Knees Up

My cat injured his ‘knee’ six weeks ago. Yes, who knew cats have knees, but they do.

The vet’s advice was to keep him in the house, in one room, for at least a month in order for his cruciate ligament to heal. Huh! My cat loves the outdoors. In fact, and especially during the summer, he spends more time outdoors than indoors; only returning for food and a quick pet. So, we compromised – he was kept indoors throughout the house initially for a month and we now keep him in just overnight. So, at 4am every day, we have our usual routine; regular as hands on a battery-powered cat wristwatch.

He starts by panting his dead mouse-tainted breath in my face and then sits down next to my pillow. He’s usually satisfied with a few strokes, but if I stop, he will walk onto my bedside table and sniff my diffuser – nonchalantly dipping his belly hair into my glass of water as he does so. If that fails to get me up, he then walks over the top of me like an elephant wearing stilettoes.

Having had enough of being trampled over and drinking hairy water, I do my usual stagger to the utility room, wash out his food bowl, and then replenish it with wet food.

His next ritual is to sniff the food and then walk over to his food cupboard. Here, he prises it open and rubs his jaw against his treat tin. Not wanting a confrontation with a furry psychopath (his night shift is killing mice), I clumsily empty treats into his dry food bowl – which he does eat.

Then, just as I’m heading back to bed, he does his happy, waggy bum dance to be let out – even though he has a cat flap. Unless it’s daytime, I don’t open the door – he can use the BRAND NEW cat flap we had to buy after he hit the old cat flap so hard, he ripped it off of its hinges.

After saying bye and warning him to stay safe out in the fields (I know, I’m like the old cat flap - unhinged), I slouch back to bed, muttering under my breath that I need more sleep.

When I get up for work at 6am, he’s curled up asleep at the bottom of my bed – utterly in cat dreamland − only rising to get his painkiller and to sniff and ignore his bowl of wet food, again. He then departs for the neighbour’s house to see if they have anything better (why eat a cottage pie when you can have Michelin-starred food next door).

He reappears at 5pm (for food and manic killing of a crocheted ball) and then again at 11pm with a dead or alive mouse, before coming to bed with me (after I’ve set the living free). Ready to be refreshed for another day of repeats.

Repeats I love him for.

(Photo © Paula Gilfillan. All Rights Reserved.)