Loud wailing & reluctant trust

Trying to get a cat into a pet carrier is like trying to wrestle a tantrumming toddler into a buggy: both endeavours take at least two people and a carefully communicated plan.

For the record, Mittens did not enjoy yesterday’s trip to the vets.

As much as I tried to convince her that for a house cat, it must be, “fun to get out,” and that having a check-up was not unlike, “being pampered at a spa,” she remained unconvinced.

I guess having a thermometer popped where the sun doesn’t shine raises questions about the sort of spas I go to.

*

The other morning, I sat on the sand with my morning coffee and was entertained by a baby seagull.

Baby seagulls are brilliant. So huge yet so hopeless, they lumber after their parents wailing for snacks like grumpy teenagers.

This gull baby clearly wanted to pick up a tasty sea treat and fly off with it in its beak, but hadn’t mastered the art of doing both things at once.

Each time it tried to launch itself into the air, it dropped the treat: flap, drop, land. Flap, drop, land.

I guess there’s a learning curve for basic seagull skills.

*

When we returned from the vets, I fully expected Mittens to dash under the sofa or rush upstairs to hide.

I don’t know if she was overcome with relief to be home or just exhausted from her forty solid minutes of wailing, but she was very cool, striding out of her carrier with all the swagger of a finalist leaving the Big Brother house.

I thought she’d be frosty and worried that our bond might have suffered, but apart from giving my jeans a good sniff (eau de vet - yuck) she climbed back into my lap quite happily, all thermometer indignities thankfully forgiven.

*

My morning cuppa today was distinctly soggy, but we hardy locals are not put off by a bit of light drizzle. I sat on a damp cafe chair on the prom and cradled my paper cup, watching it ripple as the odd drip of rain hit the steaming liquid.

But the weather matched my mood perfectly.

Since realising that we’ll be moving on from this gorgeous place, it’s hard not to experience every lovely thing with a chunky great lump in your throat and tears not far from your eyes.

Change is not easy. Saying goodbye to a place you’d hoped might be forever, is not fun.

No: I do not want to go in my carrier.

*

When we move, we’ll have two fur babies to wrestle into their respective boxes.

Doubly tricky, as the minute you’ve tricked one cat into being caught, the atmosphere of panic spreads the word that hiding in the farthest corner under the sofa is the only sensible option for anyone yet uncaught.

I rather suspect we’re going to regret having taken down all the internal doors in our attempt at making the manse stylishly open-plan.

*

“I hope she knows that I still really love her,” I found myself musing in the car yesterday.

I was gripping the pet carrier as tightly as I could on my lap to help counter the abrupt swings and accelerations of my husband’s driving. I swear he thinks he’s in training for the Grand Prix.

I peered through the slats in the plastic: Mittens was huddled miserably at the back of the box, head and tail both tucked low. “I hope this experience doesn’t undo all the work I’ve done to gain her trust.”

The visit to the vets wasn’t fun, but it was necessary. And with a clean bill of health (we’ll ignore the actual bill - eek), everyone can rest easy again.

*

And as I wandered back from the beach to my thrilling ‘to-do’ list of bathroom cleaning and ironing, I urged my heart to feel less heavy by considering the perks of our new location.

There certainly are some; it’s another nice spot with lots of potential for fresh connections. If only there were a way to have the perks of both places. I’d like the treat in my beak and to be able to fly, please.

But through the drizzle came the reminder that sometimes necessary things don’t feel all that fun. And that on the other side, everyone will be able to rest easy again.

I sensed a gentle sidling-up to my sadness, a sideways shoulder-bump reminder that I’m not alone in this:

“I hope she knows that I still really love her,” came the whisper, “I hope she knows that sometimes disruption is part of the plan and that she can still trust me.”