Deaf, doolally and divisive
She is, by no one’s standard, a Christmas joy to behold. She’s cantankerous, incontinent, hairy, a midnight bulimic, battle-scarred and bonkers.
She’s also a miracle of feline longevity, her existence emblematic of the triumph of humanity over marital harmony, for nothing – my husband has discovered – comes between this middle-aged woman and her grumpy, geriatric cat.
Snuffles has been my cat for 17 of her 18 years. She was the first pet I acquired as an adult. No longer a kitten, she’d been abandoned by her previous owners on the eve of the new millennium. I picked her out of the SPCA lineup a few weeks later, bringing her home to a house in the ‘burbs with red brothel carpet.
Since then, she has seen me through five house moves, several clawshredded couches, at least half a dozen boyfriends, marriage, and children.
In nine lifetimes, said the French Renaissance philosopher Michel de Montaigne, you’ll never know as much about your cat as your cat knows about you. He’s right. In 17 years, this is all I know of my octogenarian cat: she has expensive taste in cat biscuits, a satanic contempt for all other cats, and an uncanny ability to nod off at the drop of a hat – or in one.
When I lived in the city, Snuffles cost me at least 500 bucks a year in veterinarian visits. She’s never been one to let bygones be bygones. She’d rather pick a petty fight with any and every feline that crossed her path than safely sidestep the meanest, ugliest, streetwise tom.
Perhaps she’s suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder after all those catfights, for her personality is highly unpredictable. Some days, she’s delirious in my company, drooling on my lap as I type. Others, I stroke her for a millisecond too long and the old sourpuss rounds on me like a rattlesnake, sinking her fangs into my wrist.
Three summers ago, Snuffles gave up all interest in personal grooming – who wants to barf up furballs in their dotage? – and her coat grew matted and dirty.
She now gets an annual shave and, at $237.60, her most recent salonquality snip, a ridiculously fey shortback-and-sides known in the pet grooming trade as a lion trim – cost almost as much as my last cut-andcolour. Mind you, that price included knocking her out with anaesthetic, post-operative care, and a cardboard box to take her home in afterwards, whereas I’m lucky to get a Fair Trade hot chocolate and a bowl of free peanuts from my hairdresser.
Pet love – you take the good with the bad, and Snuffles has one particular vice. Every night, she sleeps in our bedroom. Sometimes in a box, sometimes in an open dresser drawer, sometimes on a discarded dressing gown but never on the bed.
She gets up in the night to eat, but refuses to step through the cat door when nature calls. Thus, every morning, we wake to the faint stench of eau de chat and have to sniff our way around the room to find out what she has peed on this time.
I suggested the strategic location of a kitty litter tray in the corner of our bedroom but my husband, Jason, is having none of it.
He’s suggested a rather more final solution, and he isn’t the only one advocating for it.
‘‘She’s had a good innings,’’ said Dad. ‘‘Just get her put down.’’ ‘‘Do it,’’ said Mum. ‘‘She’s old.’’ When I pointed out to my parents that they were of a similar vintage, Mum interjected.
‘‘Well, if I started peeing in your bedroom then you’d be well within your rights to euthanise me too.’’
My own flesh and blood, advocating for murder? I rang my sister for moral support. ‘‘Gross,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m on their side. Get rid of the cat.’’
So much for the season of peace and glad tidings, and goodwill to all. I haven’t the heart to tell Snuffles that her extended family wishes her dead, wishes this Christmas to be her last supper of turkey giblets and whipped cream from the trifle. Not that she could hear their death threats anyway. She’s deaf as well as doolally.
In 17 years, this is all I know of my octogenarian cat: she has expensive taste in cat biscuits, a satanic contempt for all other cats, and an uncanny ability to nod off at the drop of a hat – or in one.