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…
A customer called me this week, to give
me a quick update on her cat Boris’s
circumstances ahead of her forthcoming
holiday. Boris is a Persian, named for his
likeness to the former Mayor of London.
It’s not only his great mop of golden
hair, but also an eagerness to be present
at every opening available – as long as
the opening involves a tin of cat food.
Boris had always been an indoor cat.
‘Hi Chris just a couple of changes.
We’ve finally smashed a hole in the
wall and Boris has a catflap now.’
‘Okay, that’s good, how’s he taking
to the great outdoors?’
‘Not too bad – we’ve got a bit of
a problem with him chasing the
birds, but otherwise okay’
The ex Mayor of London
immediately sprang back to mind, but I thought it best
not to comment.
‘Oh, and one other thing Chris, we’ve done away with
his litter tray, hope that’s okay?’
‘I’ve never missed a litter tray yet!’ I blurted out, instantly
regretting my wording - this was clearly a statement
that could be taken in very much the wrong way.
Fortunately, Mrs Johnson (not really her name!) didn’t
pick up on my poor choice of sentence. But, as you’ll
know from past columns, I’m not always the greatest at
choosing the right words (hence my career as a writer).
And, this was never more evident than during a recent
visit to the doctors, made on account of wounds
suffered in the line of my catsitting duties.
Wounds? What this time you may ask? Mauled by a
Bengal again? Brought down by a pack of Siberian
Forest cats? No. A tiny Cornish Rex named Pixie, with
legs as thin as a pencil and standing only 7 inches tall in
her white-paw-socks, broke my toe.
Pixie is so tiny that there’s absolutely no way she can
go outside, despite her pleading smiles (she has a
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constant expression that would
put the Cheshire Cat to Shame),
because she would almost
certainly be swept away by the
first Red Kite Hawk that set eyes
on her. But she still managed to put
me in the nurse’s room at the local
GP’s.This was because she made a
dramatic run for the front door as
I opened it one bright Tuesday morning. My instinct was
to quickly block her route with my right foot.This deft
little manoeuvre only almost worked.To any onlooker
it would have looked as though I’d just opened the
front door and swung an almighty kick at the door
frame for no apparent reason.The resulting loud crack
and blinding pain told me that my foot had not fared
well at all but, on the plus side, the noise stopped Pixie
dead in her tracks. For the briefest of moments, I’m
sure that smile of hers became a laugh.
Anyway, when I hobbled in to see the nurse, on
account of my little toe suddenly looking bigger than
my large one, I’m not sure how I could have explained
that I’d broken my toe any less clearly than I did.
‘Just leave it alone’, replied the nurse, ‘It’ll fall off after a
while.’
It was probably the look of total horror on my face
that prompted her to offer to