The good thing about a pet rat, said Cameron, is that their lifespan is generally only two to three years. At least it’s a pet you know you’re going to outlive, and don’t have to worry about making arrangements for it if you die first.
Anyway, at Cameron’s funeral Maisina, his second cousin twice removed, said she would be happy to look after the rat.
Stephanie was a cat. She was sick to death of the neighbouring cats coming over and eating her food when no one was looking. She came up with a plan. She would lace her food with rat poison. So she did that. But before any neighbouring cat made an appearance, Stephanie’s dearly loved grandmother paid a surprise visit.
Juanita had a special gift: she could understand a cat’s meowing. Many people think that the meowing of a cat is simply that. But Juanita knew better.
She had three cats and they were all catered for to perfection. She wouldn’t talk through meows to a cat itself but she could understand what the cat was saying in its meowing. Sometimes, for example, it might be “I have a sore foot”, or “I have a tummy ache,” or even “You should know by now that I don’t like salmon out of a tin”.
What a wonderful gift! Juanita’s reputation grew. Even the local animal vet sometimes called on her if a cat that needed attending to in one way or another was proving difficult to diagnose. “He has an allergy to artificial flavouring in the beef and liver cat food.” “She is stressed out by the neighbour’s dog.” “My cushion stinks.”
Juanita had a friend who had a cat and the cat was doing poorly. It wouldn’t eat. Perhaps Juanita could help? The solution was simple. The friend’s cat explained in no uncertain terms: “I’m not a fussy eater; I just like variety”.
At one time a heart-warming revelation occurred. Juanita was watching the evening news on television when Estelle announced: “I have happy news! I am expecting five kittens!” What a happy day! Oh! But what a sad day it was when Juanita had to take the five kittens to the pet shop to be sold. “You have broken my heart,” said Estelle. “I shall never speak to you again.”
All the other cats joined in the boycott. And that possibly accounts for why these days cats will often appear aloof and haughty. No! They do not think of themselves as superior; they are simply taking a stand. There’s more to a meow than meets the eye. Juanita will tell you that every meow from every cat these days simply says, politely of course, “My lips are sealed.”
For five years now people had put up with Finbarr talking constantly about his pet weasel. No one had seen it, although everyone had been invited to come for a look. And invited. And invited.
It was brown. It was friendly. It had a white chest. It was the cat’s pyjamas. It was unbelievably cute.
“No one seems interested ever in coming to see my pet weasel,” complained Finbarr at work. “No one! It’s pathetic.” Finbarr – it may come as no surprise – worked in a pet shop. It was the largest pet shop in the city.
Eventually, after much harping, Deidre said she would volunteer to go for a peek. It might help shut Finbarr up.
“My weasel!” declared Finbarr lovingly gathering Dillinger from its cage and presenting it to Deidre to pat.
Deidre didn’t have the heart to tell him that the thing wasn’t a weasel at all. It was a stoat.
There was nothing particularly singular about Janice and Branwell. They lived in a suburb. They had a cat and a dog. The grandchildren would visit quite often.
Usually they took turns in walking the dog, although Branwell had the task of feeding it. Janice was in charge of feeding the cat.
One sunny afternoon the cat was particularly vocal which usually meant she wanted some milk. Janice poured milk into a saucer and placed it on the kitchen floor next to the oven. The dog barged in, which he usually didn’t do, pushed the cat aside and lapped up the cat’s milk. Janice shooed them both outside.
A few minutes later Branwell appeared in the kitchen.
“I just heard the strangest thing,” he said. “I heard it as clear as a bell. The cat spoke to the dog. She said, ‘You shouldn’t do that. You know it’s my milk’.” The dog responded by saying, “Your English gets better by the day.”
“You’re hearing things,” said Janice. The cat’s been complaining all morning.”
“It was perfectly articulated,” said Branwell, “but, yes, I guess I was hearing things.”
“Exactly right,” said Janice.
The cat and the dog sat outside in the shade. “That was a close call,” they said one to the other – but in French.
Everyone’s dog is special. And so is mine! Yesterday Bubble died. He was three weeks short of his fourth birthday.
In late February he began to have epileptic seizures. Medication began and was readjusted during the following months. Yesterday morning at 2.30 am he threw a fit. Fortunately he landed from his chair onto the piano, so it woke me up! Over the next ten hours he had forty or so epileptic fits. Medication provided no relief. If you’ve never seen a dog have an epileptic fit, DON’T!
He died around midday. We buried him on the lawn where he loved to sit and watch the world go by!
Below are two pictures. One is of Bubble and his best friend, the cat. The other was taken a few hours before the first of his final series of seizures, sitting at the wide-open front door in the winter sun letting those of us in the house freeze!
Christina and Florrie lived in the same house and shared a pet cat. They called their cat “Alleluia!” because it brought such joy. The exclamation mark in the Alleluia! is an important part of the name, Florrie told the vet. Our cat is not simply “Alleluia” but “Alleluia!”
There were many other things that Christina and Florrie shared besides the cat. They shared cooking and meals, for example, and cleaning the house. They shared a glass of wine before the evening meal. They shared the rent. They had shared like this for thirty-two years. It was not only companionship; it saved money. How much cheaper it is to heat a single house rather than two.
Every day the cat would curl up at wine-time on the mat between Florrie and Christina’s armchairs. It was part of the daily ritual. Alleluia! was now seventeen years old, as far as they knew. It had adopted Florrie and Christiana. They had no idea where it came from. They advertised with photographs but no one came forward. Alleluia! was there to stay.
And then, very suddenly, just as they were one evening pouring a wine, Christina had a stroke and died. Florrie had to make all the arrangements for Christiana’s funeral, while she herself was devastated. Admittedly it gave something for Florrie to do, something to occupy her mind, but she never imagined that such feelings of grief were possible.
When all was over, Florrie still had Alleluia! It was a connection, a support. The cat was a living link. In fact, Alleluia! had taken over Christiana’s armchair in the evenings. It might sound silly, but Alleluia! was always there for Florrie to talk to.
And then Alleluia! took ill and Florrie had to have it put down.
(This will be the first of two postings today because I’m fixing up the numbering system and having two postings on one day is the easiest way to do it! Sorry about that – I usually have a personal rule of only one posting a day!)
Philippa’s parents went overseas on the trip of a life time. What to do with seven year old Philippa? I know, said Philippa’s mother, she can stay with Aunt Sylvia.
Aunt Sylvia can she stay for around two months? And can she bring her cat?
My apartment is very small but of course she can bring her cat. I have a cat myself. They will be company for each other.
Philippa’s cat is very young; barely out of the kitten stage.
After two weeks she was pregnant. Not Philippa, silly. Not Aunt Sylvia; she was seventy-two. The cat! Within two months the cat had three kittens. They were so cute! One of them looked remarkably like Aunt Sylvia’s cat – which was impossible because Mephistopholes had been neutered.
One day, after several weeks, while Philippa was at school, Aunt Sylvia took the kittens to the pet shop. But the pet shop was overcrowded as were all the other places that cared for cats. Aunt Sylvia took them to the veterinarian. Vets always cost the earth.
Philippa came home from school. Oh! cried Aunt Sylvia. She was very upset. The cat must have been too young to produce enough milk. Shall we bury them in the garden and plant some flowers?
They did that, and the following week Aunt Sylvia was so relieved when Philippa’s parents came home from their trip of a life time.
My cat woke me at four each morning.
She would jump on the bed and claw the pillow
right next to my eyes.
I would wake, fearful for my sight.
Would I never again see the day slip over the hill?
Would I never again see the moon slip over the hill
or the barley field wave in the wind?
Perhaps by patting the cat I could doze a little longer.
Bloody cat.
Fourteen years ago,
on a night I could not sleep,
I rose from bed at four and fed the cat.
Breakfast at four became her rite, her right.
Bloody cat.
Last year she was sick.
The veterinarian said
“That’ll be one hundred and thirty dollars please.”
I gave up wine and stuff for a month to pay for it.
That bloody cat was more of a nuisance than I ever imagined.
Last week she died.
If she came back I’d let her scratch out my eyes.
To hear the poem read click HERE!
It had been a long time coming, but at last it had arrived. For over three years Melinda had pestered her parents for a pet guinea pig. Over that time she had used many ingenious arguments as to why she should get a guinea pig as a pet. The clincher came when she promised she’d let her horrible little brother chose a name for it. At last Melinda was acting kindly towards her little brother.
Melinda already had a hutch in preparation for the possibility of a guinea pig one day turning up. The hutch used to belong to her good friend Meghan, but Meghan’s pet bunny had died so she had no further use for a hutch.
It was Melinda’s birthday and, miracle of miracles, a guinea pig arrived. It was cuddled, and pulled, and pushed, and shoved and squeezed. It was fed warm milk from a bottle with a baby’s teat. It was put in its hutch, and taken out of its hutch.
And what should Melinda’s little brother name it? He said, “It shall be called Brindle”. And indeed the guinea pig was a sort of brindle. Melinda didn’t like it. “It’s a horrible name,” she said. “Pick another.”
“What about Quincy?” suggested Melinda’s horrible little brother. Melinda didn’t like it. “It’s a horrible name,” she said. “Pick another.”
“Then it should be called Penguin,” said Melinda’s horrible little brother.
“Since you can’t decide on a name,” announced Melinda, “it shall be called Petal.”
“But the guinea pig is a boy,” said Melinda’s horrible little brother. “You can’t name a boy Petal.”
“I can do what I like,” said Melinda.
Anyway, within a month Melinda had lost interest in Petal. Her horrible little brother took over its care and named it Brindle.
Weave a Web 