The suspicious reek of sausage
I’m not long home after weeks away when my son breaks the news. ‘‘Mum,’’ he says, ‘‘did I tell you someone’s been brushing Ray?’’ ‘‘No,’’ I say, ‘‘what’s happening?’’ ‘‘Someone’s been brushing Ray,’’ he says.
‘‘Oh for god’s sakes,’’ I reply.
Our cat Ray has spent the best part of 14 years living various double, triple and quadruple lives while ostensibly maintaining the one he spends with us. He spent nearly a year being a female cat named Princess and months as a therapy cat named Leo but has lately had a good run sticking to the house that pays his vet bills.
Right now it’s late at night, and we’re sitting in the lounge where my adult kid is eating a burger, and I’m meant to be writing but am really searching real estate in Tennessee.
The topic of our conversation is currently reclining on the couch where he’s been for hours and is looking as disinterested as always, even as he’s flipped unceremoniously onto his back.
‘‘Look at his tummy,’’ my son says, ‘‘they’re feeding him too.’’
‘‘What does he smell like?’’ I ask.
This is pertinent because what Ray smells like often holds a clue as to where he’s been. The last time I knew for sure he had another home was because of the lavender sachet he always wore upon his return. We never did find out where he was living during the period he smelt like lanolin, but the home before that one kitted him out in a sparkly collar.
My son buries his face in Ray’s fur and inhales deeply: ‘‘He smells like sausages.’’
‘‘Oh for god’s sakes,’’ I reply again. There are a clutch of new houses next to where we live, built where the church used to be. This being the sort of suburb it is, they’re not social houses but those very big places on very small bits of land and I suspect the groomer lives in one of them. These households have already afforded ready lawn so can readily afford their own cat.
Ray’s now lying on his back on the floor batting disinterestedly at a toy dangling above his paws. He looks like a small flokati rug or toilet seat cover.
‘‘He was massive when he came home the other night,’’ my son says. ‘‘Too much food?’’ I ask. ‘‘Too much brushing,’’ he says, ‘‘they brushed his fur up the wrong way, so he looked like he’d exploded.’’
Ray’s been catting about the various neighbourhoods we’ve shifted through from the moment he was first let out into the great outdoors.
It hurts my feelings, even though I know it’s not unusual behaviour.
His feline flatmate Fleabus moved next door a few years ago and while she occasionally pops back to bite us we see her through the neighbours’ windows more than we see her in our house. The neighbours are lovely, treat her beautifully, and she’s been known to bite them too. Sometimes I wear oven mitts to remove her from my bed on her visits home.
Ray’s now back on the couch because Fleabus has just prowled in, looking particularly bitey. We humans instinctively tuck our feet under us while she circles the lounge a few times before slinking off to lurk in the hallway.
‘‘How long are you going to be home for this time, old fella?’’ my son says, smoothing Ray’s fur back the way it should be.
‘‘He’s just stuck in his ways,’’ I say, undertaking a virtual walkthrough of an apartment not far from the beach in Belize.
‘‘I was talking to you,’’ my son replies.