Sir is Indisposed

In the early hours of this morning, we received a phone call direct from the Top. Yes I am talking about Sir's Place on the Hill. It seemed that incredibly Sir was not feeling his best, and although I knew this to be quite impossible as I happen to know for a fact that Sir is invincible (he told me) my Mum nevertheless seemed to take the phone call seriously enough.

In hushed and serious tones my mum discussed Sir's condition with Auntie Gabrielle and the outcome was - 1 Night Vet ordered out posthaste to the Place on the Hill, to Sir's side.

Well, I can inform you that Sir made a full recovery (in fact I am already inclined to believe I dreamed the whole thing - Sir indisposed?) but all this has given rise on my side to thoughtful meditations on my experiences of Sir both present and past; and on my Mum's, to wild enthusing on the level of organisation of petcare in Paris, our city of light, fine dining and night vets. Isn't that the mark of a civilised society, my mum crowed this morning, that a system exists where she can in the middle of the night call out a vet for a sick cat, who'll arrive at 2a.m., bag of medicaments in hand.In short should one need to order one's GP out at 4 in the morning requiring a little help with a troubling hairball, a heavy dose of ' flu or a bone gone down the wrong way, the place to live is Paris!

But where was I ? Oh yes - Sir. Well he's doing just fine, and I'm sure that the next time I cross his threshold, he will give me a smart whack just to let me know this. You see - sigh - not all cats are like my sister Phoebs as I discovered when when I first met Sir...

It was back in my Melbourne days. I had just about grown into my paws and was full of the joys, of life, love and the noble sport of catschasing. I was able to practise regularly courtesy of my big sister Phoebs, and how could a girl resist? Tee hee she's such a ' fraidy cat Phoebe, , scared of her own shadow, and everybody else's; a pin dropping causes her to leap three feet leap into the air her tail fluffed up like a raccoon's. So - when I heard that my Mum and I were going around to visit Auntie Gabrielle who lived nearby with three cats, I mentally rubbed my paws together in delight. Three. Thrice the sport!

Never was a pup more sadly mistaken. I was hardly in the door, when I came face to face with - Sir. I shall never forget that moment. Not only did Sir not run from me, but he stalked me, chased me, and confined me to the sofa with orders not to move from my Mum's lap for the rest of the evening, under pain of his extreme displeasure. While Auntie Gabrielle and my mum, chatted away and from time to time laughed - yes laughed - at my plight, Sir, and his two tough henchmen tought me the ground rules of his domain, which were basically to sit tight, shut up, and leave when required to. I tried to get down once or twice but each time I hazarded a little expedition to go hunting for crumbs, or perhaps even - sigh I was young - to try to reastablish the natural order of things, Sir was there with a thwack! and a ' what did I tell you?"

My Mum and Auntie Gabrielle will still laughingly hark back to this occasion with other friends, whereupon my Mum will turn my ears inside out - I have naturally coloured and why not admit it rather beautiful streaks of blonde on the underside of my ears and I am thus transformed into an instant blonde - while she reminisces on her story of " Goldilocks and the 3 Bears" - ha flipping ha mum.

Sir explained to me on that first occasion that he was omnipitent and I didn't have any real reason to doubt him however if I had needed any convincing, it came one morning sometime after the joyful occasion of my Auntie Gabrielle's arrival in Paris to live. We went to visit one evening to her little abode right at the top of a tower; true to form my Auntie Gabrielle had transformed this nest into a Princess's Bower, and I used to look forward to my visits there. But that day as I trotted confidentally through the door... yikes... him!! And his henchman Pumpkin. Oh goodness, they had got to Paris. They had crossed the world, managed to track down my Auntie Gabrielle, and move in! Auntie Gabrielle didn't seem too surprised strangely enough in fact she seemed positively pleased at their presence!

And so - sigh - these days visiting at Auntie Gabrielle's Montmartre Idyll, means peeping in warily to see what sort of mood Sir is in, and then taking up defensive positions accordingly - by the door as near to the Emergency Exit as possible, or perching myself gingerly on the sofa, ready to dive into my Mum's arms should the need arise. For continuing to socialise with the lovely Auntie Gabrielle, has to be on the terms of the cat who I have come to know as Sir.

Harry Potter and the Canine Compass

"You wanted a phoenix Mum?"

My mum just spent two evenings ignoring me. Oh she tried to pretend that she was paying attention and behaving just as she normally would, but I could see how distracted she was.

When my Mum gets home of an evening, the procedure is generally speaking as follows: after our wild greeting where I do a lot of wriggling, smiling, laughing, grunting and leaping around, I get a nice back and neck massage on the couch, I then str-e-e-e-e-tch off the couch, letting my back legs slither down sl0-o-o-o-wly until just the tips of my tippie toes are still in contact with the top of the couch. Finally all four legs are earth-bound and if I'm feeling particularly energetic I sometimes seize something to guard at this point, you know do some growling, shaking and protecting of a fluffy toy or an old sock.

Then the frivolousness is over. I mean a girl has to do something to entertain her mum - she expects it of me you see. But then I need to get down to business. I go to the kitchen, and lie flat on the floor like one of those animal rugs - if I can make that rather horrid allusion - a little cavalier king charles rug - flat on the floor, tail stretched out behind me, paws splayed, with my nose pointing directly at Food. We cavaliers are canine compasses; and our nose always points directly to our magnetic North - the nearest Food Source. Remove the Food, place it in another location, and we immediately swing in that direction, rug-like, nose to the floor, and then we.....wait.

It is a well known human saying that all good things come to those who wait but it is less widely known that it was actually a cavalier king charles spaniel who first invented this saying. And he knew what he was talking about my great-great-great to the power of 45 grand father. His own Master had some waiting to do, and the story has come down through our generations... yes he waited and it paid off. Seems he ended up with England. Well I am less ambitious of course. England.... or a nice piece of chicken pie. No competition really.

Anyway, a few nights ago I swung into action as per normal. My Mum's not (too) daft. She gets it. This is my very well brought up, silent, mannerly, aristocratic....demand for food now. Sooner or later her enquiring face will appear around the kitchen doorway - "Cherry oh there you darling. Oh staring at the fridge again. Is my little possum starving? Is darling's little tummy empty again. Ohhhh , mummy gets her cherie trésor something to eat".

With heart high, and tummy low, I waited expectantly, my nose making its quiet appeal but....no Mum. Where could she have got to; I KNOW she came home. We did the greeting thing. I jumped, I played, I greeted. Why arent'we moving on to the next step?

Finally, I had to get up, poke my own enquiring head around the kitchen door and see what the hold up was. Oh! It was enough to make your ears curl - more. She had her nose stuck in a book. Seems my dinner had been entirely forgotton!

My huge liquid eyes 'ahem'ed silently with all their might. I forced a few tears - not actually that difficult under the circumstances - to make them even more liquid... nothing.

Oh obviously I got my dinner in the end; but the distractedness was evident. My Mum was muttering to herself; her movements as she opened cupboards, fridge door, cut, chopped, presented bowl to floor seemed choppy, hasty; in short she just didnt have her heart in what she was doing. Hmmpph well it didn't stop me paying complete attention to my food. There are only two things in this world that can distract a cavalier king charles spaniel from her food;someone else's food and um some other food.

Well would you believe that the next night it was the same thing. I began to seriously consider that my Mum was finding that dumb old book of hers more interesting than feeding me! But lo! I didn't have to wait TOO long on that second night. She turned the last page, shut the book with a snap, leapt from her seat, and started to feed me fast and furiously, muttering all the time. Endearments to me? No! She was a woman possessed. She started going on about some individuals I've never heard of; Harry Spotter or something; Dumble Doors; Then it became frantic and vocal. I hate her. She can't do this!! No he couldn't have could he? But wait! he wanted Snape to do that. And there was a phoenix - it flew into the blue. And it's going to be two years - two years!!!!

Alarmed now as she really seemd quite ill; I immediately (after finishing my dinner of course) tried to get to the bottom of this; (otherwise I might never have got pudding) . (At this point all you doggies-don't-eat-sweets-freaks out there; I have to tell you that sadly my mum only gives me the healthiest puddings - plain yoghurt, small pieces of fruit and the like - sigh.

Who is this Harry Spotter I thought to be upsetting my mum so; an obnoxious Dalmation perhaps? Hmmph I might have guessed. I mean Dalmations are all very well but you know well they're a rough lot; they hardly have that I don't know je ne sais quoi. I mean they ran behind the coaches right? Who was curled up on a velvet cushion in the coach. Ah you get my point.

Well two nights followed. My Mum has recovered her spirits somewhat and is much more prompt with my meals, but the malady has lingered slightly. She contents herself with just the ghost of a sigh, and the odd shake of her head, and then a sudden smile and a cryptic sentence such as "no no he could not have been that wrong; I don't believe it" ; "the potion might have had something to do with it. And he pleaded with him. He wanted it. It was part of the plan. I mean why else was he frozen?

Last night as I lay on my bed (in which I also let my mum have a small corner as long as she behaves herself and doesnt kick too much) what did I hear but a final, slightly comforted sigh
"it's all about the phoenix isn't it? I mean it's obvious?" and then 'two years though, two long years'.

Hummph I can see these two years are going to be very long indeed.

Like it 'ere

"I'm not getting off the table till you promise not to move it again!"

Mummy and I are off to the Dordogne with Auntie Annie this summer and it's about time too. My mum has spent too much time lately re-arranging furniture - usually at 3 o clock in the morning, and I really need a holiday from this.

For the moment she's all pleased with herself as she re-arranged it yet again last night - I wonder how long this will last - and she's typing away now, with candles burning everywhere; even outside in the garden. The pink sofa is now the nice warm pink squashy main feature of the room perfectly placed for me to lounge on and survey every corner of my domain. I even let Mum have a go on it a couple of times; graciously retiring to my basket under the table.

What brought on the latest bout of frenzied furniture-moving was a trip on a train to a very large building that was rather delightfully full of sofas and beds and other resting places. My Mum and Auntie Gabrielle kept saying something about '"Like it ' ere" I think; and I must admit I did too.

You see it turned out to be more of a carries than a walkies. When we met up with Auntie Gabrielle, she immediately expressed her concern that dogs might actually not be allowed in this particular place. I tried to assure her that I'm not a dog, I'm a cavalier king charles spaniel but I am not sure if she heard me. Well would you credit it, when we arrived she was absolutely correct and four footed creatures were indeed respectfully requested to decline entering that doorway. Ha in your dreams - what they said was no dogs allowed. We were indignant all round - well Mum and me were and good old Auntie Gabrielle restrained herself from the least I told you so look or comment.

So what did they do but pop me in a stripy pink Habitat shopping bag which set off my fur nicely - although I think my collar clashed slightly between you and me. But what can you do Mum doesn't always SEE these things you know? So all morning long I masqueraded as an item of shopping. The best bit was being wheeled in her trolley. My ears were blowing back in the wind of our passing; other dogs in their trolleys were being left far behind as we whizzed around the Arc de Triomphe on one wheel ... okay okay artistic licence I'm a Pisces pup.

Anyway with a loaded down trolley we headed for the exit. I was by now sharing my vehicle with a few large boxes, several packets of candles, wicker baskets, and two rather large leafy ferns. What a girl has to put up with. But eventually we were home and as I say, my Mum is very pleased with herself. She followed the instructions to the letter in putting together her new little TV stand. The first picture in her little instructions book showed a man who is exlaiming in pain, having just dropped the box on his fingers. After my Mum had achieved this part, sucked her fingers on the floor for a while, she proceeded to follow the rest of the diagrams and put her furniture together .

So as I say, this has all led to yet to another incident of ' all change please!" and I hope this will be the last time before we go down to our holiday home in the Dordogne.

Just a baby at heart

The Pigeon

We had a surprise guest recently who came to stay unexpectedly on a Saturday afternoon. He turned out to be the polite, unassuming type (that is he didn't assume to try and eat my food). When I'd established that I couldn't eat his food, and that he wasn't going to eat mine; I didn't find him all that fascinating to be honest however I was intrigued at one point to discover Phoebe doing her best to eat him.

So the story begins when I was trotting home with my Mum. What should we spot but a pigeon fluttering by the very front door to our building. Well it is not such an unusual sight in a big city to see an injured pigeon; but possiblly more unusual to see one that seemed to be doing his best to get in our front door. Well, I was about to tell him that we didn't want lodgers today thank you very much when my Mum's GOOD DEED came upon her and before I could warn her about parasites, mess and the fact that she wouldn't be able to fully attend to my needs AND the pigeon's, she'd scooped him up, and carried him upstairs, with me leaping at her knees, trying to tell her to reflect a little....

The pigeon had a broken wing. He was in good general health, and seemed a youngster but with one wing dragging uselessly by his side. Sure enough my Mum starting fussing about him, looking for cages in her cellar, finding suitable food, giving him the run of the garden, spending hours on the internet looking for pigeon refuges in Paris. Ha! I said, Pigeon refuges in Paris! You'll never find.... but you know she DID!

Le Societe Protectrice des Oiseaux des Villes is a curious establishment in the south of Paris at the very end of a southbound metro line 13. Curious because from the outside you would think that it is was just another in a line of terraced houses in the pleasant enough suburban town called Chatillon. Indeed except for the initials SPOV painted discreetly by the front door and a logo of a flying bird, it looks identical to its neighbours. Inside it couldn't be a more different story. Now I have to tell you that my Mum did not actually take me down to SPOV when she was dropping off our pigeon. She seemed to think that she would have enough trouble without me (huummmpphh!!) - did I tell you I can read her mind by the way? Indeed yes, you didn't think we were just pretty faces, us CKSs did you?

My mum was greeted in a friendly enough fashion by an elderly man who had perhaps one word of French and whose skills in English were perhaps no better. Russian - she thinks - on account of his saying ' da!' enthusiastically when she asked tentatively might he be inviting her to walk up the stairs? So walk up she did, up two steep dark staircases of that rather disapidated old house; the walls lined with bird posters, to the very top to a green door through which could be heard the sound of birds, many many birds.....

This door it turned out led into the main hospital ward; where pigeons of all sizes, descriptions, and ailments were contained in dozens of different cages, along with a smattering of other types of birds, notably a parrot in one of those typical bell-shaped parrot cages who didn't have a feather to his name.... What a strange, pitiful creature he seemed; naked and tender-skinned like that; my Mum's heart gulped, if a heart can be said to gulp.

Alright it might be a bit fanciful to say ' all sizes and descriptions' . Are pigeons so very different one from another? No doubt another pigeon thinks so. Suffice it to say that my Mum's heart was warmed by this evidence of care for one of the more neglected, and misunderstood elements of our city streets, the humble pigeon. She's always liked ' em ; she thinks that they humanise our cities which is a funny thing to say when you think about it! Me? Well, (yawn) as long as they keep their claws off my food I guess I can't see too much of a problem in their existance!

Anyway the happy ending to the story is that our youngster was examined by a very nice girl who had come to greet us as my mum wandered on the stairs, pronounced indeed to have a broken wing, along with lots of parasites (what did I tell you MUM?" ) and was duly powdered, had his wings taped snugly back into the correct position, and deposited into a cage with others of his own age... You see they even think of the generation gap and such problems at this wonderful refuge. I mean this poor youngster wouldn't have wanted to be put in with a group of fuddy-duddy old grand-daddy pigeons talking about the NINETIES or something, now would he?

So on behalf of my Mum a big thank you to those lovely folk at the Societe protectrice des oiseaux des villes, including the elderly lady with the grey braid, who sat quietly amongst the cages, phone to her ear, talking away, and never so much as glanced in my mum's direction while she was there. We wonder if she is the founder of that institution, the little known pigeon saint of the city; who has dedicated her later years to the plight of the city pigeon in all his perils.

Anyway, my Mum misses our pigeon sometimes. Oh come on Mum you have me?!! and would ou believe when she's out walking with me, I sometimes see her casting a furtive eye to the footpaths and gutters, where an injured bird might be lurking.

La Societe protectrice des oiseaux des villes are wonderful friendly bird-loving people who can be found at:
68 rue Gabriel peri, 92320, Chatillon Tel: 01 42 53 27 22.

Phoebe

Well the time has come to tell you about big sister Phoebe. Phoebs ..what can you say? If she's not hiding behind the sofa, she's ducking behind a curtain; if she's not under the verandah, she's crouching below a line of washing my Mum's left out. She brings new depths of meaning to the phrase 'scaredy-cat" . My mum says it's because of her deprived kittenhood; she didn't get the necessary sibling socialisation when she was tiny; that's the way my mum talks sometimes.... Yawwnn ... hey though she's great fun to chase!

Her name - Phoebe. Yeah you guessed it. Our Mum is a Friends' fan! Nothing more complicated than that. But she could have been Michelle, Angel or Molly. Why? Because my mum was thinking of naming her after the place where she was found as a tiny tiny scrap of life - in a zipped up bag in a tunnel of the metro Michel-Ange Molitor. A zipped up bag, you ask, in Wildian accents. Yes that's right; we will never know how she spent the first month of her life; but one evening in 1996, one homeward commuter traipsing through the metro tunnel in that quiet area of Paris's 16th arrondissement, her ears no doubt assailed by the usual array of noises common to any metro station; was surprised to have them assailed by quiet different tones: a tiny kitten's desparate mews. The commuter was one Doris Schomb, a kindly German woman who was amazed to find, when tentatively approaching and eventually unzipping the mewing bag, a tiny ball of fur crawling out and clinging to her with its desparate kitten claws .

She came into my mum's life the following morning when looking through her work's private ads, she saw Doris's Abandoned Kitten Ad and, as she tells it, her heart melted and she knew it was the right moment to put both hers and the kitten's life to rights, by adopting her. My mum found herself the proud owner o the tiny furball later that evening. The tiny creature still had her milky blue eyes - or rather one of them was obviously so; the other she rarely opened fully. Whether it was paining her or merely gummed up was difficult to tell....

More soon