Back to the lemon tree and other low-hanging fruit
Wednesday, 2 November 2022
Virginia Fallon is a Stuff senior writer and columnist based in Wellington.
OPINION: Going about our business on Monday morning, our paths cross on the staircase.
She’s heading down, I’m heading up when we stop and size each other up for a while.
I’m carrying an armful of clothes that shrank over winter; she’s carrying nothing other than her usual nasty disposition.
“Not today, Fleabus,’’ I warn, “not today.”
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A little while back I wrote my final column about The Cat and swore most solemnly I’d write no more. Quirky animals are always particularly low-hanging fruit for a writer and there are far more serious issues to tackle, after all.
What followed was a barrage of complaints (one), pleas to change my mind (the same person) and demands for even more cat columns (still the same person). There was also a bit of advice that I should stick to what I’m almost good at (my mum), as well as a flurry of social media comment (“Virginia Fallon sucks”, though that was about something else).
Anyway, I have two cats and this column is about the other one.
Fleabus was two weeks old when she was dumped on my farm and named for the fleas that riddled her tiny body. It was either that or Wormbus and the latter was a bit gross even for us.
A few days after we named Fleabus we discovered her littermate hiding in a flax. This one wound up being called Not-Fleabus – as in, “I’ve bottle-fed that one, not Fleabus” – which is a moniker I’ve long regretted.
“Hi, I’d like to book my cat, Not-Fleabus, in for a checkup,” I’d say at the vet’s.
“Sure, what’s its name?”
“Not-Fleabus.”
“OK, so the cat’s name is?”
“It’s Not-Fleabus; not Fleabus, Not-Fleabus.”
Absolutely identical, the only thing setting the pair apart is that Fleabus bites and Not-Fleabus doesn’t, meaning that by the time you figure out who’s who you’ve already discovered you’ve picked up the wrong one for a cuddle.
The wrong one, by the way, is also known as “that f…… cat”; “The Black Death” and “pssssst get out!” but doesn’t respond to anything.
Fleabus is a horrible cat. Mean as a cost of living payment, she is moved from beds with a broom or oven glove and bullied our dogs so badly they wouldn’t look at her. She also bullied Not-Fleabus into both a nervous breakdown and a new home; rich, considering Fleabus then moved in with the neighbours, only popping back occasionally to bite us.
For the longest time people walking dogs past our property crossed the road to avoid her and anyone foolish enough to stop and pat the cute little cat soon rued their decision. Someone from Animal Control once came to chat about the situation, only to agree it was impossible.
These days Fleabus has mellowed from the years she’d strike from under the children’s beds or lurk in the hallway at night, forcing us to wield a broom to flush her out and pre-empt an attack.
Still, it’s an uneasy situation today on the stairs. Retreating, I later find she’s back in the hallway which is where the carry cage is waiting. She’s pretending to be asleep but knowing her tricks I arm myself with the vacuum handle.
The carry cage is for the cat I’m not writing about and this afternoon the vet will say it’ll cost $250 for his ashes to be returned. Nobody has that sort of money nowadays so, bringing him home, I make yet another hole by the lemon tree.
Later I’ll worry it wasn’t deep enough but the ground was so dry, my heart was so sore and digging was so very hard.