Wombat Diet

The lady of the house went out yesterday saying

I’m leaving the door open for the cat, just so you don’t shut him out.

“Has he packed?” I asked. “Give him some money!”

Alas, there’s not much chance of him taking off. He just goes out to stick his claws in the neighbour’s doormats. He’s 17 and has been living the good life since he was adopted at 14. He was Cat of the month at the refuge– his poster was up like that of a missing child — when the children brought him home. He was due for the leafy chamber, which is why he was cat of the month. People want kittens, but the staff felt sorry for him and they allowed him to spend time in the fake living room that they used to accustom animals to homes. He had belonged to an old lady and was used to attention, so he put on a fine display and literally drooled with pleasure when cuddled.

He turned out to have a bad stomach and to be prone to throwing up. Luckily for him we discovered that keeping his food cold made a big difference. It was bad enough having to run and make sure he was not a carpet when certain horrible noises began, but several times a day was too much. He gradually lost every ounce he could spare and came within a whisker of mortality, but still he hangs on and is, periodically, unreasonably spry. He sleeps most of the time, unless there’s a prospect of food. He’s even been known to jump on a chair and steal from a dinner plate.

However, he’s become a different, more diffident, character since I usurped his sleeping place. He was used to sleeping on my side of the bed with his mistress, or at least watching television with her, and he now sleeps for a week or two in different places, like an old dictator on the run. He scorns a basket. He disdains most things, but if you have food that smells good he gazes and drools. He is quite deaf and his eyesight isn’t great. His front legs splay like a ballerina’s, comically. The more I proclaim his insufferability, or lament his doorknob personality, decrepitude and questionable habits, the more ardently he is defended. Really, the affections of women are unfathomable.

I had cause to reflect on this later when an older couple got into the elevator and we rode down to the lobby of our building with them on our way out for a walk in the park. They were elderly visitors to London. The somewhat older husband had, I thought, a malfunctioning radio in his pocket. As we exited the building my arm was squeezed and my other half confided with a suppressed giggle that she was glad she hadn’t married a guinea pig. I looked a little puzzled. My wife’s animal-loving proclivities I know, but: Matrimony? Guinea pigs? Sometimes I have trouble knowing how her mind works. “You mean it wasn’t a phone or something in his pocket?” I ventured.

It was his TEETH! He was grinding them like a guinea pig!

she replied, laughing. Yes, she was sure. She had seen him doing it. She could never live with someone who did that. “Aaaah, so I am not so bad after all” I said, reassured. “Housetrained too.”

Not long before I had been in trouble for suggesting demonstrating to the cat how to use his box properly. Do all cats have this problem? We’ve never had a cat before, so I am not an expert on this.

I noticed that Mrs.Guinea Pig was droning on about trouble with one of the boards on which she sat and seemed entirely oblivious to the high frequency static. I wondered which began first in their relationship.

As we walked in Regent’s Park in the sunshine I was secretly grinding brain cells on the subject of my companion’s impending birthday in a few days. We have a family tradition of treasure hunts done with Post-It notes, which is to say a few memorable hunts rather than a regular event. One Easter Saturday a couple of years ago when I was 8,000km away, and had been for some months, I emailed what might be a clue. My treasure replied the next day, attaching a photo (above) of the (chocolate) Easter Bunny himself to let me know that her hidden treasure had been found.

Unfortunately, a clue to the whereabouts of a birthday gift hidden some months later was found and discarded without being recognized for what it was. I was thinking speculatively about clues inside clues, so that the answer to the first reveals the second, in software. As for the treasure, this time I have yet to be inspired and time is fast running out. A chocolate guinea pig would be good, if I knew where to get one.

Tags: Family, Personal