Wheaton’s Way

My bestie Lynne and I are animal lovers, through and through. With seven cats in the house, just call us the Tiger Queens.

Thanks to Sam, Leeloo, Butterscotch, Tango, Daisy, Loki and Chiqui, we always get impressive step counts on our Apple Watches. I’d love to see sped-up film of us through the day, getting up to open the door, close the door, put food in the bowls, clean the litter trays, break up fights and cover the furniture at night. Methinks it would resemble a Benny Hill skit.

I have had pets in my life for as long as I remember. When we first moved to Cayman in 1975, we ‘adopted’ two stray dogs that kept me and my siblings company while we played around our neighbourhood or out on the beach.

Once my parents bought a house, which, at the time, was fairly isolated, and situated on a canal with a view of North Sound, we really upped our game. There were cats, dogs, a turtle and rabbits, not to mention a baby chick that sat on shoulders and watched TV. As kids, we were in seventh heaven. There were no neighbours and lots of open land to explore, and whenever we headed out on an ‘adventure’, the dogs would come running along with at least one cat following serenely behind. Keeping up, but not exerting itself in any way – kinda like Michael Myers in ‘Halloween’.

(Side note: How WAS that always the case? Jamie Lee Curtis would be sprinting for miles everywhere, while Myers walked at a deliberate snail’s pace, yet he’d be at a door two minutes after she got into a house. Was his character on a skateboard off-camera?)

Those experiences in my formative years were what had me lining up to adopt an animal as soon as I had my own place. Lynne became my housemate about two years later and, thankfully, she shared my love of furry friends. Our landlord was cool with us having pets, so we took him at his word, building a menagerie of strays and cats adopted from the Humane Society.

We had our white cat Bowie, who would go out to our second floor balcony, climb down a tree, and visit all the people in our area. We found out years later that he had ‘owners’ from Lizard Run Drive to Lacovia, and all of them adored him. When we moved to Snug Harbour after Hurricane Ivan, he went missing in the first week. Beside ourselves with worry, we advertised his disappearance. Almost immediately, a family got in touch to say they thought they had him. He was back at Lacovia. Clearly he wasn’t willing to leave his stomping grounds, so we dropped off food every week, and went and picked him up when a bad storm was threatening to hit. He was happy with that arrangement for years – staying overnight at different condos and being pampered by their occupants – until he passed away at the ripe old age of 19.

Then, there was Toast. She was small, but fierce, and nearly gave a friend of ours a heart attack around one Christmas. Caroline, our downstairs neighbour, had free access to our apartment to use our treadmill. One day she was on that belt to nowhere, when she heard a rustling in our nearby Christmas tree. Was it a duppy? A mouse? A (shudder) giant cockroach?! Caroline peered closely at the source of the sound, ready to scream and reach for the bug spray.

It was Toast. She had managed to climb up through the branches and was now at eyeball height with Caroline, about to pounce, a la Cato in ‘The Return of the Pink Panther’. The shock nearly caused an accident, as feet stumbled on the moving apparatus before Caroline managed to hit the ‘STOP’ button.

After that incident, she checked cat locations first before beginning her exercise.

Fast forward many years, and we have more moggies now than ever before. One moment they are driving me up the wall (yowling at bedroom doors in the early hours of the morn, fighting for no good reason, flatly refusing to come when called) and the next, I’m saying things like, “Well, when we’ve got this many already, what’s one more?”

Don’t think I don’t get how it all looks to the layperson. Why is it that an individual with a lot of dogs is considered to be well-balanced with a passion for life and someone with a lot of cats is looked upon as nuts with a wardrobe full of leisure suits and an affinity for hoarding? I mean, yes, I do have large bins of beads, costumes and VHS tapes in the house, and maybe those cans of original-logo Chef Boyardee Beefaroni need to be chucked, but I think ‘hoarder’ would be a strong word. Maybe ‘long-term keeper’?

It probably doesn’t help that I roam the house in pyjamas 24/7 and yell, “Keep yer ball outta my yard!” at passing kids, while shaking my fist. (I made that last part up, but it seems appropriate for the visual.)

Thing is, we love having animals. I practically wept when I saw two agoutis in the back garden, and when I sit on a lounger with some bread, I get enveloped by chickens. There’s a particular hen I’ve come to call Patti after Patti LaBelle, as she has a tuft of feathers on her head that reminds me of one of Madam LaBelle’s brilliant, over-the-top hairstyles in the ‘80s. That hen also has all kinds of attitude and shows no fear when food is on the line. I figure Patti would approve.

The chickens ignore the cats and the cats are not keen on being anywhere near them. Peace and harmony reign around here.

A couple of our felines have ongoing medical issues. Every night, without fail, we have to cover the soft furnishings with waterproof material, like when Lord Grantham et al of ‘Downton Abbey’ are heading to London for the summer season and lots of luncheons. We have a huge variety of food brands to match their fusspot tastes and administering tablets can be an interesting process. I’d swear those cats in the YouTube how-to videos are drugged.

Someone might ask why we would put up with things like incontinence and the like. All I’ll say is I hope no one starts making plans to euthanise me when I begin shopping down the Depends aisle.

Our pets are our family and they encourage positive vibes. Good friend Julie often stops by for what she calls her “Butterscotch fix”, where he’ll just plonk down on her lap and gaze up at her adoringly. And, when it’s TV time, the cats all know their spots on the couch and settle in for a sleep and a purr. Animals are great therapy and I couldn’t imagine life without them. When I feel like I can’t get out of bed in the morning, and I’m not sure I want to face what the day will bring, Chiqui is there, right by my face, encouraging me to rise.

She screams in my ear, gnaws at my arm and is relentless until I get up and feed her.

Love. Our. Pets.