There is no escaping it: Fat Molly is obese. It’s a fact as certain as the moon draws water and as tomorrow always dawns. (See photographic evidence on public FaceBook page: Vicky Gemmell – wordwringers.)
Before you point accusatory fingers at me, and cite diabetes and early heart attacks, let me assure you her obesity is not my fault. That cat ekes calories out of thin air, turning them immediately into fat globules that slide onto her neck, back and stomach. Despite a strict diet: a tablespoonful of lean minced steak/kangaroo each morning, a bowl of extortionately expensive Science Diet weight loss food to sustain her through the long night (the other cats snack on it, diminishing her own modest portion considerably – much to her fury), she continues to swell.
She is also a cat hated by karma. Life’s not easy when you’re a scaredy cat, especially when Fate seems always to turn her most ironic smirk in your direction.
Last night the family gathered in the garden to watch a moonlit owl waiting on the children’s play equipment for the possums (I hope), maybe rats (probably), that come for the leftover bird food I put out each day. The cats came too. When we’d had enough David Attenboroughing, I carefully ushered Platinum Cat, Lord Claude, indoors, mindful of his uncanny similarity to a morsel of delicious rodent. I assumed Fat Molly followed, as HuckFinn – the garden stray who loathes her, never failing to give her a Big Smack whenever the opportunity arises – was lurking. I gave him a feed and then made sure to slam the outside laundry door firmly so that he couldn’t sneak in and decimate the bag of extortionately expensive Science Diet that lives on the washing machine, which is too high for Fat Molly to jump up onto.
At 7.15 am I was doing the dreary school lunch-making, half asleep, grumpy, cursing myself, as usual, for going to bed after 11.30 instead of at 10.00 when I heard a hoarse yow! I located its source at the laundry door, which I opened and was nearly bowled over by Fat Molly who barrelled straight to an empty food bowl (the other cats had had a night feast). She put the P into plaintive with one look. Forking steak mince into her bowl, I observed she’d brought inside with her the most unholy cat stink and I at once resolved to spend the morning giving her a bath. Insult to injury, I know, but a smelly cat is an offence against humanity.
I will gloss over the bath – you can see the photos – only saying that it was accompanied by much hissing and growling: fruity feline language I was almost loathe to allow QueenBee, who was assisting, to overhear. It’s lucky that Fat Molly has no lips and so can’t form a F sound.
The (extortionately expensive – these animals are a costly business) Deluxe Tea-tree Cat Shampoo wasn’t up to addressing Fat Molly’s stench, even though I used most of the bottle. (Hubby Jim will be disappointed; he likes to use it too.)
It was scissors time.
The fruity feline language worsened and I felt like a lion tamer with a new recruit who might, at any second, turn on him with slavering jaws and razoring claws , but I snipped away boldly.
Guilt pangs were keen as I realised I was doing to her what my mother used to do to me as a young child. Convinced she had an inner hairdresser, she would hack away blithely and then send me to school looking like a ragpicker’s laughing stock. After a few days, she’d concede defeat and we’d go to a tutting genuine hairdresser who’d have to resort to a razor to even out the chunks.
Returning to the laundry to collect a dustpan and brush when Fat Molly could take no more, I discovered the crux of her outrage. Caught short in the night, she’d resorted to depositing a neat pee puddle in the dustpan. Then she got caught shorter and, wanting to avoid the splash back effect, dropped a humiliating coil nearby. The humiliation! The indignity! The horror! The horror! No wonder she is so embarrassed and upset today.
But at least she doesn’t have to go to school with that haircut.