We woke this morning to a blissful carpet of snow outside, and so naturally (being the wound up children that we are) we had a satisfying shag and then took pics of the snow (our first snow in our new (ish) house!) I was due to be in Lower Buttfuck for 9 (Lower Buttfuck is not quite as far as Upper Buttfuck, but nearly as much of a pain in the ass to get to) but I blew that off as I made coffee and felt good about the day.

Then I logged on to work emails and got into it with The Little Man, whose name is rapidly changing to That Fucking Wanker. I was so infuriated that the dog got shouted at and my already limping laptop was nearly winged across the room. Copious amounts of caffeine and one angry email to my seniors telling them that I basically want off this project later, and I've decided that work emails should wait a while.

So I'm here (after apologizing to the dog, of course.)

Yesterday was Maggie's 7th birthday. This might not seem like much-a 7 year-old cat is not going to break the record books, it's not the world's most earth shattering news, but I note her birthday every year on my calendar. We do not celebrate pet birthdays in this house-I might be a softie, but that's a little too soft for me. While I accept someday I may be the crazy cat lady, subscribing to presenting the cat with a cat-nip laden cake is a little too close to that for me just now-I have 30 some years to get to that stage. We also don't give each other Father's Day and Mother's Day cards signed by the pets-although Angus' ex used to do that, I like to think that I didn't squat down and ponch out a slithering slimy mess with four legs, so he's not getting a card from Maggie, Mumin and Gorby (although I do call myself Mama to them, and he does call himself Dad to the pets, but there's only so much anthropomorhizing a person can do here.)

Maybe you remember (on the day that I entered what feels creepily like cat blogging) when I discussed Maggie's issues. Maggie is a rescue cat, and she is a difficult cat. She always has been. Even as a kitten she was like a wild animal, never wanting to be held or touched. I recently found the one picture I had of her as a kitten-here's her three months old, and looking pretty spacey.

As an adult, I think she's often struggled. She's a real cat-if she so deigns to lower herself to your level, then you will be allowed to pet her. She may periodically sit on your lap but you have to prepare yourself for the moment she will decide your lap is no longer the place to be-the back claws come down to help with the jump, and if you are unsuspecting then you will pay a price.

Maggie was really my ex's cat-they had a mutual understanding that his lap was her space, my lap was Mumin's. Maggie kept my ex company when he had his glass of whiskey by the TV. They got on, even as Maggie never got on with anyone.

When Angus and I moved the cats over here, Maggie was the one who nearly died. Mumin, being the incredibly lazy, dozy figure that she is, buried under the pet pads in the kennel. Maggie, being ever the wired one, fell asleep above the pet blankets and nearly froze to death (important lesson there-never give your pets tranquilizers before a flight. Nearly everyone does but the vets now tell us that 30% of the animals who are knocked out die from hypothermia. Apparently the altitude is a soporific in itself, skip the drugs.)

And now today.

Maggie is the cat that sits in the bathtub and drinks from the tap. She's the one who likes to sleep with us (and is allowed to from time to time, but not all the time as she's not a cat who's conducive to the rest of the inhabitants of the bedroom sleeping.) She's the one who likes to take my tampons and play hide and seek with them.

She's also the one who was struggling.

A move, a dog, and a bad run-in with a kid left Maggie not coping very well.

It's always the bitches who can't adapt.

(I know this, as it takes one to know one.)

While Mumin and Gorby get on like a house on fire and sleep beside the radiator, getting up all wonky and dozy from the heat, it's all much too Holly Hobbie for Maggie-if Mumin and Gorby would be the ones who walked across country to find their family, braving hardships and starvation in search of love, Maggie's the one who would've shrugged at our retreating figures, uttered "Bitch, please", and found herself a nice old folks home to habit for food, in the hopes that most of them would die before getting too attached to her. Maggie's the loner. Maggie marches to her own beat. Maggie doesn't sit around talking about her feelings.

Maggie is the real cat in this household.

Maggie is also the one who's been suffering. Afraid, angry, abrasive, and hostile (betcha' thought I'd have another "a" word there, didn't you?) she's been difficult. I debated vet visits. I debated medication, but I knew that was a one-way ticket to a lifetime of meds. I worried that her future wouldn't be too long.

So we took action.

Maggie was probably feeling insecure, we decided to shore up the securities. The upstairs was purely Maggie's zone. Maggie was only to be sweetly talked to and loved upstairs. Angus' kids were advised to not go near her. Angus and I would make sure we spoke to her in soft tones. Our bedroom was really Maggie's personal sanctuary-when guests came over we shut her in our bedroom, and I'd go in from time to time to stroke her and talk nice to her.

Soon, she became so comfortable upstairs that she stopped flying at people.

It was a start.

When Christmas came, we shut Maggie in the bedroom with admonishments that she was not feeling well and not to be disturbed. I was ready to take the hard line on this one, too-being Mean Auntie Helen would have been fine with me if it meant Maggie would be able to keep getting better and better.

The upstairs being a Maggie zone brought more rewards-Maggie sits on Angus' lap in his study upstairs. She wanders around upstairs at her own lazy pace, feeling secure. Angus also started putting Maggie outside during the warm summer for a few hours at a time-she hated it, but the exercise did her good and she seems much fitter and livelier now.

And now Maggie seems to be fine. She even joins us downstairs in the evenings, occasionally venturing onto our laps when she's decided it so suits her.

She's such a whore.

(Takes one to know one.)

She's not healed but she's better. She'll never be the cat that hangs on you limply, a pool of purring goo-she has Mumin to do that. Maggie is the real bitch, a true cat, but I love her madly and I am glad that she's feeling better, and more secure.

Now back to The Fucking Wanker.

-H.

PS-Don't worry-I'm not initiating Cat Blogging Wednesdays or anything like that.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:06 AM | Comments (14) | Add Comment
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