I live alone with a Calico Cat who is a lass who hired me as her carer about 7 years ago. She was already a mature young lady who had found herself in a homeless shelter – much to her distaste and shame.
Following an advertisement on the internet, I contacted the homeless shelter and found myself being taken home by this traumatised young woman who had suffered terrible domestic abuse. .. but that is another matter.
Over the years, she has trained me to do all sorts of tricks. One that I am particularly good at is Fetch. I fetch food, clean water, milk, clean litter trays, heated beds (two) for winter and I also fetch her many toys – which she delights in hiding under furniture. I have been trained well in the art of getting down on the floor with a broom handle in order to retrieve those that have been tossed under the bed or in the pantry.
In fact, she seems to appreciate my endeavours because she will often jump on my chest at 2 am, wake me up thinking I am having a heart attack and then reassure me that I am fine by showering me with abundant kisses from her rather scratchy little pink tongue.
She is a very good companion to me and when I get ‘the gout’, she goes out in sympathy with me.
She gets a weekly home visit from her personal pedicurist and manicurist (My 87-year-old Mum) and she has also managed to train Mum to sneak up to my home – because, if Bridget suspects that Mum is coming, she will head under the bed (the cat, not Mum), and train me in another game which is “strip the bed and move the mattress and grab the cat.” I confess that I am not good at this game .. yet.
In my spare time, between writing for Whaleoil and serving her Ladyship, I also create websites. She lies beside me whilst I work my way through the labour intensive and mentally challenging task of creating people’s dreams and business aspirations for the internet. Often, she will sit on the computer keyboard so that the typing becomes a flurry of keystrokes with every pad of her deliciously pretty pink toes. It seems to give her great joy to see and hear me say things like “F..k you Bridget!” and “p.ss off Bridget!”.
I am currently building a website which is a shop to sell music for respite homes, nursing homes and those suffering from dementia. It is soothing and old nostalgic music and I am downloading the tracks, creating album covers and proofreading everything I do.
I tend to swear a lot lately. I may burn a disc and it fails, or I upload a file and it doesn’t work out, so, between the cat jumping on the keyboard, sitting in front of the monitor, pouncing on me to test my reflexes and wanting her meal times strictly adhered to, I sometimes get to swearing. Very colourfully and very expressively, with words that would make my grandchildren shudder or gush with pride.
Either way, I have noticed that Bridget now has become bilingual. In fact, she is more fluent in her second language than she is in her native tongue.
After seven years, we communicate. I don’t even bother with “Please go away, darling.” I just go to her second language. “F..k off Bridget” and it seems to do the trick.
Perhaps I could get a job as an ESL teacher. Or a teacher for Jacinda Ardern.
I mean, if my cat can understand, would it be a stretch for Jacinda to understand “F..k off Jacinda”?
If so, I’ll put my hand up. And I won’t even charge.