I almost didn't go...

But I'm glad that I did.  Go running, that is.  After a long day at work, my throat hurt, I was sniffling, and I just wanted to come back to the flat, read my book, and have a nice cup of tea.  But the half-marathon is looming and there aren't that many running days left before I start the taper, so I told myself that it was better to go out for even a short run than it was to do nothing at all.

When I left the flat, the sun was shining and there was a brisk but manageable wind.  Normally it takes me at least a mile to warm up and to relax but today, for some reason, I felt great.  The first mile came and went, nothing hurt, my speed was reasonable, and my breathing was settled.  Weird.  I carried on past the lochan where the Geese of Death lurk (no sign of them and their vicious beaks today) and up the steep hill that gives an amazing view back over Lerwick, and still felt good. 

Half-way back down the hill, it started to rain.  Then it sleeted.  The wind picked up.  My hair froze.  It briefly crossed my mind to go home, but my running felt so relaxed that it seemed a shame to cut it short so I headed on towards the loop that runs around Clickimin Loch.  I saw a runner in the distance coming towards me who stopped on the path, walked back and forth a bit, then minced his way forward through what looked like a bit of water.  'Wuss,' I thought scathingly.  And then I got closer and saw that the puddle was actually an ankle-deep flood that had to be forded since there was no way around it.  I minced my way across too, leaving me with shoes and socks that were soaked by icy water.  I'd like to be able to say that it felt refreshing, but actually it was just really cold.

And still I carried on.  I ran up all of the hills and didn't need to stop to stretch out my calves once because they DIDN'T HURT.  I ran until I had completed 5 miles, which is what I had been scheduled to do today, but felt as though I could have run a lot further.  Some days, it all just fits together.

A bit of this, a bit of that

If I didn't leave so long between posts, they would be 1) easier to write and 2) much, much shorter.  However, I will attempt to do a brief round-up just to bring everything up to date.

Running:  I only ran twice last week - 4 miles on Wednesday and 10 miles on Sunday.  I gave the Friday run a miss because I felt a cold (helpfully supplied by Bassman) coming on.  It still hadn't fully developed by Sunday and I was loathe to miss a long run, so I dragged my sore throat and aching muscles out into the rain.  And then dragged myself 5 miles down the Cromarty road and back again.  The rain stopped 10 minutes into the run so I was over-dressed and over-heated, and there was such a stiff head wind for the last 5 miles that I frequently gave up and walked.  My legs were exhausted, my achilles tendon wasn't happy, and my iPod died so all I had to occupy myself with was my thoughts.  And very cheery they were, too. 

I'm in Shetland:  I don't write about work because, well, it's work.  And if it isn't interesting to me, it certainly won't be of any interest to anyone else.  Although I love Shetland and I love my Shetland work colleagues, I don't love my Shetland work.  After much soul searching and obsessive discussions with anyone who would listen, I flew north yesterday planning to resign from my job here.  However, after a long chat today with the lead person for my department, we came up with a way of restructuring my job that would allow me to give up the bits that I hate and start doing some different things that are more in line not only with my skills but also with my interests.  I still might give it all up eventually but, for now, I'll hang in there.

My throat hurts:  My cold is still at the sore throat stage with some sniffles just beginning to emerge.  I had planned to go to the gym after work but instead left work early to bring my infectious self back to the flat, where I am dosing myself with LemSip, vitamin C, and echinacea.  I'm meant to be working on some reports but I'm afraid that I got sucked into watching Wanted Down Under.  And then Helicopter Heroes.  And then Deal or No Deal.  I have no work ethic at all.  Nor do I want to develop one.

Cats:  They are fab cats and I'm so glad that we have them.  But I still miss Tess.

There, all caught up.  And just in time, too, for Come Dine with Me!

We have cats!

More accurately, we have one cat and two kittens.  These are the ones that I liked when I was at the SSPCA last week; following the debacle that was the Cats Protection visit (and I STILL haven't heard back from them as to whether we have been deemed appropriate to have cats), I went to the SSPCA the next day and reserved the black cat and the two kittens, all of whom were awaiting the final vet visit before they could be rehomed.  And, on 7 September, they came to live with us.

Maia is a 2-year-old black cat (best guess by the SSPCA, although she might actually be younger than that).  I don't know what made me think that she was petite; compared with Tess, she is huge!  She is 9.5 pounds (or 4.3 kg) of sleek, muscular gorgeousness and is almost frantically affectionate.  She quickly has become a lap cat and has staked out her territory on the sofa.  She has begun to play with the cat toys and seems to enjoy a very lively game of 'chase the mouse.'  The only difficulty is that she's on steroid tablets to help control the itching from a stress-related skin condition, which make her absolutely ravenous.  We can't move without her leaping from the sofa and racing to the kitchen, where she meows piteously in the hopes that we will feed her yet again.  Mostly, we manage to hold firm.

The 8-week old kittens are Willow (grey with a tidy white bib) and Pandora (grey & white tiger stripes; yes, she is a tabby!).  Willow is much smaller than her sister and was close to death when she was found; she's healthy enough now, though, and more than keeps up with Pandora in their rampaging romps in the second bedroom.  That's where they're living for the moment, as they're too little to be given the run of the house and too little to be given unsupervised access to Maia.  We're doing a very slow introduction.  A few days ago, Maia did some major hissing at their little paws poking out from under the bedroom door.  Today, after a day or two of exchanging bedding so that they could get used to each other's scents, Maia calmly looked at them in their carrier (from a distance; even treats couldn't convince her to go closer).  I'm sure it won't be too long before they are snuggling up with her just as they snuggle up with us.

As I write this, Maia is softly snoring on the sofa next to me.  Willow and Pandora have just gone quiet, after 15 minutes of bouncing off the walls in the bedroom.  It's lovely having cats in the house again.  It definitely was the right decision, but it's funny how it's taken three of them to fill the gap left by one very small puss with a very big personality.  She's still very missed, and always will be.

Running Update:  Just in case anyone is wondering, I am still running.  It's going well, too.  I did a long run on Sunday of 9 miles, running all the way (except for brief moments of walking when cars came zooming around corners and I had to leap to the verge to avoid being smooshed).  The niggle in my left leg, which I self-diagnosed as originating in one of the peroneal tendons, has been addressed by a vigorous sports massage and the use of that miraculous KT tape.  No pain at all over the past week.  Everything feels good, but I worry that I'm going to jinx it by writing too much about it, so that's all I'll say for now.

A vist from the Cat Police, and a decision (almost) made

My sadness over the loss of Tess has shifted.  I'm not dwelling so much on the trauma of her death and am better able to remember her funny, quirky ways with affection rather than tears.  I still miss her and always will but, over the last two weeks, I've become aware of missing a generic cat presence as well.  I miss The Cat, but now I also miss having A Cat.  The Rural Retreat is too empty without one.  If you can bear reading something else as lengthy as this post, this blog entry perfectly encapsulates what I feel about getting another cat.

Kitten posed by model

Fortunately, Bassman agrees, and we have made some preliminary steps towards sourcing our next feline companions.  Yes, that's plural.  This time, I AM having two cats.  Actually, following a visit yesterday to the SSPCA, it may be three...I only wanted two.  And I said to the staff person, 'Don't show me the kittens!'  To be fair, she didn't.  But while I was getting acquainted with a petite 2-year old black cat who had been living as a stray and who had given birth to an entire litter of still-born kittens and who was HATING everyone and everything (yep, I'm a sucker for a challenge) but who flung herself against the door of her unit and shouted at me as soon as I walked into the room and who let me stroke her head and who kept head butting my hand and leg in an attempt to get my attention, I happened to glance up and there was a teeny tiny grey and white kitten with its face pressed against the glass of the room at the far end.  Her sister (a teeny tiny grey kitten) was equally gorgeous.  And the black cat apparently didn't hate them...so there may be a black cat and some kittens coming to live at the Rural Retreat!

But first, I had a home visit today from the local Cats Protection rehoming officer whom I had contacted a couple of days ago.  I have supported Cats Protection for years and think that, in theory, they do an amazing and much needed job.  I haven't, however, experienced that amazingness for myself.  When I was looking for the cat who became Tess all those years ago, I phoned CP but they never phoned me back.  This time, I made it as far as the home visit but I think that's as far as it's going to go.  I suspect that we are going to be turned down as prospective cat owners.

The visit didn't start well.  The first thing that the rehoming officer said to me was, 'You're really hard to find here.  No, really, you are VERY hard to find.'  She sounded most annoyed.  Then she gave me a limp fish handshake, marched into the house, sat on the sofa without being invited to do so, did a big hair swish (which didn't work so well on hair that was more than a bit dandelion-like in texture), and said, 'So, what did your last cat die from?  Was it hit by a car?' 

That set the tone for the interview.  She snapped accusatory questions at me and I snapped defensive answers back at her.  She insisted that the B-road that runs at the bottom of the garden was a 'very busy road' and did not seem to believe me that none of the previous cats had died of road traffic accident related injuries.  She made assumptions about what I wanted - 'How many cats do you want? You'll want one. What? You want two???'  and 'Do you want a cat or kittens?  You'll want kittens.  What?  You'd rather have a cat???'  We disagreed over the need to keep cats indoors at night, which is a Cats Protection requirement and which I don't feel is necessary in a semi-rural location.  And she said that the house was 'quite small, isn't it?' and then was taken aback when I drew her attention to the staircase leading to the upstairs. 

The interview ended with her telling me that there now would be a meeting about whether to approve me and that I'd hear 'sometime soon,' and with me telling her that it didn't sound like I was the kind of person that they were looking for and that I was happy to get my cats from the SSPCA.  Bitch.

If I'm being charitable (but why should I be?), I know that she is acting from a position of passion about doing the best thing for the cats in her care.  I understand the need for her to ask the questions that she was asking.  It was her condescending, aggressive, confrontational way of going about it that I objected to.  I also objected to her limp handshake and the way she kept swishing her hair, but perhaps that's not really relevant.

She's much prettier than this in real life!

Even if we get approved, I'm going to say no thanks.  The SSPCA has been helpful and welcoming; they actually ask the same questions as Cats Protection, but do it in an entirely different way...and anyway, I seem to have fallen for a shouty, demanding, traumatised puss with an attitude who has decided that I'm the one for her. 

Anyone see any parallels?

Summer runnin'

My usual running attire in the summer consists of 3/4 length running tights and a t-shirt that is long enough to cover my bum.  Sometimes I wear a jacket as well.  This is Scotland, after all, and summer runs tend to be not so different from winter runs.

But its been so hot lately that I've had to give in and break out the running shorts.  They're not as short as the shorts worn by those women Olympic runners - those weren't shorts; in fact, they were smaller than most of my pants - but they are short enough to expose bits of my legs that haven't seen the light of day in years.  And I've had to resort to just a vest top, not only to try to keep cool but to try to undo the farmer's tan that I was developing.

I feel incredibly self-conscious in them and try to do my runs at a time of day when there's minimal risk of anyone seeing me, but on those occasions when a car has driven past or someone on a bicycle has overtaken me or I've wibble-wobbled my way past someone out for a walk, I've been heartened that no one has laughed, snickered, pointed, crashed, or tried to video me for posting on YouTube.  Or if they did, at least they were subtle about it.

Anyway, body anxiety aside, the running is going well.  I had kept my long run at 5 miles for a couple of weeks but today I increased it to 6 miles.  My long slow run pace is now a comfortable 11:00 to 11:30 minute mile, and the pace of my other runs is coming along nicely.  I even managed to run a 9:30 minute mile last week, which pleased me immensely.

I wouldn't be me if I didn't have some niggle or another, and this week's entry is an achey bit half-way between my left ankle and calf on the outside of my leg. It comes and goes during the run and doesn't make me change my gait, so I figure it's nothing to worry about.  Plus, when I get my Chi Running form right, the ache goes away.

It did cross my mind to try wearing my compression socks when I'm running, but shorts, a vest, and lime green knee-high socks really might bring some unwanted attention (and not in a good way).  Plus, think of the tan lines.  Oh, the horror!

A yowl from the Great Beyond

It has been eight days since Tess died, and I have missed her every minute of each of those days.  I talk to her constantly, sometimes out loud but mostly inside my head, and see her shadow everywhere.  Because something is better than nothing, I've been looking forward to her kitty spirit making an appearance.  This is perhaps not so odd as you might think because I have form in this area. 

About a week after the late and still much loved Suggs departed for the next world, I was comforted several times by the feeling of him flopping his full weight into the bend behind my knees when I was in bed (this was his favourite place to sleep and, believe me, there was no mistaking this for anything but the sensation of a large and very substantial cat snuggling in).  In the first six months after his death, I clearly would hear the sound of cat biscuits being crunched in the kitchen at regular intervals.  When Tess came to live with me, there still would be the occasional crunching sounds even when she was nowhere near the cat bowl. (Tess didn't seem to mind that Suggs occasionally popped in for a visit; in fact, one of her favourite places for a while was in the back of the garden by his grave.) 

So, I have had every expectation that Tess too will make her presence known.  And today, she did; however, being the contrary cat that she was, it didn't take the form that I was expecting...Mornings are hardest, and I've taken to getting up a bit earlier than usual so that I can have a good cry before I need to get on with the day.  This morning at about 7.30, I was sitting on the sofa missing Tess and talking to her about how sad I was without her, just sort of rambling, really. I was well into the flowing tears/blowing of the nose phase of the conversation when I heard a buzzing sound from across the room.

I had no idea what this was - I thought it might have been a fly that got itself stuck in the spider's web on the window - but then realised that this was the sound of my mobile phone turning itself on.  I've had this phone for over two years and it has never ever done this before....I had an immediate sense of peace and a strong sense of Tess's presence, although I did feel a bit silly as I checked the phone just in case she had maybe managed to send a text....And then, later on after my shower when I was looking in the mirror to comb my hair, I noticed a splotch on my cheek that looked suspiciously like a cat's paw print.  I moved the mirror into the brighter light by the window and damned if there wasn't the shape of a clear paw print on my left cheek.  My girl had come back to say hello.

I kind of thought that, when the time came, she'd announce herself by a yowl or two, especially at 4am.  Or maybe by the sound of slurping water as she had yet another interminable drink.  What I wasn't expecting was for her to use technology.  If I had known she liked that sort of thing, I'd have let her have a go on the iPad.

 But then again, she was her mummy's cat; and if I'm Gadget Girl, why would I be so surprised that my cat reached out to me through one of my favourite gadgets?  Such a clever cat!  There'll never be another one like her.

An epic post for an epic cat

Tess, that most beautiful and loved of cats, died suddenly early in the morning on Monday, 30 July.  We knew that the renal and kidney disease would take their eventual toll, but had hoped that it would still be some months before the end came.   And, during what we now know was the last week of her life, she carried on as normal (albeit in a slightly reduced capacity):  she hunted voles, she slept, she ate roast chicken, she watched the birds, she went on little walks, and she slept some more.  And then, I think, she just decided that it was time.  Her death came quickly - probably within 10 minutes – and I am convinced that she waited for me and Bassman to come downstairs before she said good-bye.

So, this is me, saying good-bye to my girl.  Because before she was our cat, before she found stardom in Bassman’s blog, she was just my cat.  And this is how it all started.

Suggs.  Gone, but still loved.

You had me at the first yowl:  Prior to Tess and Bassman, I shared the Rural Retreat with someone else and his two cats.  When that relationship came to an end in 2004, I got custody of the Retreat and the cats.  Unfortunately, within six months of each other, both of the cats had to be put to sleep.  I was devastated but knew that, someday, I’d have other cats to love; to me, having future cats is a way of honouring the love that I feel for all of my previous cats.

Anyway, by the time of my birthday in October 2005, I felt ready to open my heart to new cats.  I was clear that I wanted two, and headed off to the SSPCA to have a look.  The staff person directed me to a pen that held a young mother and one of her kittens, who were being rehomed together.  The mum was a lovely white and black cat, very friendly and docile, and the kitten was as adorable as only kittens can be.  I didn’t feel an immediate burst of love for them but I figured that would come with time, and tentatively committed to taking them home with me the next day.

On my way out of the cat section, my attention was caught by a skinny, shouting tabby cat.  She was very pretty, and I’ve always had a soft spot for tabby cats, but she was just one cat and I wanted two.  Still, I asked the staff person about this wee cat with the loud, rasping voice who was definitely making her presence known.  The tabby had been with the SSPCA for almost six months; no one wanted her once they heard that she had been left at the SSPCA because she had been aggressive in her previous home.  The staff person also said – because ‘we’re ethically bound to point this out’ – that the tabby also had been aggressive to staff and they all had the scratch marks to prove it.  They were thinking about sending her out of area in a week or so to see if a different branch would have better luck at rehoming her.

I shouldn’t have – because I really wanted two cats – but I asked if I could have a closer look at her.  When I walked into the pen, the tabby walked up to me with her tail in the air; I held out my hand for her to smell, and she bumped her cheek against my fingers.  I bent to pick her up, which caused the staff person to quickly say, ‘She doesn’t like that…’  But too late.  I already had an armful of purring, snuggling cat.  ‘Huh,’ said the staff person, ‘never seen her do that before.’  But I really wanted two cats so I reluctantly put the tabby back down and left, with her shouts ringing in my ears.

That night, I couldn’t get the tabby out of my head and, when I woke up the next morning, I had made a decision.  I went back to the SSPCA first thing and, an hour later, left with a shouting, yowling tabby cat who was whizzing around like a Tasmanian Devil in the cat basket - and the staff person was left with several gashes in her hand as a result of micro-chipping the tabby and then trying to get her into the carrier.  (Important note:  There had been serious interest in the mum cat and kitten after I had left the previous day, so they would be going home with someone too.)

The tabby cat, as you will have figured out, was the cat who became Tess.  (She came without a name.  I chose Tess after ‘tessera,’ which is an individual tile used in creating a mosaic.  She was a small piece that had an important place in a bigger whole.)   Although this was the first time that she got her own way with me, it certainly wasn’t to be the last.

Learning to live together:  

A brave cat, at the end of the first week

As soon as I let Tess out of the carrier at home, she hid under the dining table and didn’t come out during the day for three days.  I sat on the floor for those three days where she could see me but didn’t make eye contact with her; I talked to her constantly.  On the third day, she finally crept out to take a treat from my hand but retreated back under the table at any sudden movements or sounds.

It was different at night.  As soon as the lights went out, Tess began to yowl.  And yowl.  And yowl.  She truly did not stop for the entire night.  I understand about not reinforcing negative behaviour and resolved to ignore the yowling until it stopped but, by the third night of no sleep, I couldn’t take it any longer.  I moved myself downstairs and slept on the sofa with the light on.  Tess didn’t come near me, but at least the yowling stopped.  This was the second time that she got her own way with me, and me sleeping on the sofa to keep her company when she was upset or lonely or bored became a pattern.  But I didn’t mind.

As I got to know Tess, I realised that she was not an aggressive cat.  She was a traumatised and neglected cat.  Any sudden movements, especially towards her head, either made her run away or strike out with her claws.  When she finally, after several weeks, let me begin to stroke her, it became clear that her hindquarters were particularly sensitive; stroking her too close to them would also result in a flash of claws.  Some cats, just like some people, don’t like being touched in certain ways.  When her limits were respected, though, she was the gentlest of cats.   And, even when Bassman or I got it wrong, she always gave plenty of warning.  If we were too foolish to ignore that – well, that was our problem, not Tess’s.

Learning to play

Tess didn’t know how to play; I spent a great deal of time encouraging her to chase a piece of string, chase balls, chase toys etc.  She eventually got the hang of the string and her ‘mouse on a string’ became her favourite toy, but balls sent her running away in a panic.  She didn’t seek out affection; it was almost a year and a half before she invited herself onto my lap but, even then, she crouched rather than snuggled.  She kept herself alert for danger, ready to flee at a moment’s notice.

But none of this mattered.  I loved the cat that she was, loved her feisty nature and ‘fuck you, world’ attitude, loved the small signs that she was coming to trust me, and had no desire or need to make her into a different cat….I don’t know her history before she came to me.  All the SSPCA knew was that she had been dropped off in a box after hours, with a note saying that she bit and scratched.  Over the years, the vet made some educated guesses as to what Tess's early life might have been like.  The crumbly nature of Tess’s teeth, which resulted in multiple dental surgeries and most of her teeth needing to be removed, was likely the result of poor nutrition as a kitten.  Her intolerance of sudden movements towards her head was likely the result of having received a blow of some kind - whether from a person or an object, we'll never know - to her face as she had always been missing all of the smaller teeth in the front of her mouth.  And her exaggerated startle response to loud sounds and quick movements certainly was not indicative of a cat who had been loved and cared for.

Life before Bassman:  Tess and I were on our own for almost two years before Bassman joined us.  She became a very talkative, expressive cat who liked to have a good conversation (mostly about food, it must be said.  She was a cat, after all, not a member of a debating team.).  I could tell by her tone of voice whether she was hungry, whether she was bored and wanted her mouse on a string, whether she had caught a vole and wanted me to come and watch her eat it, and whether she was panicked because it was night and it was dark and she didn’t know where I was (usually in bed, trying to sleep). 

Ready for some bathroom love

She became affectionate but on her own terms and in her own way.   She much preferred to wind herself around and bump her head against my ankles when I was sitting on the loo (apologies if that is too much information) and to shout from the bedroom until I went upstairs and lay down on the bed with her than to snuggle on my lap on the sofa.  She occasionally permitted me to pick her up for a cuddle; she would politely purr and stay in my arms long enough for me to not feel rebuffed, but made it very clear when she was ready to be back at ground level.   She was often waiting for me at the top of the drive when I arrived home from work but would promptly set about ignoring me, as though it was somehow too risky to let me know that she cared.

She stayed by my side throughout the winter of 2006, when I had a horrible viral infection that meant that I couldn’t breathe lying down.   We sat and snuggled together on the sofa during the long nights when I struggled to catch my breath and we walked slowly in the garden together when I began to regain my strength.  In fact, she liked nothing better than to walk with me up the farm track and climb over the drystone wall, into the woods, where she pretended that she was a tiger, slinking through the jungle in search of prey.  (In reality, she would give a frantic yowl whenever I got out of sight, but I suppose that even tigers need their mums sometimes.)  And she proved herself a good judge of character as she saw off several unsuitable suitors, offending one of them so much with her dismissive behaviour that he refused to return to the house because ‘Your cat hates me.’  Yes, she did and, by the end of our brief involvement, so did I.  But that’s another story.

Two become three:  And then Bassman came onto the scene.  Tess immediately gave her approval; just as well, because if she hadn’t, there would have been no further dates.  The three of us fit together so well even from the beginning and Bassman, like me, saw and valued Tess’s unique qualities and had no wish for her to be a different kind of cat (although I’m sure that he could have done without the 4am yowlings).

Waiting for Richy to finish the scaffolding

 For her part, Tess really seemed to relax with the added dimension that Bassman brought.  It became apparent that, although her primary bond was with me, she really couldn’t be bothered with other women.  I did have sympathy for my cat-loving female friends who would crawl after Tess and try to entice her to come close enough for a cuddle, only to have her flip her tail contemptuously at them as she nipped out the cat flap.  No, Tess liked the boys.  Bassman’s lap quickly became the lap of choice and she much preferred him over me when it came to brushing her.  She enjoyed helping Richy the Builder and Norman the Painter, following them around the garden as they carried out their jobs.  She was completely comfortable with Tony the Cat-sitter and with Squirrel James and his son Jack, allowing all of them to make a fuss over her.  We even caught her allowing Francis the Postie to tickle her tummy a couple of times.  Such a little tart…but amazing to see her relax with other people after such a difficult, difficult start to her life.

Bassman has written eloquently and accurately in his blog over the last five years about Tess’s quirky, eccentric, take-no-prisoners approach to life, complete with photos that utterly capture her character.  There’s no need for me to repeat all of that here, and you can have a rummage through his blog to either remind yourselves or to learn for the first time about what a brave, valiant, irreplaceable cat she was.  All that’s left for me to say is how thankful and honoured I am that Tess chose me to spend her life with and, even if that life was much too short and the sadness at the moment is much too much, I wouldn’t have traded my time with her for any other cat in the world.

Most Beautiful, I will miss you forever.

 

And with an Elvis snarl, the cat left the building. (Cat noises supplied by Bassman.)