"On the road again...well, some time"

The sale of the land went through after (for me, at least) a heart-stopping glitch over rights of way. What I thought belonged to me, did not. What had been a contentious strip of land actually was mine. The old baggage who caused me so much grief turned out to have been maliciously in the wrong. Unfortunately there's little or no chance of getting revenge...pardon me, satisfaction. A black sack full of ripening of cat-s*** on the doorstep is just too obvious. It needs a surveyor to sort just who owns what but that's what Douglas Adams called an SEP (Somebody Else's Problem). I took the still-damp cheque to the bank and made the mamager's day. The buyer reckons it'll be six weeks or so before he returns which is more than enough time to appease my inner procrastinator and get the Shed-Dwellers moved to pastures or rather, courtyards new.

Back in rescue mode the other weekend when, with some trepidation, I picked up a big old tabby tom that had been living on the hillside above grand' rue du Pont. He's been in the area for at least a couple of years but was always far too wary to approach. Recently, however, he'd been a regualr outside Evelyne's to the extent of even sleeping on the doorstep. I'd given him wet food a couple of times and he'd allowed me to stroke him. He didn't feel good: skinny with matted fur. He didn't smell that good either. He had coryza, his left eye in particualr was full of gunk. By last Saturday (28.02) he'd developed a nasty cough and it was intervention time. It was much easier than I imagined despite not having a cat-box to hand. I undid my day bag and, when his curiousity got the better of him, a quick shove and a "zippppp" and he was in the bag! So, so simple. He was kicking up a storm by the time I got home but once in the isolation ward, aka the front bedroom, he set off exploring. Food, water, a blanket in a box by the radiator and he was content. On the landing a mob had gathereed, the Beast snuffling like Gollum after his Precious. The rest stared hard at the door trying to fast-track the evolution of x-ray vision.

As the first needed was a worming, I let him settle in for a day or two; this would be a marker for just how he'd behave with future treatment. Estimating his weight, I selected an appropriate dose and got him sitting comfortably on a table by the window. I let him sniff the syringe of paste, the smell of which didn't faze him. I put it in his mouth and he pushed it away casually as if I wasn't to bother him with such mundane matters. I took hold of the back and sides of his head and tried more forcefully. This time both syringe and hand were swatted away and I suddenly realised he had bloody great paws. In fact I had a good long look at them, flexing his toes to see how well-clawed he was. Impressively well-clawed was the answer. A couple more goes and we had a full-scale wrestling match in progress. Going out to find a towel risked the mob trying - and probably succeeding - in getting in and he, of course, trying to get out. I tried a pillow-case, not thinking it much good from the get-go - if anything it was even less useful than that. His head and shoulders were wonderfully wrapped, his rear end thrashing impotently. If I'd been delivering a suppository it couldn't have been better. I let him out whilst pondering my next move: he made it for me. Attacking the syringe he accidentally got the nozzle in his mouth. I pressed the plunger hard, amazed the paste didn't shoot out of his ears. Job done!

Today (04.03) I took him to the vet. It was wet and windy, conditions that raised protests from both of us. He had a pretty thorough check-up: coryza and pneumonia were diagnosed and he was pumped full of anti-biotics and anti-inflammatories which he didn't like. As I held him his struggles brought the needle far too close to that fleshy part between thumb and forefinger. The syringe went flying but all in all, for a feral, it went well. The vet also noticed his bloody great paws and treated them with due respect. I'd warned her he was generally placid, but had got "animated" over the worming.

But on our own heads, we bring disaster. Trying to save another wet walk later on, I decided to check my emails in the Maison de la Presses on the way home. The newsagent has a free-access computer which has been a life-saver in these off-line times. Gus (no idea why, he just looks like one) sat quietly in his box. Once out of the wind and rain he stopped yowling and seemed reasonably happy - the bastard. I was in mid-mail to a mate in the UK when he (Gus, that is) unleashed a dump of epic proportions. Worse, it was a "silent but violent". ****! And then some...I disconnected with one hand and grabbed his box with the other. An elderly lady was coming into the shop as I was trying to flee. Gentleman-like I waited for her. She opened her mouth to speak but the reek reached out and cut her short. Her utterance was more likely to have been "Merde" than "Merci". I just hope she noticed the box and it's evil occupant and didn't think it me. The cat-box was just about fit for incineration. Gus had to be washed. I placed him in the shower and sprayed his rear with warm water. That went down well. Ye gods! It was going to be a long morning, made longer by the lingering smell of disinfectant and Mercurochrome.

This morning (05.03) he was a different cat; he looked healthier and happier. A couple of days inside made his coat look glossier and he was less manky. What had improved definately was his voice as he no longer coughed or wheezed when he purred. Certainly, he was still hoarse but he didn't sound like he was ready to keel over. His appetite remained undiminsihed, he'd piled into his food bowl from the start. I might try grooming him soon; his freshly-washed rear is covered with tight curly fur, more ovine than feline, that begs a comb. Back in the '90s I did some Dark Ages re-enactement and somewhere still have my chain-mail gloves.

(06.03) Gus is settled in. The house is running quietly - it's must be time for someone to bog things up! Enter Dru, coming into season within a couple of days of the hunky tom arriving. Demi followed her in twenty-four hours. Beast, taking his role of kitten mentor to a new level, promptly tried to educate Freeman, Hardy and Willis in the most important function of their lives. Of course, it was attempting to start his own dynasty that led him to the vet and, unfortunately for the boys, he did for them, too. Part of this morning's shopping trip is to make a rendezvous at the vet's for three young tomcats. It wasn't as if they were that interested in what was going on, but I'm not taking the chance. They're of an age to be done - and so they will be.

The girls have to be shut in my bedroom. This means every room in the house is now occupied and I've no room for any other crisis. There's only the iso cage left - and nowhere to isolate it. Also it's a financial nuisance. I wonder if I can arrange and three-for-two deal with the vet. Gus as already been booked in for his unkindest cut - his D (for detache') is the 24th March at 0830. Back from the shops FHW are booked in for 9th March at 0830. What is it with these early starts? I have to talk to the boss about a reduction - knife-edge negotiations, eh?

(09.03) After a long long weekend listening to lust-crazed cats shrieking through various closed doors, the boys went up to the vet's. Hardy, the smallest and probably least mature, had a small box while his brothers took up a larger one. The discount was arranged: three for the price of two - I can cope with that. The girls were released from the bedroom and prowled the house yelling in frustration. Beast soon gave up trying anything with them; Gus slept happily in the sun in the front bedroom. Fatnip ignored all of them. I went down with the flu.

Next month in Maison Miaow:
Build a better cat shed and the world will beat a path to your door.
Grooming Gus: a guide to the A&Es of the Poitou-Charentes

Tim Hurrell is a Brit living in the Poitou-Charente area of France. He's the confidante to twenty-nine (or so) cats, most of whom have been rescued. Tim's been battling irrational bureaucrats to set up a cattery (a feline hotel) in his area. If successful, he wanted to expand it to include a rescue, rehab/re-home operation. The name is Maison Miaow, but construction was undermined by bureaucrats and the property is now sold. A new site is being sought.