They’re not too bad for adopted owners. It was about four years ago when they moved in and the smell of their summer BBQs drew my cats whiskers to their home. I couldn’t resist hanging around, especially since they already had a cat that got fed regularly. The photo up there was taken at the end of 2010 – when the youngest mistress didn’t have much hair and before Madam cut her hair short (on account of stress I understand – but nothing to do with me, as cats are good for the heart and don’t you let me hear otherwise!).
Anyway, I knew my luck was in when one of the young mistresses started to bring me food in a bowl. I didn’t even have to work for it. She’d pick me up like a fork lift truck. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it made her feel like I was her pet. Funny thing is, she doesn’t like me now she’s older. She’s an eight year old with bad hay-fever and my malting coat of fur doesn’t help. I don’t do much either, just sit around most of the day. I’m not a rat catcher like their other cat was.
He was a ginger tom, called Simba. He lived up to his name. He’d take the wings off cicadas and the tails off of skinks. He was a bad cat for New Zealand, but a fun cat for the young mistress. He’d been a stray too, in the Botanical Garden. Madam worked in an office there for WWF-New Zealand, before devoting several years of her life to breeding and breastfeeding. Madam had found him when he was just a kitten, mewing and timid, but still with a streak of fire in his belly.
He wasn’t the type for cuddles – though he liked a good stroke on his terms.
He’d jump for treats, chase a ball, go crazy over cat-nip treats, play peek-a-boo, with a scrap of newspaper under the door, and jump out from beneath the beds to playfully grab them around the ankles. He liked being the main man and didn’t like me and my female ways hanging around on his territory, but the food was too good to resist and I was big enough to put him in his place. Poor man died a year or so after I arrived – passed away on account of stress.
So, it’s just me and the fish now. Madam and Sir have got one tank of tropical and another tank with two large goldfish. They’d make a tasty snack, especially the goldfish – wow they’d be like a three course meal compared to those dry cat biscuits I get served morning and night. But who am I kidding, I’m a lap cat, without the energy or determination to go hooking fish.
I whine a lot for my food – it drives Sir crazy, the whining that is. Madam tolerates me – even though I trip her up in the kitchen as I race to the cupboard where they store the biscuits. When they eat I try to hang around, as the youngest mistress drops me bits of sausage and fish. She has been known to overturn her whole plate on to the floor, which is very generous but I’m really not partial to cucumber or apple, but I don’t mind noodles and love cheese.
I spend my days close to home. I have a look-a-like that lives across the street. Blueish, grey, soft fur, just like me, with white paddy paws and green eyes. I reckon he might be my brother, but I’m not willing to get close enough to find out – don’t want to risk getting back into my first family – pah – never enough tit bits there. I know my current Madam phoned the lost and found people and tried to find out if I had an owner all those years ago, but no one posted me up as missing (they were probably glad of one less mouth to feed and to be rid of my whining). So, here I am, quite content, with no competition for my food – apart from a hedgehog and a cheeky black-bird that I can’t be bothered chasing.
It’s the youngest mistress that plays with me most these days – though I have to give her the occasional warning meow as she still thinks my tail is a fascinating play thing. Madam tries to show her where I like my fur rubbing, behind the ears, under the chin, and that sort of thing. I used to get a lot more attention from Madam in the evenings, before the youngest mistress was born. I’d curl up on her lap in the evenings, whilst she typed away on her keyboard or played the piano. These days she hides away in the bedroom. That’s okay, she’s trained Sir to let me sleep indoors at night – on account of me possibly be a threat to the native wildlife (but I’m far too lazy for that!).
I’ve heard talk that the older mistress would like a dog and the middle mistress too – or maybe a rabbit. Truth is, Madam and Sir haven’t got the time (or energy) right now and Sir, though he wouldn’t miss me if I curled up under a bush and never woke up again, is considerate enough to not get another pet until I’ve made my sweet departure – which will be in a merry good time, if I play my cards right!
Joining in with Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop.
I chose prompt 5.) A day in the life of your petâ€¦how bad do they have it?