He hates me, he hates me not…

I just discovered this ancient post stuck as a draft in Pages. No doubt I spent ages hunting for it and eventually gave up. To be honest I’ve never been sure what Pages are for except perhaps to engulf the occasional three hours of work – the blogging equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle.

There seems to be no way in my budget version of WordPress to convert a draft Page into a draft Post. It seems I would need a special plug-in, but can only have the special plug-in if I upgrade, which is lot of trouble and expense for one post. So I’m going to just publish it as a Page and hope it turns up somewhere that people can read it. It’s got a rather nice Hector photo in it:-

PS: they all still hate me but they approve of the food, particularly the biscuits…

This morning, crammed into one corner of my tiny sofa, one cat or another on lap, bowl of Oatibix-and-sliced-banana poised midway ‘twixt hand and mouth, ghastly news on the TV as always, I looked around and there was Hector sat in the other corner of my tiny sofa. 

Admittedly he was leaning sharply away from me, the Hated Mummy. But this is progress of a sort, because although this cat is “mine” and has been for some months I may never have actually touched him or even got within a foot or two of him.

He and his cohort arrived late one evening in an ancient car from the cat sanctuary, in (non-crushed) crush cages. Their elderly human carriers had driven a very long way to make the delivery and were visibly wilting under the weight of these heavy-duty metal contraptions, which are normally used by vets and other professionals for the treatment of animals that cannot be held secure by a nurse. In the noise and confusion of their arrival I assumed this was because animal sanctuaries, always struggling for money, would need to make use of whatever equipment they had for many different purposes.

At the cat sanctuary Hector had – or at least I was sure I remembered he had – allowed me to stroke him – but then there had been four very similar cats backed up in one rather small – not illegally small, of course – unheated outdoor wooden cubicle. They had been in that cubicle for the past two years, come wind, shine or bonfire (there was one burning in the field behind and wood-smoke was gusting through). They had been inspected by a stream of visitors, all of whom had probably reached out clumsily and attempted to stroke them, and all of whom had walked away with some other cat.

Why, is now becoming clearer. In a moment of Cat Mummy Madness I announced that I would adopt all four, and all four have turned out to be as wild as wild can be. Kind people have rescued and fed them but nobody has had the time to love them, or even been permitted to. They cringe at the approach of a human hand – or foot. I think they must have been kicked.

I would guess that Hector and his compadres are years away from the stage where I could pick any of them up, which is only a problem if it becomes necessary to visit the vet. He and his amigos/amiga represent the North Korea of cats. It’s a worry. Fingers crossed they don’t get sick for a while or that patience and love miraculously prevail.