animals

Animals need organising: any zoo-keeper will tell you so. A pet owner who lives alone and travels regularly needs an honours degree in planning ahead.

I rely on the magnanimity of friends and neighbours, not a good feeling for Mister DIY. When I commute to Bendigo for seven months last year my friend Julie picks up the JRT on her way home from work, deposit in my backyard next morning on her way back. I’m forever in her debt, feel I could not impose on her again.

My good woman steps in. My place is not on her route home so the JRT stays over. Her timid cat is not amused. Now I too have a cat and I’m off to Adelaide for a three-day meeting. Let the complications begin.

Cats attach to houses so they hang around even if their people are occasionally absent. I ask Dan and Joyce from Unit 2 to wait on the new cat: feed him, chuck him out in the morning, bring him in at night. The local council imposes a cat curfew. Then there’s the dirt tray. Asking elderly neighbours to deal with cat-shit is a big call.

I line the shower recess with a tarp and painting drop sheet, brickbats at the corners. I fill the shallow cavity with garden soil, show the cat. He approves, so we’re good to go.

The cat doesn’t understand curfews, clatters at the blinds, chews the bottom of the back door. Throwing bunches of keys deters this: he’s a quick learner.

The JRT and the cat chase each other around the house. They nudge noses, sniff each other’s bums. They haven’t cuddled up yet. In the garden the dog pulls rank; the cat is fair game outside. A ginger ear shoots up from under the stairs, the JRT barks, the cat retreats. With the dog inside the cat roams the yard.

This cat is a digger, not just for waste control. He excavates serious holes, lies in the moist soil. He throws dirt all over. He leaps about chasing languid winter flies; summer will drive him mad. Inside he allows me to pick him up for a cuddle any time; outside he’s as flighty as a thrush, darting all over, not to be caught be me at any cost.  

Joyce is out but Dan is home, not well, can’t lift his right arm, suffering the cold plaintively. He dobs Joyce in to look after the cat. Ah, Saint Joyce, patron of the deserted puss.

Rock on.