Confessions of a Cat Sitter
Chris Pascoe is the author of A Cat Called Birmingham & You Can Take the Cat
Out of Slough, and a columnist for various UK & international magazines.
He’s also a cat sitter…
I often stop and think what a great job I
have. It may not be especially well paid,
but as an out and out cat lover, I really
can’t think of any better way to spend
your days than visiting a succession of
friendly, affectionate cats. And, I have to
say that, while some are confident, some
are shy, some are cautious, some are
bright, some are dopey, all the cats on my
client list have always been truly great to
know.
Then I met Miranda.
Miranda is a three year
old tabby, but closer in
size to a six month old
kitten. Giant eyes and
a permanently startled
expression add to
an overall cute kitten
appearance. As cute as
Miranda looks though,
she quickly proved to
be one of my deadliest
adversaries. Now, that’s
just plain wrong, isn’t it? I should surely be lovingly caring
for the cats in my charge, shouldn’t I? Pampering them,
petting them, feeding them… just generally ensuring
their overall happiness and well being. Not referring to
them as deadly adversaries? And certainly not fighting
them? Miranda gave me little choice in the matter.
Her owners had warned me that she could be ‘a little
feisty’, but when I’d collected keys, she’d been a gentle
purring little ball of fur. Her owner had cradled her in
her arms, and Miranda had happily pushed her face into
my outstretched hand. ‘Feisty?’ I thought, ‘Pah! That’s not
feisty – that’s just fluffy!’
When I arrived at Miranda’s two days later, I bent down
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to say hello, stretching my hand out, expecting her to
affectionately nuzzle her little face into it once again. I
just didn’t see that paw coming. There was a hiss, a blur
of motion, and then searing pain across my fingers. A
second claw closed in fast and suddenly I had a small
tabby attached to me, all four claws embedded in my
arm while sharp teeth sunk into my hand. I couldn’t
think of anything useful to say, so I just said ‘OUCH’ and
sunk to my knees.
The sinking to the knees bit was a bit over-dramatic,
I know, but I think it looked quite good. The main
purpose of the maneuver, however, was to get down to
Miranda’s level rather than have her dangling in mid-air,
gradually tearing my flesh off. It was also an easier
position in which to extricate her from my arm.
Once free, I walked slowly to the kitchen, quietly
mumbling soothing words over my shoulder, while
conscious of low growling sounds behind me. I reached
the cat food cupboard and stretched up to grab a tin
of Felix. ‘Miranda’ I called ‘Dinner!’. Miranda seemed
to agree, but it wasn’t Felix she had in mind. A thump
against the back of my leg told me hostilities were
rapidly escalating. The claws in my calf confirmed this.
Ever tried to remove a cat from the back of your leg?
Firstly, I turned around sharply. This proved a bit of a
failure, because Miranda obviously remained behind me.
Not one to learn from my mistakes, I attempted two
more turns. Anybody witnessing the event through a
window would have seen a large man twirling across
the kitchen floor with a cat attached to his leg, like a
feline / fat bloke version of Strictly Come Dancing.
As I stumbled into the lounge I revised my plans –
dancing with Miranda wasn’t going to solve this, and it
also hurt quite a lot. I sunk to the sofa, carefully keeping
my leg raised so not to squash her and, after a little
more bloodletting, removed her for a second time.
Over the next few days, using all the knowledge gained
from my ten years cat sitting, I employed a carefully
planned system of coat and glove-wearing, careful eye
contact, extremely slow and quiet movement, and
various ‘cunning’ distraction techniques.
This all totally failed of course. By day
four, though, Miranda seemed to get
bored of biting me - probably deciding
I was no match for her. Now, after 10
days with Miranda, I can happily add
her to my aforementioned list of very
likeable clients!
I won’t be visiting in shorts any time
soon though…
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