Just cat style

Our kitten is rapidly developing into a – sigh – cat. She has not yet lost the baby cuteness that makes us give her whatever she wants when she wants it – and, oh boy, does she ever make it so clear that she wants something NOW! – but she has an occasionally-distressing tendency to be startlingly independent and is even hiding things from us, her adopted family. ‘Adopted’, because she claimed us as hers; we had little, if any, say in the matter. She has her moods, which are very human in some ways; she will run away and hide under the bed when she does not want to be social, bite if she is restrained or constrained in any way and choose her own times to be friendly, affectionate or demanding of our attention.
And it is a specific kind of attention, too, not just what we have the time and energy to dole out at that particular moment. When she wants us to play, she will come and tap either me or my father on the foot and then run away when we shriek in nicely simulated startlement, which is exactly the response she wants. Or if she feels that she is being ignored, neglected or just plain devilish, she will charge at us, bite smartly at a toe, an ankle or a dangling hand and then skitter madly over the highly polished tiles to ‘hide’ under the carpet or bedspread, fondly imagining that since her little big-eared head is hidden from our view, we cannot see the rest of her, fat little bottom and wildly waving tail, that is clearly visible. Her other favourite trick is to slide under the flaps of a cardboard box she takes siestas in – ignoring her nicely cushioned came basket – and pretend that she is invisible, why we pretend, in our turn, to be looking for her everywhere.
But where she is still very much a baby is when the vet arrived. As he did yesterday evening. It was a routine check-up, to see if she is healthy and for a fortuitous clipping of razor-edged claws and a cleaning of the mystery that is her digestive system with a judicious deworming pill. She started to run when the doctor and his assistant came in, then proceeded to make a scene with ear-splitting yowls and screams as her nails were cut and her tummy felt to check for anything that should not have been there. But it was when the pill made her acquaintance that she really let fly. It was truly a caterwauling, as she struggled and clawed and bit both men who were trying to hold her still on the sofa and shove the half-tablet down her throat. I stood with my back to the scene, my ears plugged, while my father hovered over his pet, making soothing noises.

All to no avail. The vet gave up the battle and the cat fled to her haven under a planter’s chair in my bedroom. All four of us – vet, assistant, father and self – stood sheepishly around, examining our wounds and exclaiming how the urchin who had come to us the size of a teacup had grown into such a healthy –and loud – animal. Much later, long after the visitors had gone and we had done mopping up blood, she emerged, ears flat against her head, eyes rounded, tail waving apprehensively. It was only after she was held, cuddled, talked to, shown that there was no one there and fed some of her favourite treats that she deigned to settle down, still wary of noises that were not immediately identifiable.

But all was not lost. After dinner, while she and I idly watched something on television and father-dear had gone to bed, I quietly, without any fuss, opened her mouth and pushed in the deworming dose. She swallowed it before she realised what I was doing and then ate a hearty meal. Which only goes to show that she, like all people, is a person whose feelings need to be respected.