Empty Nest Syndrome?

Sorry to any non cat lovers who probably fled this blog long ago. But I felt I should tell you how his Lordship reappeared yesterday.

I’d just been ringing Dog Sniffers. In case any of you want to contact them, the police have a great source of dog sniffers but they won’t help find lost pets, the WPC told me. Considerately but firmly. So I rang K9 Dog Sniffers and eventually talked to a fellow on a very crackly mobile.

‘I need help finding my lost cat,’ I said. ‘I’m in Cornwall.’
There was a silence while I could tell what he was thinking. It was to do with women and idiots, with a generous helping of F words interspersed in between.

‘We charge £75 an hour,’ he said. ‘A minimum of four hours. Plus travel and expenses.’ Silence. ‘And we’re in the North East.’
You could tell he wasn’t exactly keen on the job, and even by my maths this was going to turn out expensive, so I thanked him and put the phone down.
Shortly after that, Himself came back and we were standing outside wondering what to do about Bussie when Himself looked round.
‘B**ger me,’ he said. ‘There he is.’
I ran next door, followed by Himself who scooped up Bussie and brought him home.

Well, you know the rest – he didn’t stay long and disappeared. I had a terrible feeling that he’d gone for good. OK, so he’s 7 which in cat years makes him – well, same age as me. Isn’t it time he left home, you might say? But he’s a cat, and I want him at home, I wanted to shout. It’s incredibly hurtful when someone you love turns their back on you. (You can tell I’m a frustrated mother – my wavering hormones having one last stab.)

Bussie didn’t return last night and by this morning I had a sense of doom about it all. He’d moved on. Found somewhere else to live. Doesn’t want us any more. And suddenly, as I was cooking eggs for breakfast this morning, it all erupted and fat hot tears slid down my face into the boiling water. I wept for the loss of my Bussie, for the fact that I’d failed him somehow and he didn’t love me any more. And I cried because I wouldn’t ever stop him doing what he wanted, but I wanted him to come home.

‘For God’s sake,’ said Himself. ‘Can’t you just be happy that he’s OK instead of being depressed about it? You can’t keep a cat prisoner.’

‘I know,’ I said but I couldn’t stop then. The last five days of worry came pouring out in a hiccupping torrent.

Himself gave me a hug then, and after a while I calmed down and tried to reconcile myself to the fact that we’d lost Bussie. He’d chosen to go, and I must go along with that. Perhaps, I thought hopefully, he’d fallen in love? I could forgive him for leaving if he had.

I’ve had cats all my life, apart from a few years in London, and I hate living without them. They represent my quiet, secret part. I need them, I know, far more than they need me. But I didn’t say anything to Himself. He’d made it clear the subject of cats was Closed. So I came back from walking Mollie feeling dejected, rejected and resigned. And guess who was sitting in the hall?

‘BUSTINGTON!’ I cried, and swooped over to see him, fresh tears plopping onto his coat. (‘Oh God,’ said Himself. ‘You’re supposed to be happy.’ ‘I am,’ I wept. There are some things that some people just don’t understand.)

He’s not himself. Bussie I mean. I reckon he’s had a bump from a car. His pupils are tiny slits, and he’s very doddery, poor fellow. His balance is wobbly and his right flank is wet and grubby and he’s usually so fastidious.

So I feel worse and better. Worse because he’s vulnerable and isn’t eating – or perhaps he’s being fed elsewhere? He hasn’t lost weight (and he could do with losing some) but he certainly isn’t himself. I worry that one particularly schizoid cat in the street will realise how wobbly Bussie is and attack him (she has before). But he’s lived mostly on the streets for 7 years. He’ll lie low until he feels better, I hope. And he knows where we are, even if he isn’t sure who we are.

I feel better because he’s alive and even if he’s concussed, he came home of his own volition and he knows I love him. He probably doesn’t care, but it makes me feel better.