Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (26 page)

I am installed in my blue work overalls at The Cat's Whiskers, a vast wooden outhouse with a corrugated iron roof situated in the field beyond the main house. This exclusive cat hotel consists of a small office and twenty indoor suites which run in a vertical line on one side of a long central concrete corridor, each one being capable of housing two or more cats. On the other side of the corridor is a low concrete wall above which is fine wire meshing, allowing gusts of cold air to infiltrate the building. The suites themselves are meshed on two sides for greater air ventilation and each has a cosy, heated sleeping zone tucked away at its rear and a sizeable exercise run for stretching the legs and paws. A bolted, wire-meshed door ensures the captive is kept in and any unwelcome visitors out. I am told that in a separate stone clad annexe in the garden are some large and luxurious duplexes for cat families and Dietrich diva moggies who
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and whose owners are willing to pay for the privilege. The duplexes have special names such as Fishy Hall, Tuna Towers and Garfield Gables. According to Jessie, many cat owners fight for their chosen suites and book months, sometimes years, ahead. And I thought I was one cent short of a euro!

  At six this morning Jessie shoved a cup of tea into my hands outside the bedroom door and told me where to find breakfast items in the kitchen. At that ungodly hour, prolonged sleep rather than breakfast was on my mind so I followed her like a sleepwalker out into the cool garden and through a wooden gate into the field where a path led up to the office of The Cat's Whiskers. Once there I had been swiftly delivered into the care of Emily, one of the cheery, young cattery assistants, while Jessie beat a hasty retreat back down the path. I had been given a nylon overall and set to work.

  First of all we prepared cat food and fresh water for each of the sixty pampered inmates. And don't let's for one second think they all ate the same grub. Not a bit of it. Some felines liked dry pellets, others wet food, some a mix of the two. Then there were the fat cats on diets, the sickly ones on special medical regimes and the prima donnas who only ate fresh fish or chicken. Last but not least, in a league of his own, was Zack the Korat. This spitting bundle of fun only consumed lightly cooked tuna and a costly dried seaweed supplement. When I asked for an explanation, Emily just rolled her eyes and smiled indulgently. 'He's an actor, bless him!'

  And she wasn't being ironic.

  Having delivered food to all the feline guests by seven o'clock, Emily asked me to tag along with her for the next task, which was cleaning out the dirty litter trays. A treat was in store! If I ever thought my own cats made a mess with their litter, this lot could teach them a trick or two. Now, some cats were considerate, just as you'd find with the ideal guest at a hotel who folds back his bed covers neatly and doesn't leave toothpaste all over the sink, or loo paper streamers on the floor. These moggies did their business in their tray, covered it over with gravel and didn't leave a trail of devastation in their wake. Unfortunately, this wasn't the case with Marvin the Manx. His concrete run appeared to have been hit by a snow storm and tornado at precisely the same moment. Tiny fragments of white litter were sprayed all over the floor, in the water and food dishes and, in his tortoiseshell pelt, he'd even trailed it back into his basket. Squeaky rubber toys were strewn everywhere and he'd peed in a corner of the run. Emily had waggled a finger at him and then cheerfully offered to let me clear it all up.

  'You're too kind,' I said.

  'No bother,' she replied sweetly.

  She had held him lovingly in her arms. 'You know they say that the Manx cat was the last animal to get on the Ark and when Noah shut the door too fast, its tail snapped off.'

  I looked at the tail-less cat thoughtfully. 'Anything's possible, Emily. And what about the reason why the tails of Siamese cats curl upwards? The story goes it's because the Queen of Siam used to keep a precious ring on her pet Siamese's tail.'

  She gave a little frown. 'Is that true?'

  'Why not ask one of your Siamese inmates?'

  'I might just do that,' she said.

  By the time duty calls for the hosing down of a run in preparation for an incoming guest, I'm not in the best of humour. I've been on my feet for two hours and I'm beginning to wonder what a girl has to do to get a tea break around here. According to Emily, we don't break until eleven o'clock. On the dot. Inside the rubber gloves my hands are numb with cold as I fumble about with a mop and soapy water in the vacated cat run. My nylon overalls make a swishy sound every time I move, in much the same way, I imagine, as the crisp satin of a ballroom dress might do during a waltz. Having a ball I may be, but at a ball I am not. Emily issues instructions.

  'That's right. Give it a good clean. Ooh! You've missed a bit over there.'

  Well, of course I've missed a bit over there. It's hellishly cold and I'm in desperate need of a cup of warming tea. Does it really matter? As if she's read my thoughts, Emily folds her arms and views me sternly.

  'Hygiene is really important in a cattery. It's the number one golden rule.'

  'So you keep telling me.'

  She drums a finger against her cheek. 'When I trained I found that KITTEN helped me. It goes, "Keep It Tidy, Totally Efficient and Neat".'

  'A mnemonic,' I say gruffly.

  She gives a little shrug. 'Whatever.'

  I slop the mop over the area I've missed.

  'That's better. Now, go and swill out the bucket and get going with the hosing. You remember how I did it?'

  Does the girl think I'm a complete fool? I mean, how difficult is it to hose down a near empty space? She made it look simple enough.

  I drag the green hose over to the run under Emily's steady gaze.

  'Where's Jessie?' I say a tad impatiently. 'I was rather hoping we could go through some admin aspects of the job.'

  'All in good time,' she beams, removing a soapy rubber glove to brush a stray blonde tendril back behind her ear. 'First of all, it's best to get to grips with the physical work.'

  Harrumph. That's put me in my box. I go in search of the tap, dropping the hose on the floor. It spasms for a brief moment like a snake caught in its last death throes and then lies still.

  'Hang on,' calls Emily. 'Where are you off to? Remember, all you have to do is pull the switch on the hose itself. You don't need to turn the tap.'

  That'll teach me for not paying attention. I bend down to grab the hose and pull back the small lever at the nozzle.

  I hear a strange gurgling sound but no water emerges. I wait. Emily is momentarily distracted by a call for help from her co-worker, Dawn, a sturdy lass with dark curly hair who is grooming a cat a few doors down. All I can see through the thick meshing of the various runs are her flailing arms. I wonder if she's being devoured by some psycho feline.

  'Just a moment,' Emily says to me and strides out of the run. Impatiently I tap the hose on the concrete floor and closely study the errant nozzle. And then, in the best traditions of Laurel and Hardy, a fierce jet of freezing water squirts straight in my eye, splashes my face and drenches my overall. I give an involuntary shriek and drop the hose, allowing water to shoot all over the run and through the wire meshing. By the time I've taken control of it, Emily is back to see cascades of water pouring down the central corridor. She shakes her head. 'Deary me. What are you doing?'

  I'm sopping wet and ice-cold. 'The stupid hose doesn't work,' I spit.

  'That's not what it looks like to me.' Her eyes scan the puddles of water forming in the run.

  'Well, we'd better mop up this mess.'

  Miserably, I begin squeezing out the mop. She bites her lip, trying to inhibit a rogue grin.

  'Go on, hop it,' she sighs. 'Get some dry clothes on and I'll finish off here.'

  I falter. 'What was up with Dawn? She was waving her arms about in the air.'

  She laughs. 'Oh, she was just wiggling strings for Dixie to catch.'

  'Dixie?'

  'Yeh, the blue Persian you met this morning. I've just had to help her get an enormous knot out of his hair. He's a right one!'

  With what little dignity I can muster I turn tail and head back to the house in drizzling rain, icy water dripping down the back of my neck. In the distance there's a gentle baa-ing of a lamb, and from The Cat's Whiskers office the unmistakable sound of gales of laughter.

'It's easy, see? You just hold his head back like this and pop the pill in. Then you stroke his throat and it's gone.'

  Emily calmly releases the struggling Persian and strokes his fur. He hisses at her and moodily saunters off to his refuge, a dark and cosy den with a cat flap, at the end of his run.

  'We've got to give some pills to Zack later so you can have a go if you like?'

  No thanks, I'll leave you to enjoy that mauling, Emily, my sweet. Zack, I have quickly discovered, is the original Exorcist cat. I haven't seen his head swivel yet, but it's only a matter of time.

  'OK,' I hear myself say in a weak voice.

  I can't believe it's only day two because it already feels as though I've been here a month. At six this morning, the bustling and energetic Jessie knocked on my door with a cup of tea and half an hour later Dawn and I were on the gravy train handing out food and water to all the inmates while Emily did the litter trays. We cleaned out the runs together and then got a fat tabby ready to be reunited with his owners, collecting his toys and blanket and unearthing his basket from the store cupboard. Visitors seemed to come and go throughout the day either delivering or collecting moggies and the telephone in the office rang incessantly. I managed to snatch a bite for lunch but I haven't stopped since.

  'Great news!'

  My senses are alert. I turn my head, half expecting it to be Rachel from my office, inventor of the 'great news' bugle, but it is Jessie. She is beckoning to me from the office door, her voice booming up the corridor.

  'The vet's come to give some injections. I thought you'd like to watch.'

  Emily gives me an encouraging smile. 'Gosh, that's good timing. It's your lucky day.'

  I plod past her, too fatigued even for a witty riposte.

Emily and I put clean water and a food bowl down in the run.

  'So, did you have a nice day yesterday?' she asks.

  'It was great to have some time off if that's what you mean. We did the feeds and cleaning out in the morning and then I had the afternoon free to sleep.'

  She laughs. 'Oh, come on. You can't be that tired. I'm up at five every day, even Sundays.'

  'Well, you're obviously completely mad.'

  'No, I just like to make the most of the day.'

  I gather up a sweeping brush and mop just as Dawn, in baggy blue overalls, arrives outside the run flipping a clump of mail about in the air.

  'Got some post for you, Dribbly Dibbly.'

  The object of her gushy overtures is the elegant, smoky hued Siamese now sitting disdainfully in his private den.

  She looks at us through the wire meshing.

  'Where's Dibbly boy?'

  'Sulking in the back,' says Emily flatly.

  'Oh shame! He's got a letter from the Lamberts, his owners, and a lovely postcard from Marrakech.'

  I snigger. 'Is the card from the King of the Berbers?'

  She examines the text. 'Nah, I think it's from the Lamberts' daughter, Cristobel.'

  She leans in closer. 'I'll read them to him later. All right?'

  I watch her potter off, swaying her hips and humming, 'What's New Pussycat?' to whichever long-suffering, incarcerated feline will listen.

  Emily pushes her fair locks back with a rubber-gloved hand.

  'Right, can I leave you to grooming duties in suites one to ten and then we'll do some admin and booking in of new clients together?'

  I give a confident nod, already dreading the moment when I will arrive at suite ten, home of Zack the Korat. I've tried to make this silver blue menace more endearing by nicknaming him Borat the Korat, but it makes no difference. He's an evil bugger bent on vengeance and is in desperate need of a good psychotherapist. Motherly and good-hearted Jessie has given me the sob story – broken home, abusive parents, victim of a hit and run and near poisoning with Warfarin by a careless farmer, but I'm losing sympathy. A cat called 'It' he may be, but he doesn't do himself any favours. Twice he's lashed out when I've tried to clean his run and he bares his teeth and spits through his netting at the cattery old faithfuls. Despite my misgivings, Zack is held in high esteem by Jessie and the rest of the staff who lavish him with cuddles and grooming sessions. His owner is a famous British comedian and Zack is a star in his own right, having appeared in several TV series, and is soon to hit the big time auditioning for modelling and acting roles in LA and New York. Maybe if I offer him a bit of PR coaching he might change his attitude. I mean, we are both in the media business after all.

  I methodically do my rounds, making sure to lock the door of each cat run behind me to avoid escapees. I have been assured by Jessie that should a cat give me the slip it wouldn't get very far given the tight circle of security in and around the building, but I'm taking no chances. A fat Burmese named Basil, ward of a London-based ambassador, yawns when I enter his run and rolls onto his back for a tummy tickle. Arnie the Abyssinian in suite seven, who arrived at the cattery two days ago in a chauffeur-driven limo all to himself, claws the mesh of his run with excitement when he sees me appear with his grooming brush, and as for Biscuit, the sybaritic ragdoll, we are the best of chums. At least he just sleeps all day, purring loudly (a sign of genuine appreciation) with every stroke of the brush.