Two years ago, on a flying visit to his grandmother, my enthusiastic son dug a new pond in her garden, much to the consternation of her cat:
Not long after that, my mother decided to move to sheltered housing to be nearer family. Since it was no longer possible for her to keep a cat, Chelsea moved in with us. We’ve loved having her with us and she has brought great joy to the garden:
However, she has never got on with our resident cat, Bella. We hoped they would make friends, or at least learn to tolerate each other, but no, their relationship has been characterised by mutual hatred and flying fur:
They, and we, have perfected the art of social distancing, with constant attention needing to be paid to who was where at any point in the day or night. I developed a technologically sophisticated system for keeping us all up to date with their whereabouts:
We’ve all coped admirably but now, two years on, Chelsea has found a new home, with the same grandson. Yesterday we transported Chelsea, her various items of cat paraphernalia, two bags of daffodil bulbs, some apples, an apple cake, a pumpkin, a hacksaw and a piano stool to my son’s new flat:
In these strange locked down times, we have to maximise the value of our few social contacts, hence the daffodils, pumpkins, hacksaws, cakes etc (the hacksaw was for some bike maintenance project: don’t ask). The piano stool, purely for musical use, has been claimed already:
We’re all hoping that she will be happy in her new home and that we, and my mother, can visit from time to time once all this lockdown crisis is over (we’ll want to visit my son and his partner too, if only to check on their gardening exploits and to see if they’ve dug any more ponds). Bella, meanwhile is delighted to have the house and garden back to herself. She’s spent the day constantly on the wrong side of a door, with willing servants letting her in and out without any need for the high tech cat management system.