and Corona "pop" was swilled and spilt with abundance. Fortunately, 1970s carpets, like cinema carpets of the modern era, were designed to hide the stains.
Whatever happened to "pop" by the way? In those days "pop" was a drink for kids, not music for morons. There used to be a "pop" man that would come around the streets, selling "pop" from a van, in much the same way that an ice cream van does sell ice cream. These were the days of Dandelion & Burdock, Cream Soda, and, Shandy rather than 7 Up, Pepsi, Coke and Doctor Pepper.
Of course, once the squash had kicked in - these being the days before e-numbers had been discovered or their after-effects understood (these were the days of Angel Delight rather than Sunny Delight, Nesquick and hundreds and thousands - sugar, sugar, sugar) - a hoard of over-excited, Spam-filled toddlers wanted more. Pushing sticky little salt ‘n vinegar fingers through a cage door and prodding small rodents with your Nesquick-coated drinking straw or a twiglet just wasn’t enough. Besides, the crisps had run out. The cage was full of crisps. Gerbils don't like salt n' vinegar. It was decided that it would be nice to let Tom and Jerry “run around”.
Now, my mom and dad were not stupid. They were well aware that 2 small rats and several over-excited, over-tired hobbits, is a less than safe environment (mostly for the rats). And so, we children were instructed to sit around the edge of the room with our backs to the wall. We were lectured on the need to keep still and to keep quiet. Ssshhhh! And then dad brought in the cage and opened the little wire door. Tom and Jerry nervously edged their way into the strange world outside of the cage as every toddler gave a collective “ooh” and shuffled excitedly in their terry nappies and training pants. No disposables in this decade. We were all going through that stage when our bums definitely looked big in absolutely everything.
Tom and Jerry quickly grew in confidence and began to explore. It was at this point that my dad decided to practice what he had preached and to join the many munchkins on the floor, his back to the wall. It was at this point that, in the middle of the forced collective silence, there was a small crack. Dad had sat on Tom. Dad had crushed Tom. Tom was dead. And, flat. Another mostly flat and dead pet. This was becoming a bit of a theme.
To be fair, it could have been Jerry that died that day. We never really knew. They all look the same, gerbils. It was just that after the event, once many a small child had had his or her tears dried (what is it with moms and damp handkerchiefs?), and packed off back home with a sherbet dip and a piece of home-baked cake (much more effective than any modern form of post-traumatic stress counselling), we all decided that Jerry was a much more appropriate name for the remaining gerbil. Tom was buried in the back yard. Presumably, in something like an A4 envelope, maybe a jiffy bag. He was, after all, very flat. And very dead. Flat and dead.
Jerry was always a bit nervous from this point on. Especially around my dad. And jiffy bags. Clearly, something needed to be done to cheer Jerry up. So, we got him a friend. We got him a cat, who we called Tom. To be fair, Tom found us. He had been abandoned in a sack with his fellow feline siblings at the band stand of the park opposite our off-licence in Selly Oak, Birmingham. The circus was in town and the circus master who had found the sack, brought them round and asked us if we wanted one. Tom (although un-named at this point) was the runt and cutest of the bunch. He was black with white socks and white cheeks. Cute. Cute. Cute. We had clearly got better at naming pets. Actually, we probably just lacked imagination and post-rationalised our choice on the basis that a) he was a tom cat, b) he was noisy and reminded us of Tom Jones (our family name) singing, c) having already got a mouse/gerbil called Jerry then that old Tom and Jerry thing kind of made sense this time around.
Tom and Jerry were inseparable. That is to say that Tom would sit on top of Jerry’s cage most of the time. He was constantly trying to kiss and stroke Jerry through the cage. Hmm. To be honest, I do not think this helped Jerry recover from the shock of losing the first Tom. At some level, I think the fact that we had given the kitten the same name merely sought to remind Jerry of her previous playmate. Mostly, Jerry just looked anxious. It was not long until Jerry also died. She was discovered stiff as a board at the bottom of the cage. Mom and dad tried to tell us that she had died of a broken heart, mourning Tom the gerbil. Even at the tender age of 3 or 4 though, I kind of knew the cat did it. Jerry died in a state of absolute terror. Sorry Jerry.
Tom, the cat, was with us some 18 years. He was my cat. Or at least, I thought so. He was a very forgiving cat. He forgave me when I tried to dress him up in my sister's doll's clothes. He forgave me when I picked him up. He forgave me when I dropped him. He forgave me, mostly, when I pulled his tail. He forgave me when I slipped crème de menthe into his milk. He didn’t forgive us, though, when mom agreed to take in a friend’s cairn terrier. Indeed, when Tom was first introduced to the dog, Tom leapt 6 feet into the air and clawed his way up onto mom’s shoulder, leaving deep scars, and, pis*ed himself. Mom was quite damp. Tom then spent the next few days sulking and hiding in the front room. Fortunately, the dog didn’t last long as it brought on my mom’s asthma attacks. Tom made us feel very guilty for a long time. At least the cairn terrier survived with life intact and un-flat!
Tom died from a stroke while I was away at university. This was a real shame. When I used to phone home from Oxford on a Sunday evening, Tom used to recognise my voice and jump onto mom’s lap and purr down the earpiece at me. When he had the stroke he only settled when he was wrapped in my old school blazer. It was while wrapped therein that they killed him (put him to sleep). And, wrapped in my blazer, he was buried. That blazer would have come in bloody useful at many a fancy dress/theme party since. But, Tom was a good cat. I don’t begrudge him the blazer……much.
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