Saved by a whisker: part 2

Dedicated to Manbean (aka, Catsanova) who lived a short, but purrrfect life.

I know this month’s newsletter is late, but hopefully you’ll enjoy it as much as an early Christmas present. Here’s part 2 of ‘Saved by a whisker’.

I often wonder what would have happened to me if Coco and her three caterwauling weans (I swear my cats have Glaswegian accents) hadn’t dive-bombed my chest. Well, I probably wouldn’t be telling you this story now, that’s for sure.

When I first met Coco, she was just a tiny ball of fluff, no more than nine weeks old and utterly petrified. Her owner was at her wits end trying to find homes for six unsocialised kittens – the offspring of her two unneutered house cats. So, I took this trembling scrap of black fur in and slowly, won her trust with food.

Every four hours, I dished out portions of kitten kibble and gently coaxed her out of hiding with toys.

At times this was painful, especially when she killed my hands with what felt like tiny flick knives. Although William, to be fair, endured the worst.

When Coco eventually grew in confidence, so did her attachment to me. She never left my side, not even at bedtime which was both endearing and awkward. Particularly when I couldn’t move for fear of disturbing her.

It’s hard to imagine now, but I had always considered myself to be a dog person, probably because I’d grown up with three. First Fran (a black collie cross), then in my teens Bonnie (a golden lab) and finally Max, who resembled a fox with a Basil Brush tail.

I miss them all dearly, just like any member of the family who’s crossed the rainbow bridge. Though as they say, “dogs have masters. Cats have staff.” So, it was inevitable really that Coco became the mistress of me.

Eighteen months later in March, she gave birth to three perfect kitcats: Dotty, Maybel and Pixie. Yet despite Rhi’s incessant pleading (which later developed into tinnitus), neither William nor I had any intention of keeping them - the vet bills alone would have crushed us. Too bad we didn’t fully consider this before getting the four neutered and falling head over tails in love.

As for the father… Well, he turned out to be a very handsome black Catsanova who looked the spit of Coco, only bigger. I first noticed him one morning, posing all regal and gallous on top of my garden fence, and actually thought it was her. That was until I spotted the wee tease preening herself indifferently by my feet.

I know I’m stupid, but I actually thought it kinder not to neuter Coco. Even when she had her first season, the thought of putting her through a hysterectomy made me shudder. So instead, I locked her up like Rapunzel and went into watch and wait mode – a strategy that worked until it didn’t.

Every morning around 3am, Catsanova parked his furry butt directly beneath my bedroom window and YOWELED.

(Image credit: Cinema Cats)

Although ear-splitting, the din somehow reminded me of Romeo and Juliet - he perhaps comparing Coco to a summer’s day, and she desperately clawing diamonds above the windowsill to get out.

One morning, Coco shot through the cat flap and wasn’t seen for another 32 hours. When she finally showed up the next evening looking all rumpled and shell-shocked, she could barely walk. Seems cat mating is more rough than romantic.

Shame on me for not getting her neutered right away.

Within eight short weeks, Coco found herself on the mother’s merry-go-round juggling feeds, poo, grooming, weaning… and all when barely an adult herself.

Catsanova, on the other hand, who looked the same age as Coco, stayed well out of it. His lack of collar and lean frame suggested he was a street cat with no desire to be a dad. Though to be perfectly honest, his absence did mean we finally got some sleep.

I offered to help, but Coco wasn’t interested in human assistance. She made this clear one morning after bolting upstairs (and as far away from me as possible) with a nonplussed Pixie dangling by the scruff.

My interfering was obviously causing stress. So, I placed some blankets inside my bedroom closet and duly let them be. The only problem was the kittens were just too adorable. When Coco stepped out for a breather, friends bounded in for a hug and before we knew it, the closet morphed into a cat café.

Now call me crazy, but I’ve never been that enamoured with the term cat lady. I much prefer Catwoman. One, because Michelle Pfeiffer is HOT and two, because I’d love to share the superpowers of cats.

Take Pixie for example, she once flew past my dining room window from the bedroom above. The drop would have easily killed a human, but she just landed nonchalantly like a badass Supergirl.

Then there’s Dotty, who looks the double of her dad. She can shoot laser beams from her eyes and once hypnotized Rhi into believing she was a cat.

I could go on and tell you about the time when Coco created her watery self-portrait by simply upending a mug.

Or how Maybel once rivalled Spider-Man with her wall sticking ability.

But for me, their most impressive superpower is pouncing.

I once read that the average domestic cat can leap five times its own body height which given their size, is mind blowing. But when you add gravity into the equation, their force of landing feels even more explosive - especially when aiming for your chest.

My cats made that logical leap - if I was neglecting to feed them they’d pounce until I did. It still astounds me. You hear about dogs begging for food, but cats are known for their predatory nature… show them an empty bowl and they become tigers.

I’ve no idea how long they continued to pounce, but it was Coco who finally roused me. My neutrophil count had dropped through the floor and I developed a raging infection, so it was no wonder I’d passed out.

Thankfully, mum drove me to hospital and my miniature tigers (sorry, panthers) were delighted to be fed. But if it wasn’t for them waking me, who knows what would have happened. Would I have called for medical help. I doubt it. Most probably I would have slipped into a coma, developed neutropenic sepsis and maybe died (or got eaten, but let’s not go there).

When Dr A said it was lucky I got to hospital so quickly, I corrected him. It had actually taken me a full day and four sets of whiskers before I got there. I’m so grateful to my cats.

Happy Christmas everyone.

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