A cathartic post. Self-indulgent, yes, but with lessons to be learnt.

Five am, and the fire brigade are bashing down my back door to gain entry for the ambulance men. I’m carted off to the hospital for the second time in less than three months.

*

It all began very pleasantly.

It’s that time of year again when the wild garlic proliferates in its shady spots. I know such a spot where dogs are less likely to have been. My two favourite recipes are garlic/potato soup and poached eggs on a bed of sautéed leaves. I spoke about them last year. I am again picking the fresh, young, aromatic leaves on Easter Monday.

Known as Ramsoms by country folk. The Latin name ursinum relates to ‘bear’ and refers to the fondness of the brown bear for the bulbs. Cows love to eat the leaves, hence another vernacular name of Cow’s Leek. Associated with bluebells, they are considered to be an ancient woodland indicator species. Today, the bluebells are just coming into bloom, a patchy blue rather than a carpet.

I enjoy my short walk by the river and come home with a carrier bag full of fresh leaves; they will go to nothing once cooked.

In the evening, I cook some potatoes and start washing the garlic leaves in the kitchen sink before transferring them to the soup pot. Yes, I probably am a little messy, and the kitchen tiles get their fair share of water. Turning around, I slip and try to grab the kitchen bar stool, but between us we crash to the floor. That would have been probably fine with a few bruises, except I somehow land upside down inside the wooden frame below the seat—a freak accident.

It dawns on me that, despite not initially injuring myself, I can’t get out of the frame. My torso is stuck even though I wriggle about and try to push with my arms. I can’t use my legs because they are wrapped around the bottom rung, with my feet unable to touch the ground. A sort of Chinese puzzle, think of a tortoise on its back. It is probably about 7 or 8 pm.

My first thought, obviously, is to phone for help, and that’s when the problems multiply. Where is the house phone? The handset is usually on the charger in the living room.  I have to get there. I start pushing the chair frame across the kitchen tiles,  with me inside it, using my hands and elbows. The first obstacle is the thick mat, which I somehow push out of the way. I pull on the kitchen table legs to help my slow progress, resulting in the table sliding across my path.

Reaching the door into the lounge, fortunately open, I realise that, going forward, I can’t negotiate the lip of the carpet door bar, mainly because I can’t use my feet to lift the chair legs. After laboriously spinning round and going backwards, my arms give enough lift to get the chair frame over and into the lounge. Spinning again, I push towards the phone socket but come up against the heavy leather settee. Some difficult shoving and pushing, mainly with my elbows, eventually gives me space to go past. I’m now in the dark and pulling the charger down to me, but no handset can be found.

That has taken over an hour and a half of exhausting work. It isn’t easy to relax my legs in their position, around a wooden rung which is biting into the backs of my knees. My spine is rubbing against the side of the seat, and it causes pain whenever I shuffle and try to push.

So I have to reverse the whole process and head back into the kitchen, where I hope the handset will be on the worktop. At least this time, I know how to negotiate the carpet strip. Thankfully, the handset is on the worktop and I struggle to dislodge it with the oven gloves from the cooker door. My relief is short-lived when I realise the phone’s battery is run down and useless.

Back I go, with increasing difficulty as I tire and become cold and dehydrated. My feet have become numb from a lack of blood supply.  I can’t give up, as I imagine slowly dying in this position, I’m at the end of my tether, but I manage to get the handset on the charger, and it comes to life. I have no idea what time it is.

After a few minutes, I dial for help. In the dark, it takes me some time to engage three nines in a row. Ambulance control answer, and I explain my predicament. A crew will be on its way, but there is a delay of up to one and a half hours. I tell them they will have to force entry as I can’t unlock the doors.

Wow, what a relief, I just have to hang on a little longer. I can’t move by now, and I am shivering with cold, so it seems an age before they arrive, though it was probably much less than an hour. Of course, they can’t gain access and have to phone the fire brigade for help. (There was some miscommunication along the way.) Speaking through the door, they tell me it is 05.00 am, no wonder I am cold. Luckily, the local fire brigade arrive within 15 minutes and, after some difficulty, break through the back door.

The ambulance crew try to lift me out of the chair, but I am firmly stuck, so I have to be cut out by the fire brigade. What a relief, I have been on the floor for nine or ten hours.

Lessons learnt so far.

Don’t pick wild garlic.

Be more careful on wet surfaces.

Have your phone handsets charged up.

Don’t leave the key in the lock – preventing a spare key from being used.

Introducing Dusty and Oscar.

You will remember I lost Seth, my 16-year-old cat, earlier this year. My friend Crusher inherited some cats when he moved to a cottage in the hills, and since then, more kittens have arrived. I intended to maybe take a couple of his stock if his children allowed me. Being unable to drive for over two months put that on hold for practical reasons. However, this week, I have been signed off from the hospital.  The nerve damage to my hand has improved to the extent that I can resume driving, so I have taxed my car and am ready for the road again.

A while back, I sent my family a picture of the cats, and they were keen to advise me on which ones to choose. In anticipation of the new arrivals, I borrowed a cage to put in my kitchen. I intend to keep them secure for a week or so until they are used to me and the house. They will also need microchipping and immunising.

Friday.

I give Crusher a ring to see if they are at home. Yes, so I collect my cat basket and drive up. The feline population are sat around the yard, all very friendly. The children have developed strong attachments to most of the older cats, so I chose two of the younger ones: a male and a female. I think. Both are short-haired black kittens, the male with a white tuxedo and paws. Crusher’s children receive some money for their ‘piggy banks’, with the promise that they can come and visit anytime.
The two kittens are subdued by their transfer to Longridge but soon relax into their new shared bed, even though I provided one each.. They don’t seem interested in food; I will give them time to settle.

Saturday.

They seem pleased to see me in the morning.
They haven’t eaten much, so I visit Sainsbury’s around the corner for some of that addictive Sheba food. That does the trick, and they are soon tucking in. I phone the vets to arrange for them to be seen next week. The veterinary nurses are sad to hear of Seth’s passing but look forward to meeting the new kittens. I think they are about 9 months old and that the female has been neutered.

What are their names?  That puts me on the spot. They did have names from their previous home, but I didn’t register them in my mind. I have already decided to call the female Dusty because she is. And who didn’t like Dusty Springfield? (I visited her grave way back in 2018 whilst walking the Thames Path through Henley.) The male is a ‘tuxedo’ with a white chest and spats. My family had suggested Oscar, because you wear a tuxedo at the ceremony. Let’s go with that for the time being.

Sunday.

I’m around the house most of the day, so the two kittens have the freedom of the kitchen. Chasing balls under cupboards keeps them entertained. They enjoy exploring and, before long, find their way onto the table and worktops. As with all young animals, ‘playfighting’ goes on from time to time, but generally, they tolerate each other well. I’m not sure who is the dominant one. They are a little too fast for my phone camera.

They eat anything and everything now, take to the scratch tower and use the litter tray.

A busy day for them.

Monday. Back into the carrier for a trip to the vets who take to the new arrivals. Going from their weight, Grace thinks they may be a little younger than 9 months or more likely have not had their fair share of food amongst the other cats on the farm.

Dusty has been neutered, but Oscar will need dealing with later.

I had noticed earlier that they had the odd cough from time to time and mentioned this. Their chests are a bit wheezy, so perhaps they have a mild infection – hopefully not cat flu. Their vaccinations are delayed for two weeks until a dose of antibiotics and steroids has had time to work.

They both are chipped without any fuss.

I return home, a little poorer, but with the kittens still in good form, and it’s time for a little telly.

Let’s see what the coming weeks bring.

Seth has used up the last of his nine lives. He died peacefully a few days ago. As he has been mentioned several times in these pages, I am writing a little tribute.

I remember a previous cat, Arthur ( named long before the eponymous cat food), dying of feline leukaemia. He had not been vaccinated against it. That was back at the end of 2007. I had a few weeks in Egypt that winter, relevance later, and planned to walk the Haute Randonnée Pyrénéenne (HRP) from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean in the summer, having previously cancelled for a hernia operation. Knowing I would be away for long periods, I didn’t look for another cat.

I squeezed in a climbing trip to Valencia early in the year and then had some training for the HRP. The Pyrenees trip was exciting because of the late snowfall in June, but the pieman and I completed it, though not quite as planned; that’s another story.

Halfway across, I received a text telling me of my third grandchild’s arrival. He is a strapping 16 now. Another text arrived from Dor, my cat person. She had been visiting a friend’s farm, and Lily had just produced four delightful kittens. Knowing my catless state, she was excited and convinced I would take one of them on my return. I knew Lily as a beautiful, friendly cat; part Tabby, part Maine Coon, so I had high hopes for her kittens. Yes, I’m interested, was my reply, but I won’t be back for another month or so.

My first visit to the farm was when the kittens were about eight weeks old, but we couldn’t catch them in the woodpile. They did look cute, though, and I pointed out the one I preferred, an absolute ball of fluff. The plan was to return when the farmer had enticed the kittens into her porch. A few days later, I received the phone call and drove up with Dor and a cat basket in readiness.

Two of the kittens had already been taken by a local contractor to be used as ‘ratters’ in his premises. I wonder what sort of life they have had.

I was happy with my choice of kitten. Settled with a cup of tea and cake, the ladies then proceeded to convince me the two female kittens couldn’t be separated. I was ambushed, as was their plan. So, money was donated to a charity, and we drove home with the two kittens—my original choice of the fluffy one and the other wiser-looking one.

Naming the two of them was easy following my recent visit to Egypt, where cats have been given Godlike status.

BASTET is the Ancient Egyptian cat goddess associated with the home,  fertility, and childbirth. Thought also to protect against evil spirits. Probably the most famous of all the cat gods.  Images, in her most common form, depict the head of a cat and the body of a woman with an air of authority and disdain. That will be the fluffy one.

SEKHMET, a lesser-known Egyptian cat goddess. She was the goddess of war and would protect the pharaohs in battle. Like Bastet, she rode with the sun god Ra. Associated also with healing, she was the goddess Egyptians turned to when they needed to cure life’s problems. That will be the fierce one.

Not a bad pedigree for my two.

An appointment was made at the vet for a check-up, vaccination (this time including Leukaemia), and microchipping. The vet thought them both healthy, especially the lively male one. Oh! A quick change of sex and Sekhmet was renamed SETH on the spot. The name stuck.

They were both rendered infertile a few weeks later.

My cats have always had the freedom of the house and garden using a cat flap. I was keen to accustom Seth and B (as we now called her) to the surroundings without them running off. In the family album, I have found a picture of my grandchildren, J and S,  taking them around the garden on makeshift leashes. August 22 2008.
I have looked for earlier photographs, but my filing system is chaotic.

B and Seth became part of the household and tolerated each other rather than being bosom pals. They would spend as much time in the garden as possible in the better weather. But like all cats, they could sleep for hours by the radiator in Winter. They both had bells to warn the garden birds, but from the start, Seth was never interested in hunting; he didn’t have the patience to stay still before pouncing cat-like. It was B who would bring mice and rabbits into the kitchen.

October 2008  B and Seth.

We often visited A’s farm to update her on the kittens’s progress. Lily, their mother, always keen to hear the news. More kittens appeared.  Not long after, the lady farmer, unfortunately, died at a relatively young age. Her funeral was a fitting celebration of a lovely lady.

The farmhouse was left empty; her brother farmed the fields, but cats were low on his priorities. So what of the remaining kittens? Lily, the matriarch, had passed on. Each week, under Dor’s insistence, we would drive up with cat food for the abandoned kittens. They were wild and wouldn’t come to us; they would only take the food once we were back in the car. We left tins for the brother to feed the cats between our visits. As I said, we came weekly. One particular kitten always seemed to be pushed out by the others. We tried to offer her food in a different place, and she became more friendly.

Dor became attached to this kitten, whom we named Lily after her mother. As the weeks went on, the other kittens seemed to disperse. We were solely feeding Lily. She was understandably unkempt and thin. Why not adopt her?  Dor was all for kidnapping her on the spot. I felt it better to speak to the brother first. He was quite happy for us to look after her. Us? I thought Dor would take her, but she didn’t want the responsibility. That left me. Back with a cat box, which Lily happily entered. The next day, I took her to the vet, and they found she had a dislocated jaw, probably from a fight. The bill was rapidly rising.

Anyhow, she was introduced to her cousins, Seth and B, and all got along. I was now a three-cat family. Seth maintained his aloofness but was always the one to be stroked.

Here he is with the youngest grandson, A, in 2012 both aged three and a half. They do, after all, virtually share the same birthday.

Dor came often to interact with Lily. Somewhere, I have a photo of all three cats.

B and Seth 2014.

What went wrong? I can’t remember the year. I blame myself. As I said, they had the freedom of a catflap, but that was their undoing. Road works in Longridge diverted traffic past my house; what was once a quiet lane became a busy rat run. The inevitable happened: first, Lily and then B was run over. Seth, who didn’t venture far, thankfully survived. He becomes the king of the castle.

One day, he was unhappy, wouldn’t eat and seemed in pain. The vet diagnosed a jaw fracture with loss of teeth, possibly a brush with traffic or a fox. He survived but with ongoing eating difficulties—a near escape.

The years passed, they do seem to have merged into one. Seth was always there. He was waiting for me behind the door when he heard my car.  He became a firm favourite with my friends and family, who mostly liked cats. My local cattery welcomed him whenever I travelled abroad. His affectionate personality wooed several ladies who would regularly call in for coffee, not necessarily for my company, but to have the honour of Seth’s attention on their laps for an hour or so. He didn’t just rub up against you he licked you to death. The start of a legend.

 2018.

Around this time, Sept 2021. I am able to be more specific because I wrote a post about it. Seth didn’t return home for a couple of days. He bravely dragged himself back onto my bottom stairs one morning. He had dislocated one of his hips. The vet was brilliant in treating him. How many lives is that now?   Here, he is in his cage for 6 weeks after the operation.

Life drifts on for Seth and me. And then comes along Covid lockdown. He was so used to attention from visitors that he became visibly restless when none could come. Things slowly returned to normal, and Seth made even more fuss with visitors; he was particularly friendly with my cleaner on a Monday morning. She often brought him treats and didn’t like hoovering to disturb him if he was asleep in a room. He spent most of his time in the house, several favourite resting places picked randomly throughout the day.

One of his best, if the sun was shining, was on the car’s warm soft-top; up here, he also received the attention of passers-by.  He had to be physically removed if I was going out in the car. If the family were visiting, he always got in on the act. That’s those two grandchildren a decade later.

Around this time, one of my sons and his partner adopted two boisterous rescue dogs. When they visited, Seth just sat at the top of the stairs, daring them to come closer; they never did. He would happily trot downstairs the moment their car left the drive, secretly pleased with himself for remaining aloof.

Seth and all my other cats had gone to a trusted cattery for years until lockdown. The people running the cattery have been friends for all that time, and even when I wasn’t away, I kept in contact with them. They always asked after Seth and he received a Christmas card every year from them. I started going away on walking holidays again in 2021. So when I phoned to book him in, they were pleased to have him back, and I’m sure they gave him a lot of attention.  I don’t seem to have travelled far in 2022/23 for health reasons,  so I did not board Seth there. When I resumed last year, I obviously phoned them to book Seth in. They were somewhat embarrassed to say that a recent inspection by DEFRA  found their inner cages a few centimetres on the short side and had not renewed their license. What a daft decision; my cats had never complained. They are still appealing against this decision but couldn’t take Seth. I had to find another cattery. Fortunately, there was a local one with a good reputation, and Seth took to them with no difficulty on the few occasions he holidayed there. The last time I picked him up, the staff were keen for him to return; he had already become a favourite.

As I’ve said, he didn’t go out much as he aged; he was never a hunter. For years, he was the only cat at our end of the road, so he had no competitors. Slowly, housing has spread around us, and other cats have started appearing. One particular one, a fine-looking tom, visits regularly, as I think Seth had lost his territory. They would sit on either side of a window, hissing at each other. Worse, this other cat came into my house through the cat flap once or twice, and there was a proper standoff between them. I locked the catflap and started keeping Seth inside to avoid any stress. But I thought that was unfair to him, and the litter trays in my kitchen were not ideal. The obvious answer was to buy a fancy flap that only responded to Seth’s chip. He didn’t like this new gadget and just stayed in as before, but at least the other cat couldn’t come in. I do wonder how much the stress had affected him.

A week or so ago, he wasn’t eating much, which was not unusual for him. (In recent years, I had started buying him chicken pieces) When I picked him up, he winced with pain, so there was something amiss. He had never attempted to bite or scratch me all his life. He’d not been outside; hence, it was unlikely he was injured. A trip to the vet suggested an internal pathology or infection. Antibiotics made no difference, and he slowly deteriorated. The weekend, he was worse, and I was expecting to take him back to the vets on Monday to be euthanised as they were reluctant to operate. I gave him, rightly or wrongly, small doses of paracetamol to make him comfortable. He died in the night.

A legend indeed.