For those who have been reading my blog for some time now, you’ll know that we used to have a cat named Boots. We got her from a rescue cattery when she was about 6 months old and T was barely two years old. We got out cat long before we got Doc, T’s dog.
Life before Doc, the Dog.
From Boots’ point of view, life was bliss. Our home was her domaine. She could go anywhere without worrying about her peace being disturbed by a cold nose. She had the run of the house and could go to the kitchen and stretch without having to worry about being chased. She could sprawl lazily on the couch all day long, without anyone, apart from T, disturbing her sleep.
For about a year, Boots was used to having just us at home. She was the perfect cat to little T. She hardly scratched T, in spite being strangled, tail pulled, cuddled by demand, lifted and carried away. There were a few scratches of course, but not a lot. I’m not a cat person, but Boots was different. I am very fond of Boots.
And then came The Dog.
Her world changed and suddenly her space was invaded by this smelly out-sider. She couldn’t go anywhere without checking if the coast was clear. She was no longer the apple of T’s eye. She suddenly had a smelly and irritating rival, called Doc.
She hated him at first sight.
At first though, she tolerated him. After all, he was only small. Had he remained small, she probably would’ve stayed. But Doc grew big and then gasp, became bigger than her. I guess that was when she finally decided that enough is enough.
One day, she just left us.
It wasn’t a sudden leaving. We weren’t dumped without any signs. She used to go away for hours on no end. Then she would stay out the whole night, come home in the afternoon. We knew by then there was someone else. My husband assured me that cats are that way. She’ll come home, don’t worry, he said.
For a while, she led a double life and was fed double dinners. I was fine with that, as long as she still came home. Until one day, she stopped coming home.
The Other Woman
We don’t really know for sure who she is. Our neighbour claims to know her and have seen Boots on her couch. She says this woman likes to feed other cats and our other neighbour said that this woman also “stole” her cat and even rang her doorbell one day and demanded she signed a document saying she’s relinquishing her cat to her. Our neighbour refused to sign. It’s a case of she said, they said. So we don’t really know the truth.
I miss Boots.
I miss her presence and the way I’d suddenly wake up in the middle of the night and know she’s there even before hearing her purr.
I miss how she would go on walks with us like a dog. I love to tell stories about her, especially the time she followed us deep within the woods and then suddenly disappeared because there were too many dog-walkers. How we went back the next day not expecting to find her, but she was there. She came out as soon as I called her name, annoyed of course, as if to say “What took you so long? I was stuck here the whole night!” I miss her bored face. I want her back. She is part of our family. I am going to look for her. I’m going to ring that woman’s door bell and ask very politely if we could have our cat back please. But first, I must find that woman. T wants her cat back.
Have you ever been dumped by a cat?