Wheaton’s Way

I finally got off the island last week, after months of working mainly from home, with the occasional trip to the supermarket. It seemed only right to have an excuse to wear something other than pyjamas.

My friends Carol and Lynne accompanied me, so we were officially on a girls’ trip. The destination was Clearwater, Florida, a fabulous spot by the sea. We only found out it was the Memorial Day weekend after we booked the tickets, which was confirmed as we sat in a line of cars on the main thoroughfare every day. Seemed 7630192845 other people also thought Clearwater was a good idea.

This was the second time the three of us had travelled to the US, blissfully unaware of a public holiday. The first was when we were determined to see all of the Harry Potter park at Universal Studios in one afternoon, and subsequently found out it was Veterans Day. There we were, three women of a certain age, desperate to make sure we got our Gryffindor gowns and pints of Butterbeer, faced with snaking queues everywhere.

I remember the days when going away for the weekend was a piece of cake. Barely any prep was necessary – it was a little hassle and lots of fun. Now, it’s like planning a military advance on a foreign country. You probably think I’m talking about the additional security at the airport, border control in Miami and trying to find space for a carry-on bag in an overhead bin. No, no – I’m referring to Operation Petsitter. Y’see, we have seven domesticated cats, three strays, and coop/wild chickens at the house that all require attention while we’re away. The key was to find someone willing to not just feed them, but also to deal with the unmentionable results of said feeding.

We went through a whole list of people who loved us, and then we moved on to those who didn’t, but owed us big favours. In the end, we settled on dear friend Erik, who loves animals and is so good-natured, he almost thinks cockroaches have something to contribute to the world.

Two weeks before our departure date, we invited him around and attempted to explain what was involved looking after our feathered and furry children. About 10 minutes into the Fancy Feast conversation, his eyes glazed over.

“Chiqui only likes the one with gravy, but if she doesn’t seem interested on one day, go with the florentine stuff. LeeLoo will cry for food all the time, but give her the pâté because if you give her anything else… “

We hadn’t even got into the ideal mixture of feed and cracked corn for the chickens. To be honest, I don’t think it had really occurred to us how complicated the daily schedule was until we had to share it with someone else. I could see that the information was no longer sinking in – I’d lost Erik – so we cut the lesson short and I said I would put together a printout for him. Thus began the creation of chickensandcats.docx.

I took a picture of every cat and put copious notes beside them. Some brief examples:
“Sam (big black cat): Is not allowed outside (and will definitely try if he gets the chance); LeeLoo (fluffy cat): Do NOT leave food on the counters or she will jump up and eat it/knock it over.”

Then there was another page of bullet points that dealt with all the cats, with everything from covering the couches to protect them from territory marking, to cleaning the litter pans; getting them in at night with treats; rules about which ones slept where (lest there be battle royale in the middle of the night); and who was capable of biting and scratching. Jason Bourne’s dossier was less involved.

Next was the chapter on the chickens. Anyone who says those birds are mindless creatures hasn’t spent a lot of time with them. Our wild ones know that the big white bowl means feeding time for the coop chickens. The only way to prevent absolute pandemonium is to throw some goodly scoops of grain onto the Astroturf so the ferals are distracted. This manoeuvre buys you the precious minutes you need to open the coop; fill the feeding trough; grab the water dispenser; clean it; refill it; and get it back in place. Make no mistake, mere minutes are all you have. It is genuinely extraordinary how quickly a flock of chickens can clear a pile of nuggets. Once they’ve pecked the last kernel, their attention is redirected towards you, all beaks turning as one.

Oh yes, and don’t wear anything red into the coop or the huge rooster is liable to peck that part of your body into a bloodied pulp. Got it?

Although it was pretty much a given that expensive shoes were not ideal footwear for the coop, I made a note anyway. I figured it would cover my liability if presented with a bill for ruined limited edition Air Jordans.

Later that week, Erik returned to the house, and I proudly handed him the thick sheaf of papers – a handbook to get him through four days of pet sitting. To his credit, he didn’t go running for the door, but he did look like a young lawyer being handed a big box of discovery from opposing counsel.

“It’ll be fine,” I soothed, “you’ll get the hang of it.”

There was only one more request, and it was an important one.

“Erik, if you have to call or message about anything, but there’s nothing wrong, please start with ‘Everything is fine’, so we don’t immediately panic.”

Bless him, to his credit, he really took that one to heart. For the four days we were away, he reached out a few times.

“Everything is fine. Where is the bug spray?”

“Everything is fine. I’m going out – should all the cats be in before I go?”

“Everything is fine. Where do you put the eggs from the coop?”

By the time we got back, he was an old hand at the routine and the cats had clearly warmed to him. This was a relief, as we’ll be away a while in the summer. I can’t wait to message him and ask him to pet sit for us again.

“Everything is fine. For some reason, I don’t think I’ll be available… ”