My girlfriend dumped me for this mangy moggy
OVER the years, I’ve been dumped by all sorts of women for all sorts of reasons. They fell for another man, they fell for another woman. They wanted more time to spend on their work/children/tennis/novel. I’ve lost women to drink and I’ve lost women to drugs. I even once lost a woman to Scientology. But two weeks ago, I suffered the most bizarre loss of all — I got dumped for a cat.
And not just any cat. What really hurts is that I got dumped for my cat, Chloe.
A year ago, I wrote in these pages about my troubled relationship with that particular feline. Chloe was a cat I inherited from my dad when he died. I thought I was a cat lover, until Chloe came into my life. But living with her was utter hell.
As I confessed back then, I’d hoped a cat would provide a little bit of the love and affection, which were sorely missing from my life.
What I got was a smelly, cold-hearted, high-maintenance, neurotic moggy who peed on my bed and drove me crazy with her incessant demands. She also had a miaow that sounded like the high-pitched screech of an electric saw.
Then, about six months ago, I met a wonderful woman; let’s call her Anne. She was slim, smart and sexy, and had her own business. For Anne, it was love at first sight. Anne fell head over heels for Chloe.
‘My God! What a beautiful creature!’ she gushed on first seeing my mangy old cat.
Was she myopic or mad? Only later did I discover the truth about Anne — she was a
She climbed on our bed — and I was banished to the sofa
real cat lover. The kind of cat lover who couldn’t love someone who didn’t love cats.
I quickly realised that if I wanted to win this woman’s heart, I had to win Chloe’s first. But how could I ever fake love for the mangy little monster?
I resolved to at least try. I gave Chloe love, affection, special tasty treats, toys and — most important of all — Quality Cat Time.
I petted. I pampered. I played games with her. When she purred, I purred. At least when Anne was around. She was impressed. ‘It shows what a sensitive and kind man you are. I love that about you.’
So we fell in love and talked about our future together. We were both too old for children, but there was always the possibility of adoption — cats, that is.
She wanted a big family — five or six cats. We could move to the country and let them run free. (The freer the better as far as I was concerned.)
I first discovered that falling in love with a cat lover could be problematic when, for my birthday, Anne took me out for a special dinner at a chic restaurant. She arrived with a bag full of presents. Gleefully, I began to unwrap them.
Present one: a funny cat wall clock. Present two: a framed picture of us together — with Anne kissing Chloe. Present three: Real Men noticed something straight away; it was wet. Wet and smelly. I suddenly realised that I was lying, face downwards, on a bed drenched in cat pee. ‘That’s it!’ I cried.
When I found Chloe, she was by the front door miaowing to be let out. I confess I lost my cool and shouted at her: ‘ This time you’ve gone too far! I want a divorce!’
I opened the front door and she dashed off into a patch of greenery next door. I telephoned Anne.
‘I’ve had it with that cat!’ I said. ‘I’m chucking her out. If you really care so much about Chloe, then you had better come and collect her because I’m finished with her.’
‘Calm down and tell me what happened,’ said Anne.
I told her. I was expecting a little bit of sympathy of the ‘poor you’ variety.
Instead, Anne simply said: ‘I told you — you should always shut your bedroom door.’
I began to shout. ‘I’ve given that cat everything — and this is how I get repaid. A pee puddle!’
Undeterred, Anne asked: ‘Where’s poor Chloe now?’
‘ Poor Chloe?!’ I yelled. ‘ What about poor me?’ Click . . . I had to take off all the bed clothing, wash and disinfect the mattress and dry it with a hairdryer.
Then I had to have a bath. By then I had calmed down and was ready
‘I can’t be with a man who’s been so cruel to a cat’
Love Cats T-shirt. There was also a furry mouse with a bell on it. ‘I didn’t want Chloe to feel left out,’ she explained, adding: ‘I hope you don’t think I’m a cat obsessive!’
‘Darling, how could I think that!’ I answered, secretly aghast.
Meanwhile, as love blossomed with Anne, my relationship with Chloe got worse. I had moved into a new two-bedroom flat, but before long everything was covered in Chloe’s nasty old hair. I never seemed to stop cleaning up after her. And her litter tray made the kitchen stink.
To top it all, there was no garden for her to go out into; consequently we were stuck together in the new abode. I work from home, so there was never a minute’s rest from her incessant demands for food and attention.
And one night when Anne came to stay with me, guess who joined us in bed? There’s something about a cat’s bottom in your face or the wafts of its fish breath that dampens a chap’s ardour. I told Anne: ‘There’s only room for one beast in this bed,’ hoping she would take the hint.
She did — and suggested I go to sleep on the sofa.
Things came to a head one evening when I came home exhausted, flopped on my bed and to make peace. I went outside to look for Chloe, but she was gone. I searched under cars. I searched next door’s garden. I went up and down the street crying her name.
I spent the next three days trying to find Chloe and trying to get my girlfriend back. I couldn’t find Chloe and Anne refused to answer my apologetic texts, emails and phone. She even refused my bouquet of flowers.
On the fourth day, she actually answered my phone call.
Instead of: ‘ Hello darling, I’ve missed you’, she said: ‘I can’t be with a man who can be so cruel to a cat!’
‘Look darling, I admit I got cross at Chloe — but what was I supposed to do, give her a saucer of milk and say thanks for peeing in my bed?’
‘There was no need to shout at the poor thing!’
‘Anne, you have to decide who you want in your life — me or the cat?’
The silence at the other end said it all. And so another wonderful relationship had come to an end.
And what happened to Chloe? A week later, I went to Anne’s flat to pick up some of my things. I went up to her beautiful penthouse bedroom and there on her bed, where I used to sleep beside my lovely girlfriend, was Chloe. Anne had rescued her that very first night.
She looked at me, rolled on her back and stretched herself out as if to say: ‘Hello loser!’
Instead of her grating miaowing she was not only purring, but looked like the cat who’d got something more than just cream.