The games have begun, and as usual I’m losing

Thursday, 22 May 2025

Fleabus, who can climb through the upstairs windows, needs to be lifted onto the bench.

Virginia Fallon is a staff writer and columnist based in Wellington.

OPINION: Now that it’s winter, the game begins again.

Every year, when the temperature starts plummeting in the evening and the windows start weeping in the morning, we play it.

On one side is Fleabus: emissary of the underworld, and on the other is me: a diligent cat owner and all-round very nice person.

Between us, the door.

Fleabus spends most of her days at the neighbours, then pads back to my place at about 5pm to demand the food she was already given next door.

Feeding Fleabus isn’t optional but ceremonial, by the way.

I present the offerings, lift her onto the bench, wait while she eats, then lift her back down again.

It’s strange that Fleabus has me do this when she can climb in the upstairs windows, but you know, cats.

“Thank you,” I say when she’s eaten.

Still, the feeding is easy enough. What isn’t, is when she decides to go out outside.

When she does, I open the door and out she goes. Moments later – sometimes minutes, sometimes seconds – she wants back in.

And this is how the game begins.

Fleabus doesn’t make a sound at the door, just appears like a spectre on the welcome mat.

She sits and stares through the glass – a pervy little peeper – and because I am both compassionate and well-trained I do the decent thing and open it.

“Hurry up”, I say, and Fleabus does not. Mostly, Fleabus doesn’t do anything at all.

Mostly, all that happens is she sits in the cold, I stand in the warmth, and we stare at each other.

“Come on Fleabus,” I say, and she doesn’t even blink.

If I step out to encourage her in, she bolts. If I catch her, she bites. If I linger on the threshold, she just watches me, unmoved by the rising power bill or my fading will to live.

If this was a ranchslider, the photo would be right.

“Please, Fleabus” I say, “the heater’s on. The dog's starting to shiver.”

Sometimes, she throws in a bit of drama: stretches, yawns, hovers a paw above the threshold.

She freezes. I freeze. Time stands still and the universe hangs in the balance.

Then she pulls her paw away. She does this slowly, deliberately, and while staring at me.

“Get f….. Fleabus,” I say, slamming the door and walking away.

“HURRY UP FLEABUS,” I say four minutes later, back at the door.

Sometimes, when the dog needs out, I have to go out with him because Fleabus, naturally, is out there too.

She hides in the dark while I serve as a nervous bodyguard, escorting the dog about his business.

“Oh, pssss off Fleabus,” I whisper into the garden.

“Ouch,” I say, limping inside; vowing that this time she’s staying out.

But the truth is that I’ll always be back at the door: the sort of eternal concierge you’d find at the Overlook Hotel.

“Come on Fleabus,” I plead five minutes later, “for the love of all things holy, just come inside”.

Of course she doesn’t. She only stares.

Although I don’t have a catflap, I need to make something clear: there are other ways into the house.

The upstairs and laundry windows all stay open year-round, as does the ranch slider in my bedroom.

Because I’m menopausal, that’s how I have to sleep. Because Fleabus is a cat, she refuses to use it.

Back in the lounge, no matter how many times I tell myself not this time, I get up.

And finally, once she’s in, I carry her off to bed with me. I have to sleep in the cold – with it as well.