Just About Standing...

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am still standing. After one of the most horrible days on Monday, where I cried and cried through the whole day, I went to bed and slept. I actually slept well, which surprised me somewhat, but there you go. Tuesday started with a few sniffles and then I put on my Big Girl Pants and went forth to work. I had a few rough moments, but breathed through them.

I don't understand people who live on their own without a pet. Why would you do that to yourself? I know some people work erratic hours or travel away a lot of the time, but to come home to a cold, dark house without a little face happy to see you at the door...that must be loneliness of the stone cold soul variety. 

I am sitting with my grief. I did have a look at the RSPCA site at cats...but all the ones I saw were black and too close in temperament to Solitaire. If I get another cat so soon, they will end up being constantly compared to her and that will be forever a poor second. The vets have organised her cremation, I would like her ashes home for a couple of weeks before I think about getting another companion. 

It seems in my vulnerable moments I suffer from The Stupid. 

I signed up for doing a half marathon in November with the runners at work. I seriously doubt my sanity sometimes. Dave is concerned. Given I haven't run a step since October, he's right to be concerned. I'm scratching my head here. I honestly don't know where my head was at. 

But I signed up, I've got 42 weeks to train. Now all I need to do is put in the miles. 

We went for a 10 mile bike ride on Friday. I enjoyed the return journey more than the first leg. It'd been a few months since I'd been out on my Shiny Bike and my confidence had dipped and so had my Road Craft; but I did it. Coming back, we went off road. My word, I love going off road. It was muddy and bumpy and I had this mad grin for the whole time. 

I misjudged the weather and didn't wear thick enough layers. I knew I'd be okay while I was going...and I was. It was just when we got home, the cold seeped out of my thighs for hours after. Even after a very hot shower. The next day, I dragged Dave off to buy the proper gear. Happily, my new cycling leggings also have padding on the backside. My butt is still sore. We're going to have to experiment with saddle angles to improve my posture as I ride and I may even try one of Dave's saddles to see if that helps. 

Exercising regularly again has been good for me. I still have a lot of ground to catch up on, but one thing is for sure, it is good for me to go back to my lazy ways. I twanged something in my neck on Friday. Normally that would mean a £40.00 visit to see my osteopath. I've pretty much shaken it today and it bloody hurt Friday evening; I had to sleep very carefully. A couple of years ago, I was popping Ibuprofen like a junkie because my lower back hurt so much when I sat down for any length of time. I do have the occasional twinge and my posture still has a lot of room for improvement, but I haven't needed to resort to the drugs for my back for a long time. 

I'm still surprised that I now have a bike of my own and that I would even think of running...it's a far cry from my old attitude of "I'm horizontal and comfy, leave me alone." I wish my fitness would improve more quickly. For all my hard work, I'm still not very fit at all. If I had been doing it for the outcome, I'd have packed up ages ago. Too much like bloody hard work, if you ask me. I'm doing it because it makes me feel good. Simple as that really. My only goal is to do the workouts. Somehow or another I'm going to have to squeeze in the running. One thing I have noticed is that by mixing things up, it makes it more fun and it pushes improvements in sideways...when I do a bike ride, my lifting improves. By increasing my weights, my cardio improves. So, it's all good. 

In Memoriam: The Cat

Regular readers of this blog, will know her as the Cat. To me she was: Bloody Animal, Little One, Solly and Solitaire. 

She was Boy's birthday present. After 2 years of upheaval after my separation and divorce, we were finally settled enough to have a pet. She was supposed to be Boy's. Stupid human. We were hers. 

We went and chose her from the surviving litter of 3. A dog had got in and killed her mum and other siblings. She remained a nervous little thing with a horrendous habit of peeing by the front door. Especially, if I hung a door curtain to keep the cold out. I tried all kinds of remedies to break that habit. It was only once we'd moved back here to the flat (and I didn't bother with the door curtain) that she stopped peeing regularly there. 

As a kitten she was a mental little thing. As an adult, she had the sweetest temperament. When we lived here in the Flat before, I'd throw the door open in the summer and she would go out and about. When I had to shut the door to go out, or it was time for bed, she would come running. She didn't like to be shut out. At the House, with the cat flap, she would come in and out as she pleased. Still she preferred company. When I smoked she would always come out and keep me company, though she was less inclined if the weather was diabolical, she would still huddle under the umbrella with me.

The Cat hated to be picked up. She would tolerate it for a few heartbeats and then the front feet would come out and she would push until she was released. That didn't prevent her from being affectionate. She'd never come and sit on my lap, but she would curl up next to me on the sofa, or at my feet on the bottom of my bed. Afternoon nap time she'd lie in between my legs as long as I was there and give me the evils when I'd get up.

She loved to play. Her games became more sedate as she gracefully aged, but there was still mischief there. She liked to bat things off tables, much in the same way a baby will throw a toy out of a pushchair, and she would wait with supposed indifference until it was replaced. Then it would be batted off again. Pens, coins, batteries. 

She also had a thing about water. No glass of water was safe...I was never fully convinced that glasses of squash were off limits either. As a kitten she'd play with her water until the kitchen was flooded. I took to putting her water in a jug in the bath. At night, I'd wake to hear the sound of the plastic reverberating against the bath as she played.

A small cat, she had a thing about heights. She needed to be higher off the ground. Therefore, stools, tables, bookcases were all her favoured vantage points. Box files on tables were also acceptable and at a push a single 80 gsm piece of paper on the floor would do. When we moved to the House 5 years ago, she wasn't so much of a keen jumper. I only really know of one occasion when she jumped the fence and left the garden and I know that only through Boy who had to retrieve her from behind the neighbour's shed. 

Last summer, I noticed she was even less inclined to jump and she struggled to get onto furniture in the same energetic way. She was 14 going on 15 and I figured she was entitled to slow down. 

In my heart of hearts, I knew last summer our time together was coming to an end. I knew I could take her to the vets and get her checked out. But it would mean a car journey that she hated with a passion and the vets, which stressed her out to the extent she would hide for days after. Instead, I bought collapsable stools that I placed where she liked to jump up: next to our sofas, next to the bath and at the foot of my bed. I bought her a new catnip toy mouse that she squeaked around the front room. I gave her more and more treats to encourage her to eat.

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed she kept trying to go to the loo on the carpet. Nothing was coming out. Then her distress was more clear. I packed her off to the vets to be told she was vastly underweight and dehydrated. They kept her in for blood tests and stuck her on a drip. It was an awful weekend. When the second round of blood tests came back with hyper-thyroidism, I thought we had a reprieve. I was forced to consider our options and I knew I wouldn't put her through any treatment. 

In the last fortnight, she and I had a battle twice a day, to get her to take a little pink pill. Bless her, she instantly forgave the indignity, even if she began to develop a time sense and started to try to disappear at pill time. Her appetite returned and she ate with much gusto.

On Friday morning, I woke to the sound of her being sick. Yakking up a furball I thought. Except there was no fur. I had to work. I took her food away and didn't give her the pill, but asked Boy to do it later on. Work was an absolute blast. I swanned in full of triumph and a couple of gins. Dave and I were going to drive Boy back to university on Saturday and despite that, I was in total party mode.

Until I saw she had continued to be sick. And she was sick where she was. 

I rang the vets and pestered the receptionist until I was given an emergency appointment there and then. 

Despite her improved appetite she hadn't gained any weight in the two weeks. The vet couldn't hear her heartbeat on one side of her body. She was too fragile to sedate to X-ray  Yes, the vomiting could be stopped. It could be caused by the medication. There were diets that could potentially work. She had just lost too much weight in too short a time. Her fur hid the lack of bulk. I cried through our entire consultation, the Cat tucked firmly against me. It was the only place she felt safe. She fought with the vet to get back to me and in the end, she was examined as I held her. 

We had 15 years together. She was our sense of home. She was my companion through sorrow and joy. We have so many memories fun, frustrating, hilarious of her. She trained us so well.

Solitaire slipped away, very gently in my arms.

Monday or how you know it's going to be one of Those Days

I woke this morning a little before 6 am, to the sound of the Cat heaving.

She was surprised a little while later when she lept onto my bed, started coughing and I chucked her off.

A little while later Boy poked his head round the door and said he wasn't feeling very well.

I decided it was an omen and arranged with work to stay home today and go in to work tomorrow instead. I'm glad I did. I didn't find where she'd been sick until after I tramped through it and draped my fluffly pink dressing gown in the lovely goo. The un-naturally pale Boy went back to bed.

You have to understand I'm fully aware I'm pre-mentrual. But I have Thornton's chocolate caramel shortbread in the house and a lethal dose of paracetemol and ibuprofen on standby. Not to mention a huge stack of Buffy dvds and my duvet on high alert.

Boy was napping on the couch, I was watching crap on the idot box when I noticed a guy creeping round the bushes outside my front window. I got up, opened the front door and asked him what he was doing creeping round my bushes. He said he was checking my water meter and walked off.

I was surprisingly not happy. Don't get me wrong. It's not that I have anything against men creeping round my bushes. But I'd have liked to at least had a proper introduction. Not to mention dinner and some polite conversation. I'm becoming old-fashioned in my advancing years.

So I rang Anglian Water. When I finally got through their telephone tree (press 1 for a headache, press 2 to talk to an idiot), I stated my name, address and problem. The customer service person put me on hold to talk to Operations, she then came back to me and said she could give me a number to ring if I would like to go after the strange bloke and get his ID, I could then check whether he was kosher. Or I could ring the police.

I take option 2, get the non-emergency number and talk to a very nice lady called Katie. She took my details, his details and asked if I would mind a visit from the Plod if it became necessary. I was talking to her on a cordless and I could see him working his way up the road. Bending over other people's front walls. There wasn't even an Anglian Water van in sight. At least she understood why I wasn't particularly happy.

I know I'm being slightly hysterical but I live in Studentville. Often the first port of call for the light-fingered. They quite like to relieve those scabby students of their lap-tops, mobile phones and i-pods.

This bloke was in a blue jumper, blue trousers with a hi-vis vest. Nothing of which read Anglian Water. In case you're taking details, I reckon he was slight, 5'8 and had light brown hair. Now, most of the utility guys I've ever met were very meticulous about showing ID. They usually walk around with lots of gear, name emblazoned on everything, and a clipboard. This guy just seemed to have a screw-driver. I wasn't about to run after him and demand to see his ID.

I might be fairly spikey, but I do know in a fair fight I'd still come off worse. I'm not very big and it's been years since I've done my martial arts training. The worst I'd probably manage is to bite his ankles. So no, I'm not going to be challenging anyone thanks very much. They might need cleaning, but damnit, they are my teeth.

So I'm afraid I have probably just wasted police time.

I can't wait to see what happens for the rest of today.

Mind you, I can afford to be grumpy and pre-mentrual. But we are still waiting with Savannah. She's a lovely Southern belle, who has become a new friend. Please pop in and give her a hug.

PS. Just had a visit from a very professional WPC with no sense of humour. Now I feel 2 inches high and teary.

PPS. I'm going to implement emergency procedures and go smoke in the garden. Anyway, I've missed the opportunity to die young.

Update: Someone from Norfolk Constabulary rang to do a customer service questionnaire. I gave positive feedback, just because the WPC didn't have a sense of humour and made me feel 2 inches high, it wasn't an opportunity to be petty. It turns out they rang Anglian Water, who did not have anyone working on my road that day.

I feel vindicated for being a nosey old bat.

In Celebration of The Cat

I've been thinking about writing this post for about 3 weeks now: an Ode to The Cat. Today, I popped by Vet Nurse, who has had to say goodbye to her companion Wibble. Please drop in and give her extra hugs. I've never cuddled up to Wibs, but I've followed her antics through Vet Nurse's blog and this morning my heart is heavy with her loss.

Solitaire is a domestic short-haired cat. A posh term for a moggie. She's supposed to be Boy's cat. She loves her Boy, when he's not around for a weekend and he comes home, she's thrilled to see him. If he sits at a table, she'll come up to him and head butt him until he worships her.

Having said that, she sleeps with me. I think she definitely approves of my new bed. It's king size, rather than a 3/4 bed. Which means she can stretch out all the way, and I still have to turn over carefully, so as not to disturb her. I have a de-lint brush, with which to remove the several tonnes of black cat hair from the duvet every other day. All bedding I buy has to be with her in mind. She doesn't like satin-esk bedding and will pluck it to buggery until I change it. I do have a proper grooming brush to try and de-fluff her, but I put it in a safe place and can't find the bugger now. Why I tidy up, I'll never know.

When I come home, I'll call for her and she comes bounding down the stairs saying hello. She doesn't meow a lot for a cat, she chirrups; we have long conversations sometimes. She doesn't like being picked up, but she'll come sit next to me if I'm in one place long enough, curl up and snooze.

The Cat is a fair weather feline. The new abode has been very much to her liking. She's turned into a territorial thing, chasing off other cats with a fierce yowl, puffing herself up to twice her size. Ridiculous really. If they stopped and looked her in the eye, they'd have seen she's all bark. Not a scrapper at all. In the summer, I'd call for her when I've finished rolling a smoke and she'd come out into the sunshine with me. Hiding under a lilac when she got too hot and she'd stay out in the garden all day. She likes the cat-flap which we now keep open all the time. She gets up a couple of times in the night, but when I wake up in the morning, there she is all warm and snug at the bottom of the bed.

The week before my op was a hard one. I was saying goodbye to my fertility and my dreams of a happy family. I was outside smoking, and she sat with me, patting my leg, so I'd stroke her some more. I wondered why she was suddenly clingy and then I realised it was me. She could see I was grieving and this was her way of comforting me. Bless her.

She's eleven years old this September and I'm pleased that we have a few more happy years ahead of us. Today after reading of Vet Nurse's sad news I picked her up, protesting and gave her a big cuddle.