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The weather took a turn for the colder as December progressed so more bedding and new sleeping arrangements Chez Shed were in order. Journey One: I lugged a rack of shelving down the chemin from the storage depot to the land. I used the greenlane as, though the locals are familiar with me carrying odd things to and fro L'Isle Jourdain and Bourpeuil, a shelving unit on the main road might have been too much. Journey Two was from home with a rucksack full of rugs and blankets from the iso cages.
The Dwellers were duly fascinated by the new arrival, scrabbling on the rack as soon as I put it up and fighting with the bedding. Knowing their appetite for destruction I fixed the rack so it couldn't possibly fall over no matter how vigourous the play. There are five shelves on the rack and each had a blanket or rug wrapped round it. It was instantly popular with Bobcat and Dora bagging the top and second shelves, positions they've managed to keep so far. Rollo left his Fortress of Solitude in one of the cat-trees for a look but soon retreated back in his box.
The next morning I put all the bedding back on the shelves, a task repeated every day to date; I'd rather not nail them in place as this would probably spoil a whole load of fun.
I've often wondered about fitting a webcam to see how they spend their time... Sitting with them after feeding gives an artificial idea as cats that love cuddles, Callie and Hugo for example, hunker down in my lap and fight off all comers. The majority, of course, spend hours washing and finding somewhere comfy inside, or out if it's sunny.
About half past two last New Year's Eve, Ellen and I walked back from friends via the chemin and several of them were sitting outside. But, then it was a fine night excepting the odd patch of fog. I used the chemin as a shortcut the other night, and approached the Shed as quietly as possibly. It was a waste of time, I must have made some noise as I could hear the struggles of many cats trying to squeeze through a small hole into the pen. I did manage to sneak up on them the other morning: I'd got a lift to Le Vigeant to drop in the construction application for the prospective buyer of the land. I had to walk back though and opted for the back doubles rather than the main road. It was early, just after nine, and bloody cold; the sky was ice-blue which perfectly matched the temperature and there were pockets of freezing fog in the hollows and dips of the fields.
Although the sun was beating down on the run, the boys and girls had decided that it was just too cold to go out. It was childish but irresistible: I tiptoed to the gate and gave a couple of loud tongue-clicks. I was glad to be outside, anyone in the way of the door would have been crushed in the rush.
At home I've been trying to wean the youngsters onto a biscuit-only diet. This year's arrivals (the Beast and Freeman, Hardy and Willis) have proved no trouble; they were on a biscuit diet when running free as they were regulars at Evelyne's feeding station. Fatnip, of course, is on his tuna/cheese spread/chicken regimen but still scoffs biscuits at every opportunity - the pig. This leaves the girls, Demi and Dru, who are still in a huge strop after many days. Their precious wet food has had more and more biscuit mixed in until there is no longer any choice but dry. They don't like it but I've reached the stage of "eat it or go hungry" - ah, shades of my childhood.
In return they've become adept theives. Their masterstroke was removing two slices of bread from the toaster: bread in, to the fridge for butter, back - and bread gone. I could hear growling from the lounge where they were hiding under the ottoman, scarfing down warm bread and slapping away any scroungers. They've become more pathetic now than angry, rubbing their heads against the fridge door, squeaking to me when I'm eating - and trying hook food off the plates.
Another dislike is music - well, mine certainly. I'm a headbanger (Motorhead, Rammstein, Apocalyptica...etc etc etc), this they do not like at all - any of them. I usually have music on when I go to bed and as they're not allowed in the bedroom it's not a concern. The first time I stuck a cd on in the lounge I cleared the place except for Fatnip who's familiar with loud music after all these years. A snit-o-gram from the shipping agents brought on the need for a bit of stress-busting: cue Metallica, cue 'Sandman', "enter night", exit cats...
I'm bloody glad see to 2008 kicked into the dustbin, or preferably, the toilet of history. I've not had a worse year, ever: I've been sicker, true, heart trouble and a series of lung problems including double pneumonia caused me all sorts of aggravation. I've been as broke too, the mid-80s to the mid-90s were particulary galling. But it has never been so intense, so long-lasting - and my luck seems to have escaped me. That plus the crap with the log house, another ruined relationship, trying to sell the land, and the ongoing concerns from the diabetes have ground me down. And just to cap it off nicely I was diagnosed with cardiac arrhythmia at the start of December...
However, the sale looks like it's going ahead; there are two requests for cat-sitting duties, one for the second week of January but the other is for six weeks starting a week after the first booking: spread the word, people, spread the word! The light at the end of the tunnel just might not be a freight-train after all.
Tim Hurrell is a Brit living in the Poitou-Charente area of France. He's the confidante to seventeen (or so) cats, most of whom have been rescued. Tim's been battling 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 has stopped and the property is for sale. (Ed: Idiotic bureaucracy defeats kindness to animals - for now.)
