"Oooh", says our grandson. At two years old, he's not a man of many words. Fortunately, he imbues his vocabulary with an amount of exaggerated enthusiasm that would make even Kenneth Williams blush. As a result, my wife and I know exactly what he's talking about. All three of us have heard an unexpected release of pressurised water. "Is that the washing machine, grandpa?" asks my wife. A quick investigation reveals the hissing to be of animal rather than mechanical origin. Rupert the cat has emptied his bladder onto a plastic bag in the corner of the room. Don't tell me cats have no sense of humour. I can think of no possible reason he would’ve chosen a plastic bag except for the comedic sound effect.
Young boy and old cat have become unlikely companions in the past year. Not best friends - the disparity in energy levels is too wide - but definitely something warmer than tolerance. "Miaow" is one of the more-used words in our grandson's lexicon, usually accompanied by the presentation of a cat biscuit. Yet the last few months have shown this may not be a long-term relationship. These days the cat often takes several seconds to stand up, before walking like a badly-operated remote-controlled toy. Veterinary visits include talk of 'management' rather than cure. And now it appears as though Rupert's walnut-sized brain is also suffering the effects of age-related problems. It seems likely that he's forgotten his cat latrine under the hedge and wants an indoor alternative. This could be the beginning of a sad decline. My mother's told me that I should hit her over the head with a rolling pin if she loses her mental faculties. (I probably ought to start wearing a rolling pin holster whenever I visit, just in case she's ever confused about whom the prime minister is.) However, that sort of treatment seems a bit harsh for dear little Rupert.
So, with the cat not going out, it's time for us to make the effort. A trip to Ringmer's pet shop yields a couple of low-tech plastic trays and a sack of high-tech German cat litter. Apparently it's eco-friendly and flushable, although Rupert won't be doing the flushing himself.
That evening, my wife and I are sitting with Rupert on the sofa. He's wedged himself between us; a blatantly divisive act that would call for the intervention of a cat psychologist in other circumstances. After a while he tries to stand, but without success. His eyes widen with distress. My wife and I turn to look at each other. In her face I see a mixture of emotions: love, sadness... and an expression that looks more like frustration than anything else. Eventually she speaks, not to the cat but to me. "You're sitting on his tail."
First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 130 July 2017
