A Eulogy for Miss Pissy Woo

Sisters: Agatha and Alice

My house is very quiet, apart from lazy buzzing of annoying cluster flies. The dogs don’t make much noise when they sleep unlike Miss Agatha Woo who’d purr all the time.

Did you note that? Dogs and flies in the present tense but Agatha is already in the past.

She’s not there in the morning as I struggle bleary-eyed to let the dogs out, yowling at me to give her some food; the all-pervading stench of ammonia from her night time ablutions fast becoming a faded memory. I feel more confident crossing the kitchen in bare feet within a few days of her demise. And although I never particularly liked treading in the proverbial be it cat poo, cat pee or cat sick I had become used to it and could gracefully wend my way over the kitchen floor to where I kept the bucket and mop seemingly blindfolded. It was a skill I was inordinately proud of; getting from Point A to Point B without anything squashing between my toes and all before I had had my first cup of tea.

My husband is calmer for not having to face such an obstacle course. In fact he can now get his own cup of tea first thing in the morning, which after several years of getting up at sparrows fart o’clock and foregoing said tea before catching the train to London with all the other work-oholics who need to be seen to be the first in and last out, must be kind of nice.

I can put things back on shelves that I never thought to see out again; the things that she’d always try to step over and round but latterly she’d just knock off. Many have been repaired, quite badly but I can’t look at those cracks without thinking of her and her quest NOT to have to touch the floor after it had been washed.

Curtains can go back up; shorter than they were but at least now they will stay clean. The table-cloth can come off the Kitchen table as she’s not there to gauge great scratches across its glossy top as she leaps up to get a better look at me and to, of course, look down upon the dogs.

Friends can now bring their dogs to our house knowing that Agatha Bagwash will not be there to corner them and make them wet themselves in fear – a neat party trick she enjoyed rather too much and one which nearly got her killed when she tried to take on a visiting Weimaraner who although blind had a very acute sense of smell.

He bolted after her and landed with his head stuck through the flap of the cat litter tray while she escaped by vaulting on to the Aga which was just to the side. She vaulted off pretty quick too as the Aga was on and I landed up buttering her paws and apologising to my friends for traumatising their dog.

Soon they will forget that she was ever there for how could they have loved her as I did?

She’ll be a few words on a page that no one will read, some faded old photographs of a cat their mother once had to be thrown away as a load of old junk as they sort me out  to move into the old people’s home before I too become the past…

RIP 

Agatha Bagwash

(latterly Miss Pissy Woo)

1 June 1996 – 15 October 2011

Agatha Bagwash: Summer 2010

Fleas, Moths and Nits (Again)….What was your summer like?

My adorable but flea infested Siamese cat - Agatha Bagwash

I have been plagued all summer by a variety of insects and I do mean plagued – fleas, moths and nits.

First it was the Nits not just my children but also me (see Nits is the word..) then it was the fleas courtesy of the cat. I blame her because she’s very ancient now and probably won’t give a fig if I use her name in vain and anyway it was the vet who found them and they were on the cat. So, for sake of argument, it was Agatha’s fault.

I must admit I was mortified when the vet pointed them out. I haven’t been very good at keeping an eye on Agatha of late and hadn’t realised that she was finding grooming herself a little difficult with her arthritis. It used to be so easy when her sister was alive as they used to clean each other but now Alice has gone (she’s been gone a year – see A Fat Cat) Agatha has no one to help and that coupled with old age has meant she is not as clean and well kempt as she once was – and it is my responsibility, just like the nits are my responsibility.

[Though if I find a mother next term who isn’t on top of the little blighters I may just start billing them for all the LyClear I have to use! Up until last year we had NEVER had a problem with nits now it’s a permanent fight!!!!)

I digress.

Fleas.

A plague of fleas everywhere and much spraying of anti-flea or instantfleadeath about the house and in all the crooks and crannies such as along the sides of the wall where the carpet folds under and in the sofa and on the cushions, the dog baskets and blankets and then after asphyxiating all and sundry time for us to vacate the house and stand outside in the rain while the stuff does it’s magic. I, of course forgot to check what the weather was doing when I over enthusiastically started the whole process and only read that the pets and children should be kept clear of all disinfected rooms for at least four hours after application when of course I had finished…pugger!

And then there were the moths…

A very expensive lot of moths - Tineola bisselliella.

Just finished all my holiday washing and was putting the clothes back in my room when I noted that there was a moth on my beautiful red wool dress that my husband bought me from Hobbs last autumn.  There were also little red bits on the floor.

If I said my heart sank, it would be an understatement.

I hastily checked all of my clothes and there were moth everywhere.

Now I am not good at getting rid of stuff, in fact some of the clothes I have are so old they are positively vintage now and I love all of them.

When I was very lucky to live in London and have enough money I bought beautiful clothes, Mulberry, Hobbs, Betty Barclay, Diane Von Furstenberg, Jaeger, Droopy & Brown. I also bought vintage clothes and inherited amazing coats and dresses going right back to the 1920s and of course there was my wedding dress: my beautiful, silk velvet devore wedding dress.

I won’t estimate the cost because most of it is priceless to me.

Of course I immediately Googled moth and then set about doing something, anything, while trying very hard not to burst into tears.

Luckily my mind works in weird ways and instead of trying to do odd things with moth balls and calling in Rentokil, I contacted a textile conservator. Because that is what I do when I don’t know what to do – call in the experts.

Allyson Rae is a textile expert based in Norfolk she was absolutely brilliant and told me exactly what to do: Bag everything up and get it frozen

So that is what I am doing tomorrow freezing my clothes at the Ipswich Museum, it’s a long story but hopefully one that will end happily…that was my summer: nits, fleas and moths.

Siamese cats, builders, pantries and tax returns...

A relaxed siamese cat before teh builders arrived...

It’s Monday 31^st January 2011, I have only a few hours in which to complete my self-inflicted tax return for last year, there is dust everywhere and there are strange noises coming from the vicinity of the Kitchen.

I am ordered to produce two white, one with one and the other with two, a black and a white coffee and a glass of water before the dust settles; also please could I remove the dogs and what do I want to do with the Agatha the siamese cat?

I hope that question is not because she’s died of a heart attack with all the noise that has rudely intruded on her domain. I think she was busy in her cat litter tray that was against the wall which is due to be removed and they did some exploratory drilling. I think I too may have had a heart attack at that!

Apparently she is now sitting on top of the Alpha Cooker (a kind of Aga) hissing at everyone and not allowing them near her; I don’t blame her.

I am trying to do the same incarcerated in my office but without the baring of teeth and spitting accompanied by mad swings with my claws, the builders don’t seem to be showing me the same respect.

The dogs just roll their eyes and flop in their baskets as if this is an everyday occurrence, I admire their sang froid.

So I distract myself to keep myself calm as more banging thumping and crashing from downstairs ensues and comfort myself that at the end of it all I’ll have a utility room where I don’t have to strangle myself on electric wires as I load and unload; a downstairs loo and a pantry, a real live pantry! Heaven!

What;'s the worst that can happen?

Imagine the worst thing that can happen when you are asked to look after a friend’s pets while they go away on holiday, and then double it.
My best mate J has had the most terrible time recently. You see we went away for two weeks and left him in charge of the house, the dogs, the chickens and the cats.
Now J has done this loads of times, and in the past has had some near misses. Like the time when I phoned him up to say Hi and check up on the builders who were busy converting the attic and putting on a new roof. At the end of the conversation I casually asked how he was doing with the cats.
“Oh they’re fine,” he said cheerfully before asking after my holiday and when we were coming home etc.
Little did I realise that as I was speaking to him on the phone, he and the builders were desperately trying to locate my Siamese cats from between the floor joists where they had managed to get stuck. Everyone could hear them but just could not locate them. The hunt involved taking up the newly laid carpet and ripping up floorboards in several rooms. Needless to say when we got home there was no evidence that anything untoward had ever happened at all and it wasn’t until a few years later that J confessed over a particularly boozy supper.
Over the years poor J has dealt with the would be kamikaze cats, the toothbrush eating whippet, the subterranean Jack Russell and builders en-masse: 15 of them to be exact and never once did he forget their individual tea and coffee orders. By the way he also had to run his own workshop to make a living.
However, this time I think he took the biscuit.
For as well as agreeing to keep an eye on the EBJ (the wickedest whippet it the world) and be of assistance when she was to be mated, (I know, I ask a lot, but there is only a small window of opportunity on this and as luck would have it the whole thing sort of landed up on J’s plate, he said he didn’t mind as long as he didn’t have to get hands on or anything!) he also had to look after my elderly Siamese cats, Agatha and Alice aka Fat Cat.
Having acted as Dog Pimp and got through that ordeal J was on the last few hours of his watch and nothing untoward had happened. It should have been a coast all the way home so to speak.
He knew we would be back after lunch and then he could finally go home and relax.
So that morning he bounces down the stairs, lets the dogs out, puts the food out for the cats, does he chickens comes in for a cup of tea, lifts the small cat, Agatha, onto the table so she can eat in peace away from teh dogs, notices the Fat Cat has not moved, goes over to lift her onto the table for breakfast and then realizes that something is very, very, wrong.
The Fat Cat is always the first to demand food, the Fat Cat is called Fat Cat because that is what she is and to be a Fat Cat means you are particularly food orientated. Missing breakfast is NOT an option, not when you have a reputation at stake.
As soon as J touched Fat Cat there was not a shadow of a doubt what had happened. She had died peacefully in her sleep curled up on a chair.
For J the event must have been the worst nightmare ever.
I mean only a few hours…
Now what would you do?
Option 1) ‘Fess up and as well as having Dog Pimp on your CV add Cat Killer
Option 2) Pretend you hadn’t noticed and leave said cat to be “discovered”
Well J is my friend and I would not have blamed him for going for Option 2 but he didn’t and although I was very sad about FAt Cat, and I will post about her later, I couldn’t help but see the funny side. Poor J. I think that really is the worst thing that can happen on your watch!