It is almost impossible to begin a new month without an update from my two venerable housemates. You would think that living with two senior cats life would be serene and near perfect. Sorry, wrong story. I live with reincarnations of Ian Flemming’s Ernst Stavro Blofeld, aka the James Bond cat. Yes, Blofeld was a Persian as well.
Where do I begin? Oh yes, with my dementia -ridden granny who doesn’t always recognise me or my feet. Do you recall the Little Miss and Little Mister children’s book series? There was Little Miss Stubborn, Little Miss Trouble, Little Miss Bossy, and so on. Look them up on your favourite online bookstore if you need a memory booster. Well I have Little Miss Ditsy on some days and if this photograph is any indication, I think it speaks for itself
On good days she will stick to her schedule and follow the routine she knows and understands, daylight saving time notwithstanding. The older she gets, and the longer I stay at home, the clingier she gets. Her lack of teeth and poor eyesight make mealtimes a test of patience and the ultimate multitasking event. She won’t eat without me by her side, because I need to continually scoop the food up in little pile so she can find it right away and not bury her non-existent nose at the bottom of the bowl. We’ve had far too many days of clogged nostrils that make it impossible to breath. Whoever decided to breed noseless Persian cats should be quartered, salted and hung upside-down from the next tree that is full of bored vultures. It is cruel and my heart goes out to these cats each time they have to struggle with food or drink.
There are days when Lolita’s dementia is acute and has trouble making it out of bed. She will plant herself on a bench and hope for the best. Sometimes she forgets she just ate breakfast five or ten minutes ago and will park her fluffy little butt at the feeding station and wait for lunch. I never know what to do about dinner with her either since she forgets about it half the time, so I just wait for her to ask. Lately she simply sleeps through it and makes up for the skipped meal with full carajo at breakfast.
Remember when I told you about her love for (p)opera and preference for Josh Groban and Andrea Bocelli? We’ve taken it to another level. This is the cat who wouldn’t let anyone touch her when I brought her home from the shelter. It took weeks of coaxing and patience to draw her out from under the bed, to the extent that the reigning diva at the time, Champagne, took to playing the feline version of whack-a-mole just to check whether she was still alive, only to stomp out and glare at me with the WTF Mom, she’s useless expression.
Anyway, Lolita now gets an afternoon dance while being cuddled. She sighs and purrs through Phantom of the Opera’s That’s All I Ask of You (Josh Groban version). The first time we danced I had tears in my eyes when she snuggled up closer and purred loudly, as if she understood the lyrics.
Cherry on the other hand is the complete antithesis of Lolita. She would give Blofeld a run for his sassy bum and take over the world herself.
Her yowl is actually worse than her bite, but she can hiss up a spit storm. Her mind is 100% lucid and has absolutely no signs of dementia like Lolita. On the contrary. She has evolved into a guard cat, and can be ruthless when it comes to scheduling and being judgemental. Cherry can dish out sassiness like a pro and is not ashamed of it. In the past months she has also learned to demand attention and claim her spot on the bed – or sofa, or what we now call the Prime Minister’s chair. If she is on it nobody else can sit there.
Her fur has exploded and she resembles a wombat on rampage on some days. Brushing is her least favourite activity and she resents every minute. This is the cat who will unapologetically throw a tantrum at 03:00 because she got locked out of the bedroom or made a stinker in the kitty litter and wants it cleaned up. She will also howl if the sun is out and the balcony door is closed or if it’s raining and the sun has absconded. Geez, you can never win with Cherry, but I do love her to shredded bits.
One year she squashed all my peppers growing in a pot because she needed to sun. This year she is adamant about learning to share soil space with the roses and loves it when I prune some of the large leaves of the elephant ears plant and discard them. Gardener reincarnated? More like jungle beast with a wonky GPS that skipped a few upgrades.
Graceful as my pseudo wombat gardener can be, she doesn’t dance like her housemate, is very picky about food, music, light, treats, and general existence. There are times I could swear she is spying on me and reporting back to MI5. I wonder what Daniel Craig would think of her? Both M and Q would be at their wits end with her scheming, that’s for sure. Never a dull moment with sassy cats.