I don’t think I appreciated how much my best friend and housemate Lynne does around the house, until she went on vacation without me.
We have shared a place for so long, that we’ve kind of fallen into certain roles, based on our work hours. Of course, that means that when we’re down a person, it all falls on the one left behind.
Reality hit with a thud, or rather, a loud “MEOW” at 7:30am the day after she flew out. Two of our seven cats (no judgment) had cannily worked out that there was no human life in Lynne’s bedroom, and so they padded down the hall to my door and firmly planted themselves outside, carrying on like the Moggy Tabernacle Choir. Lynne is an early riser, I’m not, and usually nothing short of a house fire would have me up before my time, yet I couldn’t drown out the plaintive howls that carried on, unabated, for at least 15 minutes. I had no choice but to throw the sheets off, don my pyjamas, and start the feeding ritual, followed by the dreaded litter pans inspection. We’re gonna need a bigger scoop.
As I shuffled into the kitchen, cats like Tribbles (Google ‘Star Trek’) around my ankles, I realised I’d forgotten to load the dishwasher the night before. Lynne’s great with the dishwasher – she knows exactly where everything goes. I’m a bit more hit-and-miss. I’ll slot in a plate and it immediately falls forward, or a glass just won’t stand like I want it to. I know the cutlery goes in those little basket thingies but are the knives sharp edge up or down?
Did you know that if you leave egg to dry in a bowl overnight, it turns as hard as diamonds? Well, I do now. I covered everything in the sink liberally with water and left it to soak for a while.
Back to our furry charges. I yawned and opened cans of Fancy Feast, then scooped up some dry Meow Mix for the other bowls. At the same time, there was scratching at the patio door with Tango and Butterscotch on the other side, keen to come in. As I went to oblige, I saw that a teenage chicken was in the pool and was really struggling.
Screaming like a banshee, I ran outside, assessed the situation, and instantly knew I didn’t have time to get the scoop. In I jumped, pyjamas and all, and grabbed the flailing bird while making my way to the steps.
It wasn’t looking good. Its eyes were already closed and the legs were stretching out. I couldn’t just let it go, so I held it upside down to try and get water out of its lungs, while holding up my sodden pyjama bottoms with the other hand lest they ended up around my ankles.
The chicken was gasping – my efforts thus far didn’t seem to be enough – so the only thing I could think of in my panic was mouth-to-beak resuscitation. Every time it went to breathe, I got in there and blew air into its lungs. About 10 rounds of that, and it seemed to be reviving somewhat. I was probably quite the sight – soaking wet nightclothes threatening to hit the deck while I ‘kissed’ a chicken.
As soon as I heard a croaky “cheep”, which indicated a sign of life, I carried my patient into the sun room of the house, wrapped it in a towel and left it to warm up. Its eyes were open by now, so I was more hopeful by the minute.
Next on the agenda was a change of clothes; liberal teeth brushing and mouthwash (no offense, chicken); more cat butler duties; then cleaning up the dishes. It wasn’t even 9am. On a Sunday.
At 10am, it was clear the chicken was going to make it. Not only was it cheeping up a storm, but it now also had enough strength and wits about it to suddenly take a very dim view of its saviour. Cheeping quickly turned to squawking as I approached, trying to make soothing sounds and failing spectacularly. At the same time, the cats were crying for more food. If Lynne had been around, she could have taken them away to put in other rooms, but no such luck.
Using one foot to keep Loki and Daisy at bay, I lifted the struggling (ungrateful) fowl out of its box and took it to the back garden. The moment its feet hit the grass it sped away. Typical. Like so many men in my life: Kiss them, then they run a mile.
The rest of the day was split between reading a book, watching TV, thinking about organising my clothes (for five minutes), emptying litter pans at intervals (What were we feeding these animals? Napalm?) and letting cats in and out of the house. At some point Lynne sent pictures from New York, where she was enjoying a glass of wine with her niece, Sharon. Well, bully for her, as at that same time I was breaking apart, cleaning, and reassembling three pet drinking water fountains. Each was a different model and each with its own quirks. I tried to remember what I’d been told to do, and for the most part I was okay, but I forgot to put the plastic flower top on one of them and when I plugged it in, I got a liberal faceful of water from its unfettered spout.
At around 7pm, I had to get all the cats inside for the night. That involved calling, shaking bags of treats, banging a spoon on a can of food, and navigating the maze of bushes in the front garden where I’d spied an orange cat, only for it to playfully bounce away when I got within grabbing distance. I didn’t realise how many tree roots there were in that area until I started tripping over them in my slippers.
Finally, by 7:30, I’d managed to cajole/trick them all in through the front doors. Then, of course, everyone had to be fed again.
It occurred to me that I hadn’t really eaten anything much throughout the day. My tummy was growling. If Lynne had been home, she’d have asked me if I wanted some salad – she usually makes a great salad every night. I didn’t even know if we had vegetables in the house, and I couldn’t be bothered to chop anything.
So, I sat on the couch in a T-shirt and yoga pants, watching TV, surrounded by cats, eating Mac ‘n’ Cheese out of a saucepan with a large wooden spoon. All that was missing was Keith Morrison and the ‘Dateline’ crew.
Before I went to bed, I loaded up the dishwasher, emptied the fridge of expired food and put the garbage out for collection, settled the cats in their various rooms so they wouldn’t fight overnight, cleaned the litter pans again and set the thermostat in the kitchen.
Wow. Another week of this? Come back, Lynne; all is forgiven.
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