CONFESSIONS OF A CAT-SITTER
Lockdown has left cat-sitter Chris Pascoe with a fear of close human contact — and strange nicknames...
As work returns, Chris has an awkward encounter.
Back in those lazy, hazy days of lockdown, my cat-sitting rounds tended to be much smaller, mainly due to cat-sitting requiring cats needing a sitter, and to a furry feline, they were all sitting on their owners. Not good for business, but probably preferable to some of my experiences in the days when things started slowly opening up and people began going away again, thus forcing me to do unwanted things... like work.
I suddenly realised that, burly brave cat-sitter that I am, I was slightly terrified at the prospect of going round people’s houses to collect their keys.And just to prove it’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you, on one of my first key collections after restarting, my customers seemed very keen to kill me.
When Pippy and Tom first requested I look after their tabby cat Peter, my first thought was how to make my key collection as safe as possible. Well, actually that was my second thought — my first thought was that the owners had more cat-like names than their cat, and that’s an indication of exactly how basic I am. So, I decided I’d email them first, to get all the information I needed (information on cat food and litter trays, not information on why the cat sounded like the human). That way, I reasoned, I could conduct the whole meeting outside in the fresh air and only nip in briefly to meet Pete (sorry to shorten his name, but I felt a desperate need to rhyme there — I’m a cat-sitting poet and you didn’t know it).
It all went as badly as could reasonably be expected. I did all of that, knocked on the door, started to say ‘Hello, I’ll just stay out here if that’s OK’ when Tom dragged me in by my wrist and a waiting Pippy gave me a big welcoming bearhug. I honestly did not see that coming. Desperately backing down the hallway, I said “I think it’d be best if we kept our distances a bit here, you know, safety-wise and all that.”
“No, no, it’s fine rooster! We’re both receptionists!” said Pippy, chuckling happily.
Well, phew, I thought, that’s OK then. And then after a moment’s reflection during which I also wondered why she’d called me a rooster, I blurted out “Receptionists?! I don’t think I understand why that’s…”
“We’re frontline! We got both our vaccinations, we’re fine!”
Hmm, true, they were, but I wasn’t sure I was. “You can still pass it on though, can’t you?”
“No idea,” laughed Tom, and asked if I’d like a nice cup of tea.
Twenty minutes later, sitting in the garden, trying to sip tea with Peter happily purring on my lap, Tom virtually sitting on my knee and Pippy showing me photos of Peter at point blank range, I decided that my safety rules hadn’t perhaps been applied as thoroughly as I’d have liked, but I did like Peter, even if he kept kneading my thighs with his razor sharp claws — what a very tactile family this was.
Upon finally managing to leave amidst more hugs and hearty handshakes, I had one final question.
“Um, no problem at all of course but I just wondered — why did you call me a rooster?”
“Well, I could hardly call you hen, could I?!”
Ah right, well at least that’s cleared up then...
It all went as badly as could reasonably
be expected.