So I’m immersed in writing about a psychic circle, when I hear a familiar little thud. Then another thud and a loud miaow. I turn around and Tiggy is sitting there, in the middle of the doorway looking regal but sleepy. Too sleepy to start preening, but clearly expecting something from me, but what I ask myself?
We have a little one-sided conversation whilst I search for clues. He can tell from the tone of my voice what I’m offering – food, letting him out, something to drink ….. There’s a distinct lack of attention on his part and my fingers are already itching to get back to the keyboard.
‘OK, you win. Show me,’ I say and make my way downstairs. He doesn’t follow me, so I hang around for a few minutes and when he still doesn’t appear, I try coaxing. I have a number of alternative names for him, rather embarrassing but cat lovers will understand. If he does something really daft I call him ‘Numpty-woos’, well I think it’s rather cute! If he’s going stir crazy because the weather has been bad and he can’t go out hunting (he was a farm kitten), I call him ‘Monsikins’. He runs around with eyes the size of saucers, darting here and there in pursuit of some non-existent furry object. What can I say? A cat can’t be held accountable for his instincts, but that doesn’t mean to say I have to be happy about it.
After a few minutes he saunters down, then pauses mid-staircase as if I’m not patiently waiting. I then have to stand there for several minutes whilst he has a ‘bit of a wash’ and then very slowly makes his way to the bottom of the stairs. By now my patience is wearing thin and I’m leaning on the newel post anguishing over the time I’m wasting. It’s not as if it’s quality time with him, but then he doesn’t come to me for that anyway. I’m the one he comes to for food, to let him out and sometimes (I’m very sure) just to yank my chain.
We waste another ten minutes, whilst I stroke him (gingerly – that’s my husband’s job really and Tiggy occasionally reminds me of that with a swipe) and tell him he’s a good boy. It’s false praise just to try to establish why he’s surface from under the bed so early in the day. Then I realise it’s raining.
You see Tiggy doesn’t understand that although I am his provider, the weather is nothing whatsoever to do with me. Snow amuses him, cold he will tolerate but when it comes to rain he’s a wuss. Every time we get a downpour it seems to stir him from his peaceful dreams of chasing rabbits and birds, so he can let me know he isn’t happy about it. I’ve come to believe that he does this for a reason – to register his disapproval in advance of his daily need to go out and explore, fight with other cats and patrol his turf. As a friend of ours once said, he has the face of Brad Pitt and the swagger of John Wayne. He would really have appreciated Saturday Night Fever and John Travolta’s memorable beyond-cool strut of fame, but he’s only six.
After a few bites to eat, a couple of laps at his milk and then a disdainful look thrown my way, he saunters back to bed. I have a couple of hours in which to stop it raining.
Somehow I can’t help feeling this sums up a lot of things in my life. I’m a fixer – someone who can make things right, get things done. So I do just that if it’s at all possibly, whenever I’m called upon. At times I have even achieved the near-impossible, but that’s a whole other story yet to be written.
I think the point I’m trying to make here, is that it’s always dangerous to assume someone else has the answer to your problem. Perhaps we all need to stand back and see the wider picture, re-assess the problem in front of us and at times accept it can’t be fixed. We just need to re-adjust our expectations or find an alternative.
When Tiggs comes down again later, I will have a conversation with him about ‘expectations’ and hope it does the trick. Of course if it does stop raining before then, he’ll think it’s down to his pro-active intervention and then we’re back to square one again. In the words of Victor Meldrew, in total exasperation, ‘I don’t BELIEVE it!’