I love cats. And that's a fact. I'm one of those people that attract them wherever I go. I must carry with me a scent that signals to cats that I am a pushover for the wide-eyed, 'adopt me', look. Certainly I have given homes to many cats over the years. Some were strays who visited for a while; others came as kittens that, in time, grew into old cats and passed on; and then there were the lodgers - neighbouring cats that visited more and more frequently until their owners, somewhat insistently, assured me that their much-loved pets were happier with me. So you would think that when Flossie arrived I might have had her number. Knowing her as I do now I would say that it is probably 666.
When we first eyed each other up I heard no warning bells ringing. How deaf could I be? How could I have imagined that something that resembled an unravelled ball of black mohair set on four stumps with a face that only a mother could love, would turn into the multi-feline-personality that stalks the house, striking terror in the hearts of our other cats and some - singled out by Flossie - humans.
As you have already guessed Flossie is no beauty. Although I always hoped that we might have here the cat version of the ugly duckling turning into the graceful swan I had my doubts that this would ever be the case. I suppose my first realisation came when I took her to the vet for her vaccinations. Although she was just a kitten, getting this snarling, spitting whirling dervish into the cat basket proved to be a two-person job. Sitting in the waiting room at the surgery I studiously avoided Flossie's baleful glare and at the same time made sure that she was unable to make eye contact with the Staffordshire bull-terrier across from us - for his own sake.
However, when it was our turn to see the vet a miraculous transformation had taken place. Gone was the she-devil that had earlier taken several layers of skin from my right hand and in its place was 'sweet little kitty'. This confirmed my suspicions that Flossie might have a multi-personality disorder, but to make matters worse I discovered that this was of secondary interest to the vet who pulled lightly at her coat a few times and asked me if she had ever been wormed. Having put on her best, most appealing persona I could see that Flossie was affronted. But, I have to say that I could see what the vet was getting at, for in human terms Flossie looks like a bag-lady who buys her clothes from Oxfam.
Flossie has long hair but it has the texture of candy-floss and no amount of grooming is ever going to bring a shine to that coat. It's okay; neither of us wants to exhibit at shows. Which is just as well, as I do not believe that there is a category for 'Best Slightly Moth-Eaten'. When I explained to the vet that, despite her appearance, Flossie was worm-free he didn't look completely convinced, so I took the tablets anyway and when I got home I chucked them in the bin while Flossie vented her spleen on the nearest piece of soft furnishing.
As she grew it became apparent that Flossie was pathologically attached to me, and not only in the emotional sense but, at every possible occasion, physically too. Whenever I came within a couple of feet of her she would launch herself at me and attach herself like a barnacle to whichever part of my person she came into contact with. While she was still small this was mildly irritating but not greatly discomforting. However, as she grew larger this became a positive health hazard. Sometimes she would land on top of me, having launched herself off the top of the kitchen cupboard, sometimes she came from behind while I was working at my computer and occasionally, and most dramatically, she would leap from the work-surface in the kitchen and latch herself spread-eagled onto the front of my sweater. By the time she was two the novelty was beginning to wear thin. For me, entering a room became a commando exercise. But despite my precautions Flossie, the ambush expert, was always one step ahead of me.
I suppose that I should be pleased to have a cat with loads of 'character'. But a lot of this is saved for the benefit of others. Flossie is a born show-off and is never happier than when she is the star-attraction. Certainly she is at her most appealing when she decides she wants to play ball. This is usually reserved for those times when we have friends round for dinner and Flossie will bring out her selection of grubby, hairy, half-eaten rubber balls. The game goes something like this: in the middle of a fascinating piece of dinner-party conversation Flossie (stage off), to the alarm of our guests, lets out a blood-curdling caterwauling. Then after 30 seconds she runs into the dining room and drops her chosen ball at the feet of one of our party. The said guest is usually delighted to have been singled out and easily falls into the trap of throwing the ball for Flossie who fetches and drops and fetches and drops until she has had enough. The said guest still enchanted by this behaviour would like to carry on playing, so throws the ball one more time. At this point Flossie stands, legs akimbo, an aloof sneer on her face. Then she slowly turns and stumps off leaving said guest looking foolish. Occasionally she will take pity on the poor fool and remove the ball to a less public place, like the inside of one of my shoes, my handbag, under a cushion, or into the fruit bowl disguised as a mouldy old plum.
Flossie's other dinner party trick is opening the cellar door, just inside of which is a large sack of cat biscuits. Somehow, she has worked out that this door is secured by a ball-catch and does not require the human thumb to turn a handle. But, more than this, she has worked out that if she takes a run at the door from half-way across the hall and executes a flying drop-kick, hitting the edge of the door with her hind feet at a certain height and then completing the manoeuvre with a graceful back-somersault, the door will swing open, through which she will then calmly swagger. Witnessing this acrobatic feat has caused grown men and women to squeal with delight. If only she didn't look so bizarre we would have entered her on 'Pets Win Prizes'.
But she does look bizarre. And no more so than when winter draws on and the days get colder. Then an amazing transformation takes place. Like the hapless Dr. Jekyll in that old Lon Chaney movie, who, having swigged down the potion, suddenly metamorphosis's into the horribly hirsute Mr. Hyde, Flossie's fur begins sprouting at an alarming rate until she has grown to twice her normal size. Her face fur, in particular, bushes out at either side and under her chin giving her an even more ferocious aspect. And, moreover, it is a different colour to the rest of her coat. We feel honoured somehow to be witnessing Darwin's theory of evolution at close quarters. However, having demonstrated her ability to adapt with ease to extreme climactic changes she then spends the winter pressed up against the nearest radiator and refuses to leave the house. It could be that she has no idea that she has taken on the appearance of a small yak, although she clearly finds grooming herself a little more of an ordeal than usual. Grooming herself? What am I saying? This is the cat that regularly brings in a variety of dead vegetation knitted into the fur on her hind quarters and whose undercarriage offers up the delights of baby slugs - still living - and other unmentionable items to the brush that I so thoughtfully groom her with. On the other hand, if she doesn't groom herself, where do the disgusting slimy, furry odd-shaped objects mysteriously appear from, with impeccable timing, when friends come to stay?
Having said all this I wouldn't be without Flossie and neither would my husband - even though he feigns indifference. She is a great feline character, deserving of a poem by T.S.Elliott. I feel privileged to know her. I just hope that she feels the same way about me…. but I doubt it.
