Everywhere I look I’m surrounded by pregnancy and its side-effects — or so it seems anyway.
S grabs her stomach and winces with a cramp — I suddenly have a similar pain — is it a weird pregnancy-pain-sharing thing?
S’s hair looks funny — is it because she is pregnant?
I’m sleeping heavier than ever — is it because S is pregnant?
So, then to the ailing psychic cat.
While S was still in East Timor our cat T started behaving in some really odd ways. Both S and her mother had left so it was just me and T in the house.
It all began when T sent me a message the day after S’s mum left. The message came in the form of a huge stinking cat turd in the middle of the spare bed. T couldn’t have centred her deposit any better if she’d used a geometry set.
Predictably I did my nana.
If only I’d known S was pregnant, I would have realised that this wasn’t the actions of a cat merely raising her middle claw at me, but was instead the first step in a crucial realignment of the power relations within our household.
T could sense that S had a bun in the oven and she wasn’t going to get pushed aside by another bloody human.
Think I’ve had a bit too much catnip? There’s more.
After the initial deposit I explained to T that she was no longer permitted inside the house, yet again and again in she’d crawl, slink upstairs and leave another little gift for me.
T has a huge kitty-litter tray outside and up until these little power games began, she was quite happy with the litter box.
It seemed now though that a litter box was no longer enough — T was on the same level as us in her marble-sized kitty-cranium and it wasn’t her fault she didn’t know how to use a western toilet — hell she drinks out of it — why would you crap in the same water you drink?
Then, S returned and we discovered what T had obviously known for a week — S was pregnant.
T then raised the game to an entire new level and went on hunger-strike.
In this Jakarta heat, when you don’t eat and all you drink is chlorinated water out of the pool, you dehydrate very quickly — particularly when you’re a cat. Within a couple of days, T was down to fur and bone, pathetically dragging herself around, no longer meowing and pointedly ignoring both of us.
Eventually I had our maid, Sri, take T to the vet. She came back with a detailed note from the vet which read (in part):
“Dear Mrs S,
I’ve studied your cat’s condition today and I found her condition is not really good.”
The vet gave us some pills and antibiotics for T and instructions to keep an eye on her.
We gave her the pills and within 24 hours the changes were amazing — she is meowing, drinking non-chlorinated water and even eating a little.
You see all the above had nothing what-so-ever to do with S being pregnant — T was just sick. Likewise I eat too much pizza, S doesn’t comb her hair and I’m working long hours and need to sleep more.
Sometimes the simplest answers really are the best ones.