As you may have noticed from this blog, I have a couple of cats. On 1 April 2006, my next-door-but-one neighbour's cat had a litter of four kittens, three girls and a boy, father(s) unknown - there were a few feral tom-cats around to choose from. Their dark, semi-long-haired sisters quickly found a home, and I was due to take the tortoiseshell-and-white girl, but was persuaded also to take her grey-brown tabby-and-white brother.
Even at eight weeks, they were tiny, sitting neatly in the palm of a hand, but already had distinct characters. The girl was curious and more confident than her snarly, scared brother, but they both hid under furniture for the first couple of days in their new home. Eventually, boy-cat had to be held and stroked into submission, realising that this place with its food and people prepared to love and fuss him was okay.
They grew quickly, exploring their surroundings and becoming more confident, exploring the farm buildings, sprawling in the sunshine on the pond jetty, walking down into the fields closer to the farm buildings and hanging out on the veg patch and in the polytunnel. We decided not to leave Greebo as a full tomcat, but it didn't stop him spray-marking his territory and fighting visiting tomcats. And Xena had to be spayed too, so that said visiting toms didn't result in a litter of kittens, They were both avid hunters and had to learn (with the help of my oldest hen, Flossie) not to go for birds. Greebo was the stronger hunter, taking down rats, young rabbits (he frequently brought in half for later) and on a couple of occasions batting bats out of the air and leaving a dead weasel. He had a powerful bite; when the willows were planted, I kept finding small ovals of the weed suppressant membrane, where he bit through it to catch a squeaky (mouse or vole, usually), and jumped around to twist and tear the plastic-wrapped rodent from its hiding place. Xena specialised in mice and voles once having one of each between mouthfuls of commercial catfood, resulting in five breakfasts one morning. Both learned the command 'Take it OUTSIDE!' when they brought in a live one.
The years pass so quickly. When we moved to Pembrokeshire, they were 9 years old, already 'senior' cats and starting to slow down. They were disgusted at the size of the garden and the lack of polytunnel to lounge in. The first year we were here, they could get onto the compost bins, onto the back fence and down into the field behind, but it quickly became too difficult, even for Xena, who used to take a running jump up onto a six foot wall. Greebo's old injuries to his back legs have come back to haunt him as arthritis. They've increasingly become picky about their food and treats. Despite my telling him off, Greebo strops his claws on the stairs, wrecking the carpet.
Then Xena became ill a couple of years ago, firstly with hyperthyroid, then also with cat asthma. She is good about taking her thyroid medicine, licking it from its syringe, but has never been good with taking tablets, so her steroids have to be hidden in a treat, and she still occasionally refuses and spits half-dissolved bits of tablet all over the place. And being around to give her medication twice a day is a tie. Back on the farm I started a bed-time ritual of grooming and giving treats, which allowed me to check them over for wounds, thorns and so on, so giving medication was added to that, and an extra morning session added.
And then there are the vet bills, which are draining my savings. Let's not go there. As 'senior' cats back in 2015, and having just moved house, I couldn't afford insurance for both of them. Now they are 16 and classed as 'geriatric', with existing conditions, it's not even worth the discussion.
Xena went through a phase of bouts of cystitis, and started to have a habit of weeing where she felt like it. This has now become a regular thing, and she also booby-traps the front door with a nightly poop. And of course, Greebo thinks if she can, so can he.
So whilst my favourite thing is just hanging out with the pair of them, giving and receiving cuddles, grooming them and giving treats, playing games and conversing in a sort of human-cat patois, my most disliked thing is the morning clean up, first thing on the list every day. I've become more efficient at doing it, but it's so tiresome coming down to the morning peepoomageddon and just trying to destink the house!
But they are mine, my warrior princess and her big softy of a brother, my fur-babies, and I am theirs, heart and soul. A slave to them, perhaps, but the joys of them being around, playing, purring, head bumping, talking, asking for and receiving strokes and scratches, occasionally grooming me, my constant companions, those joys make it all worthwhile.
I love them. It's all for love.
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