Wonderful Wednesday with Michelle Cunnah

A Tale of Two Kittehs by Michelle Cunnah
My children both refer fondly to me as The Borg Mothership. Apparently because I assimilate both people and pets, and also because once I have decided to assimilate Resistance is Futile. ☺ But in a good kind of way, so they assure me. Here is the story of how I assimilated two elderly, lovely kitties.
Years ago when we lived in America I got a telephone call from a good friend. She was very upset about something and wasn’t sure what she could do. A family she was acquainted with was moving out of the area. In their basement lived their elderly cat. Their elderly cat who had health problems. They couldn’t remember how old she was but thought that she was “about twelve.” They weren’t sure what health problems she had, either, but she did have damage to one of her ears in the form of a large, dry blood blister. Probably from being attacked by their dog, they thought. Anyway, they could not take the elderly kitty with them because their new house didn’t have a basement, so it was euthanasia time for the old cat if they couldn’t find her a new home before they left in two days’ time. Also, they had a dog that didn’t get on with cats. Oh, and also because they had a new kitten. Go figure.
My good friend couldn’t take the old cat because she already had a lively cat and three very exuberant dogs of her own. This old basement cat was very skitty and shy, and although my friend is one of the kindest, loveliest people ever to humans and other animals, this cat would not thrive in her home. What was she to do? I wasn’t sure what to do, either, but my heart went out to the poor old cat.
Later that evening I had a scheduled telephone conversation with my husband, Oh Patient One (as I fondly refer to him), who was on a business trip to India at the time. After I told him the tale of the poor old cat, this is what happened.
Oh Patient One (without the slightest hesitation): “Michelle, tomorrow morning you are going to go and collect that kitty and bring her home with you.”
Me (because I worry about everything): “Even though she’s old and will probably need medical attention more-or-less straight away? It could cost us quite a bit.”
Oh Patient One: “Yes. And don’t even think about what might happen in five years’ time when we have to leave America. She’s an old kitty, she might not even be with us by then so don’t borrow trouble and worry about transporting her on a plane back to Europe or horrendous quarantine laws or anything.”
He knows me so well, thought I, breathing a huge sigh of relief.
Oh Patient One: “And by the way, I already have a new name for this poor kitty. Dolores, because it sounds like she’s had a bad time and it’s derived from the Latin for pain or grief.”
A perfect name for her.
The next day it broke my heart when I first saw Dolores on her old sofa in the basement. What a pretty calico cat she was. Although she was shy, she was so pleased to be stroked and petted by my friend and myself, so thrilled to be getting attention that she was soon purring loudly. She wasn’t so thrilled when we put her into the pet carrier. Judging from her piteous cries she must have been terrified. My heart broke all over again for causing her anxiety. But once we’d gotten her home and shown her the kitty litter tray and her food and water, she was soon investigating my house. Mainly, it has to be said, investigating any area that was behind a sofa or a piece of furniture. Anywhere she could hide, really.
A couple days later she was settling in quite nicely. Although she didn’t like to be approached, if we crouched and held out a hand to her she would sometimes come to us to be stroked and told what a lovely kitty she was. She was so shy, though, that she wouldn’t even come through to the kitchen if I opened a can of tuna, or if I was carving a chicken. Although I know that it’s not good for cats to eat human food, a little chicken or tuna now and then was surely something she should expect? It didn’t seem right that she didn’t think she deserved a little treat. But don’t worry, we soon changed all of that.
A short while later she had us all eating out of the palm of her paw. She had her particular sofa where she liked to sit at the front of my dining room. A cheerful, sunny spot. She really became attached to this sofa (possibly because she’d lived on a sofa in a basement previously?) So much so that she didn’t really want to sit anywhere else. She would come and seek me out and yowl at me, transmitting her cat ESP vibes my way, because she wanted me to come and sit with her on her sofa. And if I opened a can of tuna or carved a chicken, it wouldn’t be long before Dolly transmitted cat ESP vibes at me for her share of the treat.
Soon we adjusted her name from Dolores to Empress Dolly of Cunnah, because she certainly wasn’t suffering pain or grief. And she was certainly regal with her six claws on each paw—an Anne Boleyn of cats.
Dolly was with us for four years. At the age of about eighteen her diabetes became really serious despite our best efforts with daily insulin injections and making sure that her diet was correct. I asked the vet for his honest advice about her situation, and he told me that it would be cruel to make her suffer. He put her to sleep I held her in my arms.
Here is Dolly on her sofa.
Fast forward several years. Last year my dear mum died unexpectedly while Oh Patient One and I were at our Rotterdam apartment. By the time I got to my mum’s house in the UK my sister and her best friend were already there, and the one question that they were worried about amidst the grief of losing Mum, the first thing they said to me once we’d hugged was, “What are we going to do with Mum’s kitty, Michelle? We can’t take Pippa because she’s so tiny and shy and elderly and our two cats would have her for breakfast. Can you take her? We’ll pay for everything you need, and if she needs to see a vet we’ll pay for that, too.”
Of course, Oh Patient One and I had already had this discussion on the long journey back to the UK and yes, I fully intended to take Pippa back to our house near London. And no, Oh Patient One and I would pay for anything Pippa needed. We knew what to expect with a twelve-year-old kitty, but it was lovely of my sister and her friend to worry about the money.
The car journey from my mum’s house to our house in the UK took about five hours. Although my sister had managed to get a kitty chill pill into Pippa she still managed to cry piteously for most of the journey. It broke our hearts all over again, reinforcing our grief for Mum. Pippa was our last connection to Mum and would Pippa suffer from separation anxiety and die, too? Mum had rescued Pippa when she was two, she’d had a decade of loving Mum.
But we needn’t have worried. Pippa was wary of her new home at first, but over the course of the last year she has basically taken over the whole household and we are all her kitty slaves. She has become Kitteh Princess Pippa who thinks that she is two years old rather than her actual thirteen years. She taps my face to wake me in the morning as she sends me kitty ESP vibes to feed her. If I am working on my laptop and she wants attention, she will either climb up on the bureau behind me and tap my shoulder, or climb onto my chair behind me and jump up against my shoulders with both paws. She climbs my trellis like a pro. She catches birds, too, so it’s fortunate that she doesn’t have enough teeth to kill them. From the way she stretches up towards the back door handle when she wants to go out, Oh Patient One and I are convinced that she is working on evolving an opposable thumb claw.
As I type this Oh Patient One and I are in our Rotterdam apartment for a few days. My daughter, Borg Sector R, called me yesterday from our UK house. And after we’d had a good chat (even though I saw two days ago), this is what she said to me.
Borg Sector R: “Borg Mother Ship, Kitteh Princess Pippa is missing you. I’m pretty sure she knows I am on the phone to you because she’s doing that funny tapping thing with her paw.”
Me: “Can you put the phone to her ear so that I can talk to her?”
Borg Sector R (without missing a beat): “Absolutely.” And then, a few moments later, “Mum, she’s purring at you—can you hear her?”
Me (with a smile): “Yes, I can.”
Michelle Cunnah writes romantic
comedies and teen fiction for
HarperCollins. To find out more
about her books, or her trials
and tribulations with Kitteh
Princess Pippa, and Other Things
Designed to Thwart Michelle,
please visit her website at
http://www.michellecunnah.com