Jesse

Recently a pretty wee tabby followed us from the school and made herself right at home much to Trixie’s disgust. The twins, rather taken by its playful youth, invited it into the house and, while Jai lost interest, Jayla proceeded to feed and mother it. After filling its lean belly, followed by ablutions, our own cat, Trixie, who had been sleeping obliviously upstairs, finally made her appearance in time to see it eating from her bowl. I moved quickly to intercept the expected scuffle. But surprisingly, Trixie just walked straight up to her dish and began eating from it too. The other cat however, batted Trixie with her paw and, to this, Trixie’s hackles rose. After a few more playful swipes, Trixie suddenly lost it and flew after the cat. I jumped in there and saved it, emerging with multiple lacerations. Jai and Jayla though, having witnessed the furor, were now not so enamoured.

“Different cat mean,” said Jayla. “Different cat go home to the naughty corner.”

After another pursuit outside and with different cat not showing any interest in leaving, despite Trixie’s hostility, I finally locked it in the house for her own safety, where she slept on the couch with Trixie watching on with loathe through the ranchslider.

Several days later, Trixie no longer wanted blood and, despite a fair amount of hissing, I could trust them in the same room.

With Trixie due a vet appointment and our newbie, whom Cade had named Jessie, not going anywhere, I decided to take her to find out some history.

I loaded Trixie into the car while I went to find Jessie. Meowing coming from the top of a spindly tree alerted me to her whereabouts and, after casting furtive glances over the fence, I had no choice but to scale it in my town clothes to rescue her.

Twenty minutes later, I emerged, with more lacerations and wearing half the tree in my hair.

Now late for our appointment I finally struggled with the two boxes into the vets only to be told by a confused receptionist there was no booking for us.

But she must have felt pity for my dishevelled state for she made an exception and we were in.

“She is pretty,” the vet agreed when Jessie had sprung from the box.

But a minute later a surprised vet informed me Jessie was, however, a boy. How could I have got that wrong? She explained that his balls hadn’t yet dropped so we ditched the ‘i’ from his name and booked him in for a castration.

Already chaotic, we probably needed our new addition like a hole in the head, especially now my daughter insists on being carried everywhere for fear of the playful yet sharp-claws lurking at the bottom of the stairs waiting to attach themselves to one’s ankles. Likewise, the now unravelling carpet on that same corner of the stairs, not to mention the ‘parcels’ I find in the shower every morning.

And I certainly wasn’t ready for the birds-and-the-bees talk with my five-year-old that the castration generated. But that’s another story.