There are all kinds of dreams, yeah? Producing all kinds of reactions and emotions? Last night I had a dream that left me feeling utterly nauseous. It involved a tall, skinny bloke, naked and lying face-down on my bed, requesting that I rubbed sun oil on his porcelain-white body. Nothing overly nauseous about that – if I kept my eyes shut – but then I had to mix the sun oil. Half a cup of olive oil and half a sachet of dog food, mashed and stirred in. Then I had to apply it to his body. I remember retching in this dream and when the tall, skinny, nude bloke turned over to have the oil rubbed on his front, I woke up. Thank God. Not sure this recent migraine preventative treatment is agreeing with me. I couldn’t face Chea’s Sheba sachet this morning and had to cook her chicken instead.
Talking of Chea! She has become a thorn in my side. She has decided that our garden, rambling and long as it is, is no longer sufficient to hold her interest. She now has to go further afield, scrambling over fences, sliding down the neighbour’s greenhouse roof and generally doing all things that will surely land her in trouble. What can we do? I want to protect her with my life. Isn’t that what you sign up for when you take on these lunatic creatures? To protect them to the very best of your ability? I had a very serious conversation with Richard regarding taking her back to the RSPCA so that they could find her a ‘safe’ home, where she could wander freely without harm. Richard, who 99% of the time goes along with all my ideas, wishes and half insane plans, put his size eleven boot firmly down and flatly refused to consider such a thing. He argued that she was now part of us and that he would rather let her freely navigate the globe (with the consequences that it might bring) than send her back to the RSPCA and never know what happened to her.
Sweet? Yes. Very. BUT. It doesn’t work that way. The very second her little tabby body is nowhere to be seen Richard goes into panic mode. He panics by nature. Nothing I can do about it. It is in his genes. So, when Chea disappears Richard comes bleating to me, ‘I can’t see Chea. Have you seen Chea? How long has Chea been missing? Are you going to help me look for Chea?’
‘Give her a chance to come back,’ I say. ‘Leave her.’
‘OK,’ he says. ‘If YOU say so. If YOU think she’ll come back.’
Do you see what he does there? Turns the whole thing around on to me so that if she falls into a rain-barrel and dies it is my fault because I said to leave her. So this stresses my massively. MASSIVELY! Off he slopes. Conscience clear. Five minutes later and he’s back.
‘I still can’t see her but if YOU’RE not concerned, that’s OK.’
At this point I have two choices. Kill him. Kill myself. Or get in the car and drive to the nearest airport. OK. I know that’s three choices but I’ve only just realised that the airport is a very possible alternative.
She did her longest disappearing trick yesterday afternoon and Richard went into meltdown, peering over fences, ripping holes in the hedge, talking to the neighbours (he’s a bit reclusive usually!) and calling her – loudly. No result. Well, no that’s not true. There was a result. In his passion to find the sodding creature he forced his body behind the chicken shed so that he could peer, goggle-eyed over the fence. All this rustling and bustling scared the shit out of the chucks and they went ballistic, flying and crashing into the wire on the windows. I went out to see what the hell was going on. Richard was hurrying off up the garden, unaware as usual of the destruction behind him and I was presented with two bleeding chucks. I’m not swearing here. They were literally bleeding. It was then my turn to go ballistic.
By the time I’d found some cotton wool, warm water and wound powder, Richard was coming back down the garden. I let rip. I can’t tell you what I said. Or how loudly I said it. It would ruin my image. Forever.
Chickens swabbed, powered and separated, or they would eat each other alive, I stropped off back to the house, yelling that if the f*****g cat EVER came back he WOULD take it to the RSPCA or I would be on that plane flying out to my friend Jo’s place in Africa.
When my breathing had steadied to something near normal I took a sneak out of the door. Richard was sitting on his heels, leaning against the chuck cage, looking down at the floor. I think the combination of losing Chea and upsetting me, and the thought that if I did fly out of the country he’d have to get his own food, had flattened him. As I continued to watch him a little tabby, shit-head cat, wandered up to him and started head-butting his knee.
The wanderer had returned … this time.
I had a lovely surprise last week. I’d previously posted a picture of Chea on my fb timeline and unknown to me, Artist – Shara Sartipi had taken that image and from it painted Chea. Apparently Shara has included Chea’s limited print with three others and they are available to purchase, individually, or as a set (The Kitty Kat Collection) from her fb Artist page. It is most definitively worth a look. Shara’s paintings include various subjects …
Take care my lovelies x