Me and my precious pussies Rustum and Sam

When my husband died I was left with only Sohrab, our big black-and-white cat to keep me company. Three years later, at seventeen years old Sohrab was suffering from liver cancer . . . For six months I asked around for a Siamese kitten to replace Sohrab when the inevitable happened — but there were none when it was time to put Sohrab to sleep. I couldn’t live without a cat, the house would be completely empty, desolate with no creature to greet me in the morning or when I came home. My vet knew of a ginger and white kitten that had been abandoned somewhere in Diego Martin. He was so tiny his rescuers had to feed him formula with a doll’s feeding bottle. At 8 weeks old, he needed more room than the carrying case where he was living safe from that family’s dogs. I called him George; he, I think, called me Mum for he’d follow me wherever I went. He’d sit and cry outside the bathroom until I opened the door. To make sure I didn’t escape he’d sit on the side of the bath while I had my shower, and help to dry me by licking water drops off my legs. He loved to play with water (a clean toilet bowl was one of his favourite toys). He’d play for hours with a toy mouse, tossing it up, catching it, biting it, worrying it. He was a most sociable kitten; visitors had to be warned to make no sudden gestures because George, who didn’t know his own strength, would take it as an invitation to play mouse — with some rather painful results.

He had the big operation all pet tom cats should. He was scarcely a year old when — no, it’s too painful to tell how and why he died . . . The next day I went straight to the TSPCA to get Rustum, a small ginger kitten with, I’m sorry to say, an e-coli infection and ringworm — though I didn’t know it when I took him home. A rather large veterinary bill cured his tummy trouble and we were both cured of ringworm when I had a call to say my kitten was ready to leave Mother. I sallied forth to Las Lomas to fetch my Siamese kitten but the moment I picked him up, he bit me. I knew then he was not for me, nor I for him, for Siamese know exactly who they will and won’t live with. Reluctantly, I gave up my hopes of having a seal point Siamese, and settled instead for Sam, a very vocal kitten who looked as if he might be a chocolate-point. Like all Siamese he was born pure white. When I collected him at ten weeks old, he was just developing his points on his paws, the tips of  his ears and tail, and his nose. Sam hates riding in cars. He screamed all the way from Las Lomas to Cascade. Rustum took one sniff at this new kitten — and hissed. Next day, on our way back from the vet where Sam had his shots, we stopped off at the pet store for cat shampoo. With all trace of Las Lomas odours removed, Rustum agreed to tolerate the newcomer and we settled down to menage a trois. The time came for Rustum to have his big operation. A month or two later Sam was showing no signs of needing his operation but the vet advised an even bigger operation since Sam’s testicles hadn’t descended as they should have by the time he was six months old. What was — is even stranger was his colouring. Instead of solid chocolatey fawn points, you see from his most recent photographs, Sam has developed milk-chocolate tabby markings. “Well, he’s a tabby point Siamese,” said my vet’s wife. And I suppose he is. He’s small (my pet name for Sam is “baby-puss”) — or maybe he just seems tiny so when compared to Sohrab and Rustum.

He’s very talkative, has a piercing Siamese voice — although it’s still rather high (the result of his operation, perhaps?) his blue eyes are slightly crossed. Now he’s older, his back is pale chocolate;  although the pads on his paws are dark brown, his nose is pink. Well, we can’t all be perfect. Nevertheless, he is beautiful, sleek, svelte, handsome — and knows it. Rustum was a fine specimen of a ginger tom, too, until he had an accident and broke one of his back legs. He’s due for an operation to fix the leg next month (no, I don’t understand that either, but I trust my vet). However, even with a broken leg, Rustum is still top cat — and Sam knows it. When Rustum is stretched out beside me on the sofa, Sam has to sleep on a Danish chair. Although, at the faintest rattle of cat chow poured into their feeding bowl, Rustum is first in the queue, he’s lost weight since his accident, seems to have lost his appetite and soon gives way to Sam. However, a broken leg doesn’t seem to hamper him at all. He races upstairs and down chasing Sam — or being chased by Sam. He leaps five feet to the sill of a window always left open so that my pets come and go as they please. Rustum has an endearing habit of stretching out and waving (there is no other word to describe it) his left front paw as he comes towards me. In the mornings when I go out to collect Newsday, he runs ahead, turns on his back, waves his paws in the air for his morning tummy tickle. Neither Sam nor Rustum sit on my lap (we’ve all three decided it’s far too hot and humid in Trinidad for cats to sit on laps). They’d rather lie on their backs, paws in the air begging me to stroke their tummies and tickle them under the chin — Sam holds my hand in his front paws, even extends his claws if he’s not ready to call it quits on his daily rational of love and affection.

Even though I have no fixed bedtime, sometimes from the garden, sometimes from their chairs, or the sofa, they keep watch. I close the patio doors, they open their eyes. I set the burglar alarm, they prick up their ears. I switch off the lights and the ceiling fan and put a foot on the stairs, they race each other upstairs to stake a claim on my bed. (We tried sleeping all three on a single bed, but, since they refused to curl up together, with a cat on either side holding down the sheets and snuggling as close to me as possible, it was rather like
trying to sleep in a straightjacket). Rustum and Sam are my companions. They’re there, waiting to greet me every time I come home. One sleeps on, the other under the bed. What more could I want for companionship — except . . . but he’s gone . . .