The Wee Cat

It’s complicated.

You get a dog to give hope to your off-spring who have been grounded by a pandemic. Your daughter leaves the country as soon as restrictions are lifted.  Your son stays on for a further 2 years, but he’s 25 now and it’s time to leave.  You are left with the dog. Thankfully the dog turns out to be the loving, non-judgmental adoring child you never had.

You get a wee cat to replace your son. The cat is the adventurous, risk taking, independent child you hoped for whilst wishing they were more like the dog.

The dog is hypo-allergenic so that your son and husband don’t get wheezy.  He turns out to be a sponge that soaks up all allergins in the house and is an itchy-scratchy rag-bag that the vet says would be better off living in an outside kennel away from house mites. Spook has recently become a wheezy, weepy eyed mess which suggests he’s allergic to the wee cat.  I resist the suggestion to kennel the dog (or Spook) and on a beautiful sunny day embark on a mission to rid the house of mites and kitten fur.  Spook is on a day off and says he’s looking forward to just fixing stuff .  I  say that if he ever runs out of employment I’m going to stick a sign at the bottom of the drive which says “Stuff Fixed”. And they will come.

I start with a washing of old towels used to dry the dog and throw in the dog bed for good measure.

I shake out the dog blankets from the living room seats and toss them outside onto the deck.  I remember I have another washing machine down at my caravans and gather them up from their sunny spot and stick them in the machine down there.  I’m feeling really good about myself as an animal and husband devotee. Spook is happily out and about studying his ancient tractor and planning its makeover. Only HE understands the jiggery-pokery required to make it work. Maybe a push button starter would mean that I could actually use it.

I am interrupted in my self congratulatory state of mind by the sound of someone kicking-in the back door.  I run through and find the washing machine marching its way across the floor.  I grab it to stop its progress and have to press my whole body against it.  I fervently hope that this is not going to be the moment Spook comes in the back door.  When it finally shudders to a halt, all the lights on the dials are flashing and the red padlock sign is on and it just won’t open.  When Spook does come in, I have no choice but to seek his help.  He says “you over-filled that again, didn’t you?”

“Ehm – I don’t THINK so.  I think it’s just that the dog bed is a bit lump-bumpy.”

He sits in front of the machine whilst consulting his phone regarding trouble-shooting.  Meanwhile I have a niggling thought that the wee cat is missing.  I’d left the front door open and he may have run off due to all the noise.  That would certainly resolve Spooks wheezing, but what if he’d climbed into the open washing machine for a wee snooze?  It happens.  I was in the kitchen, mulling over this awful scenario when I saw the neighbour marching purposefully towards our front door.  Aha! I thought.  He’s found the kitten!

“Hi Mo.  There was an awful banging noise coming from the caravan area – sounded like the washing machine?  Then there was a bit of an explosion.”

I looked over his shoulder to see the machine face planted in the caravan garden.  It lives in a wee shed and I’d left the doors open – which is good, as at least the doors weren’t hanging off.

How was I going to break this news to Spook?  And what if the wee cat was in the cosy pile of blankets that I’d stuffed into THAT machine.  There has to be a reason why I live in a chaotic, mite infested household, and I think this may be it.  Some things, like housework, are best left alone.

Spook appeared in the kitchen, triumphant on 2 counts.  I’d managed to put the child lock on when holding the machine tight.  And a code had indicated that it was an uneven load, which, he stated, equated to an overloaded machine.  Just as he had suspected.

Poor Spook.  He really thought that now he could get back to the important stuff. Unfortunately I had to relate the woeful tale of banging, explosions and a machine catapulted onto the lawn.  He gaped at me.  Worse than that I said (hoping to distract him), I can’t find the kitten and I don’t know if it’s in one of the washing machines.  I tried to look like I needed a hug.  Which I did.  He managed – in strained silence – to open the household washing machine to reveal no drookit kitten inside.  Then we had to walk together to the caravans, with the sight of the machine spread-eagled on the ground – like I was walking to the gallows.  The explosion had clearly come from the over-stretched electric wire when the plug was pulled violently from the socket.  The plumbing was at a right angle instead of upright, also on full stretch, with just a wee drip coming from it.  The machine was indeed face down.  Spook just stared in wonder.

“Overloaded?”

I hung my head.

We managed to get it upright and back into the shed.  Amazingly it had completed its cycle and we could open it to discover no kitten.  The front was a little bashed and with a quick adjustment to the plumbing, and with the plug in the other socket we fired up the machine on another cycle and there was life with no flood.  I felt a little light headed.  Spook hugged me.  

“2 washing machines within minutes of each other.  Stunning!  At least your wee cat isn’t inside them.” He said kindly, with his eyes still streaming (which may or may not have been real tears at this point,) but I could see him mentally making a note not to make the tractor in any way Mo-friendly.

He HAD said he just wanted to spend the day fixing stuff.  

And the great news was that I found the wee cat.  Upstairs.  Sound asleep.  On Spooks pillow.

Pigpen by Schulz. That’s me, that is!!