Bringing home the bacon..

As we drove to see the litter of three kittens I distinctly remember cautioning the family that we were only going to pick one kitten.  "Just one," I said.  "Oh but, Mum, they're all so gorgeous and look at their wee tiger stripes." Famous last words and all that; their liquid amber eyes and tawny paws captured our hearts. We chose two.  I thought they'd be company for one another and reasoned to myself that there would only be a few more mice and small birds to contend with (such 'gifts' surely being the worst aspect of sharing your home with felines).And, to start with, that's how it was with Kizzy and her brother Hobbes.  Although Kizzy was a bit of amagpie and liked to purloin little shiny lip gloss tins and skittle them across the wooden flooring, Hobbes merely dropped the odd mouse on the carpet now and again.  He hardly ever kills his catches, just brings them home as presents for me, then sits a few feet away and watches intently.  Then one day there was a bit of a commotion at the cat flap.  "Mum", yelled my daughter "Mum, I think you'd better come and see this."  i don't know what I was expecting, but what I saw was a dead squirrel on the grass right outside the cat flap and Hobbes inside resting on his haunches looking rather.... rather what?  Judging by his rumbling purr he was rather pleased with himself.  Hobbes had been hunting and, living up to the early potential of his stripy markings, had clearly found his inner tiger!  

Next, he brought home a pigeon and also deposited it outside the cat flap.  His prey seemed to be increasing in size.  Did he mean to bring them inside?  Yet, despite what appeared to be his best efforts, hauling larger prey through the cat flap was thankfully not his forte.  He therefore changed tactics and reverted to smaller cat flap sized prey; bringing home a (live) duckling one dusky evening.  It was too late to put the duckling back on the nearby pond so Barry the duckling stayed overnight in the bathroom.  As Barry paddled and preened his downy feathers in the sink I had a fleeting vision of becoming like Joey and Chandler from the TV series "Friends" who kept a duck in their apartment. 

 Hobbes returned to the pond the next day.  However, presumably being mindful that his duckling had been taken away from him, he brought home a frog instead. Hobbes likes frogs. Very much.  In fact, he likes frogs so much that (as fast as I returned them to the pond in a bowl) he'd simply bring another one home.  He sits in front of them and stares at them, amber eyes shining with excitement like a small boy in a toy shop, almost daring them to jump so he can leap back in stunned amazement and then slowly creep forward again to resume his watching position.  I believe that became known in the family as "frog week." Come to think of it, we've had a "frog week" every year since.

Although the squirrel was the first in a long line of rather peculiar prey for Hobbes, the one which secured his reputation as a hunter extraordinaire was the live seagull I found standing on the lounge rug one day.  The live not-very-happy-at-all seagull. I  was talking to a friend on my mobile telephone as I entered the lounge that day and literally stopped dead in my tracks when I saw it. "Er, would it be all right if I called you back later? Only I really need to go now..... Why? Oh, er, well, it's a bit odd really but there's sort of a seagull in the lounge...... Hello? Are you still there?..... Yes, a seagull..... Yes, honestly, there's a seagull standing on the rug.... Yes, it's a real one.... Hobbes? Yes, actually you're right, he's here too..... How am I going to catch it? I've no idea but that's sort of why I need to call you later."  I ended the call and looked at Hobbes, "So, buddy, any hints on exactly how I should catch this??"  But he simply looked at me in a way that implied it was totally my problem.  After all, he'd brought it in, what more did he need to do? And, indeed, catching it was interesting for it was very much alive and exceptionally angry at finding itself inside being stared at by a rather smug cat. Having finally caught it and placed it in the cat travel basket, I telephoned Glenbrae vet practice.  "Er, can you help me? Is it okay to come down to the practice now?  Hobbes just brought a seagull in and I've..... Yes, I did say a seagull.... Really, yes.  A seagull.  Can I come down with it?"  So it was that I took the seagull to the practice and - for anyone who's ever travelled with a noisy animal in a car - try having an angry seagull in a basket!  That really makes for an interesting journey.  So too for that matter does a magpie in a basket.  I found the magpie wandering round my bedroom in stunned amazement some months after the seagull.  "Hello is that Glenbrae?  Hobbes has done it again.  I'm on my way down, only this time it's a magpie."   Now when I phone the practice or walk in with an angry occupant in a basket, I'm met with a chorus of "What's he done this time??"  Bless them for all their skill and assistance.  

Hobbes has unfortunately been quite poorly in recent months with blistered weeping sores in between the pads of his feet and great big scabby patches on his face. The staff at Glenbrae have again been wonderfully kind in their care and unstinting in their efforts to resolve this painful recurring problem.  As a buster collar alone did not stop the ever flexible Hobbes from chewing his feet and making them worse, Glenbrae advised that he should also wear baby socks.  I was incredulous at first, but they worked a treat and so it was that Mr. McBucket Head (as he was temporarily affectionately known) also sported bright blue baby socks.  Glenbrae diagnosed an allergy and referred Hobbes to a specialist dermatologist; where there was much discussion of his eating and hunting habits; followed by a skin prick test under general anaesthesia to definitively diagnose his allergy.  The dermatologist told me (with a slightly wry smile) that they had a positive result, noting however that this was a rather unusual result for a cat.  "Go on," I said with my face in my hands "nothing would surprise me with Hobbes."  But, oh yes, it was a surprise.  He's allergic to horses!!  Do I own a horse?  No.  Do I live near horses or know where he goes to come across a horse?  No.  "Gosh," I exclaimed "I don't know how he's allergic to horses.  It's about the only thing he hasn't hauled through the cat flap....."  Hobbes now goes to Glenbrae once a month for an injection; which thankfully controls his allergy.

So, while his sister Kizzy skittles lip gloss tins and stray buttons across the wooden floor, Hobbes has become a legend in his own lunchtime.  The cat flap broke one day and I implored family members to help get it fixed before nightfall that same day "No, no it HAS to be fixed today.  This is Hobbes we're talking about.  Otherwise he'll bring in the largest nocturnal animal he can find and I'll probably wake up to find a badger in my bedroom..."  BUT it seems his culinary tastes are changing as recently he's altered the type of "gifts" he brings home.  A few weeks ago he raced into the kitchen, threw something on the floor and hunkered his whole body over it growling ominously all the time.  Given that all previous "presents" have been deposited on the floor and watched curiously from a distance, I approached with a due sense of fear and trepidation.  What on earth would he guard so protectively? As I neared, he swished his tail and increased the crescendo of his warning.  I hardly dared to look but then burst out laughing; my first thought being that, despite this being Hobbes, nobody was going to believe me.  It was a string of raw linked sausages!  He had literally brought home the bacon!!  Much to his bewilderment, I couldn't pick them up for laughing.  He looked hurt.  His "gifts" are normally met with a sense of awe and wonder, not raucous laughter.  As with all "gifts", the tale of their arrival into the house have been much told to incredulous friends and family.  It would seem however that Kizzy has been aware her brother has been hogging the limelight as, one week after "Sausage-gate", I noticed she didn't come when I called her.  I eventually found her under my bed, curiously patting at a gently rolling white...."Oh my goodness, it's a pigeon egg! How and where on earth do you two get these things?" I wondered as I reached under the bed to retrieve it. I got the answer to the "how" the very next day when she proudly trotted in with another intact pigeon egg cradled in her mouth. Sadly the pigeon itself also followed suit on the third day. Honestly it's like living with two tawny tigers!  Yet as they slink along the sofa towards me in the evening and slide onto my chest for a cuddle and a tummy tickle (these are not lap cats), it seems I would forgive them anything --- even sausages and seagulls!!