The Fooking Kitten Chronicles re-hashed
The original adventures happened in my back yard in May 2016. Within the confines of my personal Facebook page, I gave daily updates of the various goings on over a period of about two harrowing weeks.
I say ‘harrowing’, because I am extremely allergic to cats. I do not need any advice as to how to deal with this fact. It is quite simple: cats must stay away from me. That way, the cats will be happier, and I will be alive.
While I respect the fact that other people love cats (and I have good friends whose cats mean the world to them), I shall make no apology for the occasional remark that might not go down with cat lovers too well. If you are of a nervous disposition in that regard, do not read on!
Here is the video I managed. I had cut the grass, which was a metre high, a day or two before.
And here begins the slightly edited and amplified text recounting Day 1 of the Fooking Kitten Chronicles, which occurred on 17 May 2016 and was published on my personal Facebook page on the same day:
My ignorance of cat behaviour is entirely because I am extremely allergic to the creatures. I always have been, but no one, including me, figured that out until I narrowly escaped death by suffocation because of asthma in response to cats at the tender age of 21.
It was a frightening episode, where milliseconds mattered, as an aged doctor administered a powerful bronchial dilator intravenously with her skinny, semi-arthritic hands. Had she not done so at that precise moment, I know that I would have died. That might sound overly dramatic, but it is true. After that, I spent two weeks in the university sanitorium and pissed the nursing staff off no end because I insisted that in order to heal rapidly, I would eat only raw and fresh fruit and vegetables. I thank my mother for sending a huge basket of fruit from over 2,000 km away via Interflora®, for it was primarily this fruit that got me well, and pickings were slim for the university dining hall. My mother had phoned to ask what fruit I preferred. I said pears. And so pears it was. Years later, an old Indian fellow told me it was the most healing of fruits, and the best thing I could have done. So there.
Back those fooking cats. There is a semi-feral ginger one which lives on the next door plot (and has been gradually zoning in on my plot) whose name – you guessed it – is Fuck-off. That is all I ever shout at this cat, so that has to be its name.
During the last ten days or so I have noticed that it likes to hang around near the two olive trees at the back of the plot. This cat is a talker.
The first thing I saw when I looked out the window this morning was Fuck-off under the bigger of the two olive trees where all the grass has been nicely strimmed since Friday evening. It was not under the older olive tree with a large hollow at its base – which I cannot see from my bedroom window and which seems to be one of its favourite hideouts. A change in behaviour.
It was howling at it normally does around “dinner time”. I don’t feed this cat or the two others from next door. It had also adopted the position a dog does when it is passing stool. I called its name quite softly so as not to wake João, and the bloody creature just stared at me with a constipated look on its face. I realised that I have no idea how cats give birth.
Now, half an hour later, it is lying in the exact same spot where I presumed it had marked its territory. That too, would be unusual, wouldn’t it? The cat does not look female (but I am no expert), so I suppose I should assume I was observing a constipated, but territorial cat.
I sprained my ankle last night, so am disinclined to hobble out there to investigate further.
The video above was taken a few hours after the sighting of Fuck-off, the feral ginger male.
Keep your eyes peeled for the next instalment. I will tell you the names of the other characters then.
©2017 Allison Wright