‘While BMF was out of the way, we could at least ensure the safety of the plumber’
hen we married, my husband and I adopted two kittens who lived long and happy lives. Over the years, we added several dogs, more cats, and two goldfish to our menagerie. The goldfish, unfortunately, were loved to death – always explain to small children that goldfish don’t like being petted, especially not out of water. Seeing my children’s horror-stricken faces while clasping the limp bodies of Goldie and Red Spot still makes me shudder.
We were seasoned pet adopters by the time BMF came into our lives. Our first cats had died, and after a period of mourning, we were ready to adopt again. Our quest led us to the home of a lady whose cat had produced a large litter, of which three remained – golden bundles of cuteness. We had planned to take two, but we agreed to adopt the lot.
So, accepting a cardboard box from the nice lady, we took our little feline family away. Once at home, I discovered their fur was heaving with interlopers. In fascinated horror, I watched as they bounced from one kitten to another and then on to me. I’m scratching as I write this. All hell broke out, and my husband was dispatched to find the means of annihilating the infestation.
As time went by, we studied the personalities of our three golden boys. Two of them, Leo and Duke, were sweet-natured and affectionate. We struggled to name the most boisterous one, eventually settling on Scar when we realised he was a tyrant. My husband, children and I suffered numerous unprovoked assaults. He headbutted us when he wanted food, treats and attention, and if we weren’t fast enough at acceding to his wishes, our skin became a tapestry of pain. Even when we were doing his bidding, we faced the consequences of his wrath. Ondemand, we offered ear scratching, belly rubbing and general stroking.
Initially, he would show his acknowledgement of our services with a barely perceptible purr, but once sated, he would literally bite the hand that stroked him. We seriously considered engaging the services of an exorcist. It was then that we renamed him BMF. If I explain that the B stands for Bad, the M for Mother, you’ll see where I’m going. If ever a cat fitted a name, BMF was that cat.
Once fully grown, our cats became fearless explorers, which unfortunately led to their undoing. One by one, they disappeared; we feared the worst as ours was a busy road. But as luck would have it, BMF was a survivor. Eventually, however, he too suffered the consequences of thinking he owned the road and that cars would continue to slam on their brakes as he strolled imperiously on his way.
He arrived home one morning, howling and dragging his leg. I donned my gardening gloves, reinforced them with a pair of pink marigolds, and gingerly helped him indoors. We rushed him to the vet and anxiously awaited the prognosis. We waited, I have to say, with mixed emotions.
The call came: Two stark choices, euthanasia or surgery with a specialist Italian vet based in Belfast. When we were informed of the projected cost, we gasped. We looked at each other. The sane decision was obvious – we didn’t even like the cat. But we wimped out; neither could condemn the tyrant to oblivion, so we chose option two. But it solved another pressing problem: installing a decent shower. While BMF was out of the way, we could at least ensure the safety of the plumber.
Two days later, our Italian specialist rang. ‘Mamma Mia, that is not a cat you have sent us but a savage tiger,’ he whined. It seemed that
BMF had bitten and clawed several veterinary nurses while they attempted to administer the anaesthetic. The shaken vet said BMF needed unusually strong sedation before surgery. He stressed this several times. My husband and I stared at each other in horror. What had we done? By failing to take the opportunity to rid ourselves of the pestilent cat, we were about to be forced into nursing him.
The next day we collected him. The veterinary nurse refused to transfer him from the cage to our kitty basket. I looked at my husband and he back at me; neither blinked. It was too late to toss for it. Steeling ourselves, we got ready. The nurse stepped back; I think she left the room. I cowardly lifted his rear end, leaving my husband to try to evade tooth and claw. But we managed it. The lid of the basket was slammed down. We let our breath escape.
After paying the eyewatering bill, the vet then landed the sucker punch. ‘Zat animal must not be allowed to leap.’ At first, we were puzzled, but then his assistant explained that we must keep BMF as immobile as possible for the expensive titanium rod to knit.
On our way home, we mulled over this dilemma. But of course, we accepted there was only one solution. For the next three weeks, BMF would recuperate in our brand-new shower, safe from opportunities to leap and damage his bionic leg. ‘But I never even got to use it,’ my husband said wistfully.