Cat ladies: I think I get it

March was not been a good month for keeping on track with blogging but the holidays have started and I'm slowly emerging from the haze that is the end of term. I'm also alone for the weekend, dog-cat-house-sitting for my parents and I will never admit what channel of DSTV I've been watching for a large part of the afternoon: time to get back on track. But what to write about now there are no lessons or students in my life?

Then this evening I realised how some women end up as "the cat lady".

I was sitting outside on the concrete by the pool (not a pleasant image but the grass has ants and dampness) and the dogs, realising that they, after keeping me company in the lounge all afternoon, had been deserted, came to join me. And Bingley, our little white toy pom who likes to be close and whose advances I had rejected by sitting on my hands, leaned hard against my back. And he felt so real and present and alive. Maybe that's obvious or odd, but I have been thinking about living alone recently, since moving onto campus. I don't think I could ever live on my own in an ordinary situation (such as not living as part of a hostel of 35 high school girls) and in fact, the thought terrifies me a little. And after being alone for a total of, let's see, 2 days and 15 hours, I suddenly realised that maybe this is where some cat ladies begin... and why I might end up as one. (Now my mother's terrified).

Those who know me may find this a bit weird because, while I like animals, I'm not crazy about them like some members of my family, but it is amazing what solid, comforting company they provide, particularly when you are alone. They sit on you. They wait for you to get up in the morning and let them in. They look at you. They need you.

About 10 minutes after I had left the poolside and Bingley's warm back I was washing the dog bowls (one of my least favourtie activities of dog-cat-house-sitting) in the outside sink when I heard loud, rather desperate yowl. Up on the roof was Ponyo, cat no. 1. So I dragged our wobbly old wooden ladder over to the wall and stretched up. She was desperate to come down but not quite sure she could trust me and stayed just beyond reach. Eventually I succeeded in grabbing her by the scruff of her neck and slowly backing down the shaking old ladder (time to up-grade, Dad) with her clinging for dear life to the top of my head. When I lowered her arching, tense body to the ground I stroked her quickly for comfort before she could run. But she didn't, she turned and wound herself firmly around my legs, gratitude personified.

Who knows why the "cat lady" is always depicted alone but I think I know now why she is the cat lady. If I ever end up living alone, without 35 high school girls, I mean, I'm going to do it with cats. Or at least, a dog.