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Ginger…

…being a cutie-pie again:

Ginger Montage

Ginger the Warrior Cat

 

The only cat in the universe who is afraid of pigeons and bullies big dogs.

‘Sink Estate’ Or ‘Life in the Ghetto of the Damned’

 

 

 Midnight. A knock at the door.
Open it? Better had.
Three heavy cats, mean and bad.

They offer protection. I ask, ‘What for?’
The Boss-cat snarls, ‘You know the score.
Listen man and listen good

If you wanna stay in the neighbourhood,
Pay your dues or the toms will call
And wail each night on the backyard wall.

Mangle the flowers, and as for the lawn
a smelly minefield awaits you at dawn.’
These guys meant business without a doubt

Three cans of tuna, I handed them out.
They then disappeared like bats into hell
Those bad, bad cats from the CPL.

Roger McGough

 

I’d like to tell you about the horrors we witness on a daily basis on our particular ’sink’ estate. 

There is a ninety two year old world war two veteran who still has his service revolver.  (although it has no bullets so that means I can’t borrow it to shoot myself). He also claims that he is still capable of killing someone with his bare hands (although I don’t actually believe this) as a result of his commando training.  There was an old lady who died last year, aged 102.  When she reached 100 and received a telegram from the queen she said that our reigning monarch could shove it up her posterior.  (although she didn’t actually use that word).  There is another old lady who used to sleep with American GIs during the war in exchange for silk stockings.

We are also terrorised by a gang of mad cats. I think they’re called the Cats’ Protection League.  They are never seen together but the intimidation they inflict upon us must be co-ordinated.  They are feral felines, not unlike the Kray twins. They are specie-ist and intimidate the local Canine population. They say that ‘Everything has gone to the dogs’.  Well, not in our area.  Here, everything’s gone to the cats! They miaow loudly outside your door and when you are forced to let them in they eat your food and scratch your furniture.  I also hear they are addicted to cat-nip although it’s hard to distinguish the users from the dealers.   There aren’t enough rehab facilities for them. They fight amongst each other.  The courts give them special animal ASBOs but they simply ignore them. There aren’t enough interpreters who speak ‘Miaow’.  One came into my flat and stayed with me for ten years before finally succumbing to mortality.    

And, in addition to all this degradation and desperation, my house has been inhabited by a bunch of insane teddy bears who party incessantly and keep us awake.  They plan to go to war with the Feral Felines.  We really do inhabit the Ghetto of the Damned.

Now, I’m so depressed after having written all that – all the sordid details, the sheer wretchedness of our lives – I’m going to throw myself off the roof.

The Owl and the Pussy Cat

Lost Cats and Schizoaffectve Disorder

My friend Andrew’s cat died this afternoon.  He was distraught.  He rang me to say he couldn’t meet up with me tonight.  He is too upset.  He took the Tom in for a routine check up and emerged with his lifeless body.  Andrew works in a cat sanctuary and has seen many cats get sick and die but that doesn’t diminish the pain he feels now.

I was ill last week but managed to avoid the nuthouse.  Sometimes I think I’d rather commit suicide than go back there.  I was told that I was ‘neglecting myself’ so I spent all week worrying that they would force me to go in.  They didn’t, of course.  That’s why I’m sitting here writing. (duh!)  One doctor said I put together a compelling, articulate argument against being hospitalised.  I can’t even remember what I said.  I am in a state of sheer terror at the thought of returning to hospital.  My main problem is that I have co-morbid illnesses that are rarely seen in one person: schizoaffective disorder and bulimia (I started out as a purging anorectic – now why did I feel the need to tell you that?)

When I am treated for my illness at an eating disorders facility, they do nothing to alleviate symptoms of schizoaffective disorder – heightened mood, delusions etc.  And when I am on an acute ward the psychosis is dealt with but not the bulimia.  So, as you can imagine, I’m kind of difficult to treat.  Now, I’m scared that if I alienate them they will abandon me.  I’ve seen it happen.  So, I am feeling isolated and afraid.  I woke up this morning to find I had been crying in my sleep.  I can do nothing but sit back and wait for it to pass.  But its taking its own sweet time about it.

I wonder if cats have their very own Feline Grim Reaper.

Hiatus

Nothing much to report. I stopped visiting a certain blog when I began to use phrases such as ‘festering ferrets’ , ‘deluded Dalmations’ , ‘pernicious penguins’ and ‘catatonic kangaroos’ (yes, I know that last one doesn’t really work) in everyday conversation. Credit where credit is due though – its contributors had some very sweet and comforting things to say about Bella. I keep seeing Bella’s ‘ghost’. Her image is embedded in my mind so I am seeing what I expect to see. My GP understands. He has his own phantom feline: a cat called Marmalade who died last year. He says it will pass. Eventually.

GhostCat: Where are YOU?

There will never be a perfect time to have a pet. I am being bombarded by offers from my friend Andrew who works at a cat sanctuary – He has found a lovely little affectionate cat called Bounce. I don’t even feel like visiting. I am so tired. I don’t think this will be a good time to bring cats into a still grieving home.

Bella has been my (almost) constant companion. For a decade she has been by my side. (Apart from my trip to America and Europe when Bella stayed in Birmingham with my parents). But I thought about her, I dreamed about her.

But Bella was a stubborn little Madam and would make me endure lots of silent treatments when I returned which were resolved when Bella felt that she had made me suffer enough. She wasn’t nicknamed ‘Bratcat’ for nothing.

I know I will never find a cat like Bella again. One night, back in 1996, I opened the front door to let a friend out and, as the friend left, this little white cat invaded by apartment. She slipped through the door and let out a piercing miaow, a miaow that said ‘I’m here and I’m here to stay’. And stay she did for eleven years. A lady downstairs had one more cat than she needed. The youngest(Bella -6) was being bullied by the Top cat. So, she came to live with me. Melissa, her first rescuer, told me that she’d been wandering Mill Road – emaciated, with no fur on her back legs – when she found her. She took her back to her flat and was surprised to find that she was house trained. She had also been spayed. My neighbour nursed her back to health but cats can be fickle creatures and Bella began to explore other flats in a bid to find herself another home. Bella had made up her mind. Every night she stood outside my door calling for me to let her in. I did. And every night she came. I made an agreement with her human who found it difficult to have to deal with night after night of hissing, spitting, snarling.

So she surrendered and brought Bella to me. She sat perched on my chest that night and the purrs she emitted soothed me into a sleep devoid of dreams. She became a permanent fixture in my life, almost to the exclusion of everyone else. And she was loyal to the end. She died in her sleep. Next to me. The best way to die some say. I’m not so sure. Doubts are setting in

If anybody’s interested Bella was 17

More Later

Bella Cat Head Resting On Paw

Bella Cat Head Resting On Paw
Originally uploaded by louisemills.

Bella the Cat sleeping in my childhood bedroom in my parents’ house in Birmingham.