Jonathan Dodd‘s latest column. Guest opinion articles do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication. Ed
One of my favourite French singers, Camille Dalmais, normally known as just Camille, has a song called Cats and Dogs. It’s sung in English, and it makes me laugh, because it attempts to suggest that cats and dogs don’t really love us, we just imagine it. They’re not our friends, they just pretend.
I realise that if I was to enter a pretentiousness competition, a sentence starting with ‘one of my favourite French singers…’ would probably get a high score. I hasten to add that I’m not in the least pretentious. Prétentieux? Moi?
Not needy
I’ve been contemplating this recently. We have two cats and two rabbits. We acquired the cats from the Newbury Cats Protection League before we moved to the Wight and before they changed their name. We don’t know how old they are or what kind of life they had before we gave them a home. Our cats have been wonderful companions, we spoil them shamelessly, they’ve always had free access via catflaps, and we love them.
We believe that they love us too, or we have convinced ourselves that they love us, or we simply behave as if they do, and they don’t do anything to disillude us. The two things I like best about cats are that they naturally like warmth and comfort, and that they’re not needy. They get on with their own lives and relate to you when they want something, usually food or pleasure.
Hiding behind the settee
Our cats are getting old now, and one of them is becoming rickety, refusing occasionally in wet or cold weather to go outside to relieve herself. It’s hard to get angry with her, mostly I think because I put myself in her place and think about becoming old and rickety myself. There’s occasionally a bit of swearing and some awkward silences and she spends a while hiding behind the settee. It’s a shame.
We’re also reacquainting ourselves with the vet and the cat hotel because of a holiday later in the year. The cat hotel expects inoculation, the vet performs it, the cats suffer the indignity, and we pay an inordinate amount of money.
They’re not grateful
This holiday is complicated because of our rabbits. These came from the RSPCA, where they lived for an interminable time until my wife took pity on them. They run around in the garden every day. First I had to rabbit-proof the fences and gates, then I had to put chickenwire fences all round the flowerbeds because they stripped every plant like locusts, then dug tunnels as if they were interned in Colditz.
These rabbits also tend to sit in their own waste, which sets into a hard lump that sticks to them and swings when they run. We have to catch them occasionally and prise it all off. Not that they’re grateful. Every morning I sit out on the back step and they run up for their treat – a cream cracker broken up into small pieces for which they sit up and beg. I’m not proud of this behaviour on my part, but I just can’t help myself.
Holiday nightmare
There’s something extraordinarily satisfying and comforting about looking out of your window and seeing two happy rabbits munching on your lawn. I can’t explain this, but I can feel the waves of contentment rising through me as I watch them, and a warm blissful haze envelops me.
We’ve found a cat hotel that’ll take rabbits too. With their fees and the vet bills, we’ll probably spend more on the animals than on our own holiday. But we’ll be comforted knowing they’re safe, and pining for us, of course.
I have a feeling I’ll worry about who’s giving the rabbits their morning biscuit while I’m away. How could anyone think that cats and dogs aren’t really our friends? Or even cats and rabbits?
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