Feline feelings

Strolling in Truro during my recent childcare disaster day (see Working things out), I spotted a sign for a pet healing day. Drawn into St Mary’s Mews, I discovered Justin Roseveare, a medium, clairvoyant and healer who works with his spirit guide, Jacob. I poked my head round the door and explained that we were about to move our cat to Truro, and that she wouldn’t be too happy about it. “She’ll be carrying a lot of grief – I can realign her chakras for her,” he replied. Believe me, I was almost tempted.

I last wrote about Polly a few days before giving birth, and she’s had a lot to put up with since. Once our substitute child, she has been (as predicted) well and truly supplanted in our affections by a tiny human interloper. I suppose this is a natural part of being a mum, but I can’t help but feel a massive twinge of guilt.

I wondered how the two of them would get along, and there have been highs and lows.

For the first few months, 3am feeds in the baby room were accompanied by Polly, who would watch imperiously from a lofty position (the top of the wardrobe being a particular favourite). She’s a black and white puss, and therefore ideal for our young daughter to spot with her early monochrome vision. Baby smiled a cheery hello; Polly sneered and turned away.

She had thawed a little by Christmas. Watching Carols at King’s by a roaring fire, I was stunned when Polly walked towards Daughter’s outstretched hand and rubbed her head against it, as if to say: “This is how to stroke me.”

She recently became a lap cat again, only to discover there was competition for space. Daughter was very excited, and has not yet learned to stroke gently, despite expert tuition. Polly was tolerant to a point, and remained remarkably restrained. Is she aware of the pecking order?

A more unpleasant development is that Polly has taken to doing her business around the house. We move the tray, a few days later she changes her spot. This is hardly ideal when we are trying to sell the house.

An attempt to tidy up ahead of one viewing made me realise just how untidy our home is. As Polly slept in the kitchen sink (??), I worked my way around the house, followed closely by a 15-month-old whirlwind intent on untidying everything I’d just tidied. I thought I’d found cat poo in a dark corner of the master bedroom, only to realise with relief that it was a geological souvenir half-inched from a European volcano (I forget which).

And now, we are considering moving Polly to Truro. Given that she hates travelling, this is as stressful a concept for us as for her. With this in mind, we took her to the vet for an overhaul. Blood test, urine test, flea treatment, worming tablets… to the tune of £160. Cornwall Today columnist Pete Cross told me I should be thankful: “I had to pay £260 once to pin a goose leg. It’s not as if you get any return – a goose can’t sit on your lap.”

The results were largely encouraging, in that Polly is as healthy as a 15-year-old cat can be. However, she is suffering from a low thyroid – the sign of chronic stress. MORE GUILT. She is also too old to be sedated for the journey, although Feliway was recommended to chillax her. I have lost count of how many people – even my gran, who professes to hate cats – have told me to put butter on her paws once in her new home. I regard this in the same light as the spirit medium – a large dose of cynicism, with just a smidgen of doubt. Should I…

In any case, poor Polly had such a rotten morning at the vets that we bottled out and left her in familiar surroundings for the time being. Watch this space.

Advertisement