Saturday, 21 August 2010

Cat-urday: memories of Raz

There he is - on our lovely 70s furniture and surrounded by 70s decor...

Raz - the cat who spoiled me for all subsequent cats.

The cat I guilt-tripped Dad into bringing home - but Dad, he'll die if we leave him here (poor Dad - never stood a chance). And Dad named him - Rasputin - his favourite song at the time.

Once home, this bedraggled stray kitten sat - probably on that very chair - while the housekeeper's dog (I think it was a doberman, but it could have been anything really!) came to investigate the new acquisition. To put it in perspective, I'm pretty sure we all hated the dog. So when this itty-bitty kitty took a swipe at the dog, and made its nose bleed - we were very happy.

Our hero!

He proceeded to rule the house. All visiting dogs - mainly Luke, my sister's cocker spaniel - bowed down before him.

If we went away on holiday, he would show his displeasure by pooing in a difficult-to-get-to corner of the lounge. He would also stamp across the carpet - loudly - and sit in front of the TV with his back to us. Just so we'd know he was pissed.

He was a great bed-cat. He would sleep at the foot of the bed, right in the middle, in a polite little circle. And not move all night.

He laughed in the face of pain.

And, thank goodness!, was really easy to get to the vet. You just opened the car door... He used to drive to school with me. The only problem came when he wondered what Dad's feet were doing.

He would gobble all his food - run outside and vomit it up - and run back inside to eat the other cat's food.

As he aged, he got some weird syndrome-thing. No one could figure it out. But it had entertainment value. If you scratched him in the right (or wrong, depending on your point of view) place - and sometimes, randomly - he would have a seizure and pee everywhere. And, because he was fitting - it was EVERY where. 

As he got older and sicker, and his kidneys failed, Mum caved in and would wrap him up in a towel in front, and a little bit, under the potbelly. Mum's psycho-cat would bring him food. First, dead things. Then - dead and skinned / de-feathered things, sometimes even de-boned. 

He died at 21. Much loved and pampered.

1 comment:

  1. This so cracked me up (especially the seizure thing). I remember this very special cat.


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