Writing for Fun
Monte Carlo - Jeanette Rothwell
September 2014
Believe it or not Monte Carlo was the official name of our cat. He answered to the name of Monty. He acquired that name because one of my daughters observed that, as a kitten, he was always trying to escape to a 'Better' place. Do you get it? Betting, Casino, etc. Well, never mind. The other daughter also remarked that he was always 'chancing his luck'.
Kitten Monty was a constant source of anxiety. He found the inside of the chimney pot in our lounge and, although there was an electric fire in front of it, he squeezed himself through the gap and climbed a little way up the chimney before we realised where he was. Removal of the electric fire, a lot of soot and dirty arms later and he was retrieved looking not the least bit contrite for the trouble he had caused.
The cat flap in the house was about 25cms from the bottom of the door because the cat we had previously owned was fully grown and therefore able to get through it. As Monty was still a kitten, we presumed we did not need to shut the flap because it was too high for him to reach. How wrong could we be? One morning he was nowhere to be seen and then I found him hanging by one paw from the outside of the cat flap. Houdini eat your heart out.
The vet explained that he would have to be 'seen to' as they say, and I delivered him to the surgery rather reluctantly. I gave him a loving stroke before I left him. Later in the day I called to collect him. The vet warned that Monty would be rather sleepy for a while and probably not very hungry for the rest of the day. Perhaps he should be kept indoors for a couple of days. I put him in his makeshift cardboard box on the passenger seat in the car and started for home. In no time a lot of scratching and meowing was heard. A head popped out of the box followed by the rest of him and he spent the rest of the journey draped around my neck. When we got home he made a beeline for his food, gulped it down, and headed for the garden before I could stop him. So much for the vet's advice.
Still in his kitten hood, I made the mistake of putting a camera on the coffee table with the strap overhanging. This was too much for Monty and he had to investigate the strap. He put his head through the loop and getting rather agitated by the fact that it impeded his progress he streaked for the back door followed by the clattering camera. Too fast for me to catch him. 'Good bye camera,' I thought.
Later in the day, two small boys knocked at the front door holding out the camera because I had attached a label to the back bearing my name and address. It was very sweet of them to return it but it was a sorry sight. Broken glass, lens, casing, etc. I had the nerve to write to my insurance company, explaining what had happened. I was sure they would never believe the story but a short time later a cheque for the value of the camera was received through the post, much to my surprise.
When we moved house, I kept him in the bathroom for a while and I got the local handy man to fix a cat flap to the back door. I then introduced Monty to the cat flap by placing his food on the other side of it to encourage him to go through. He cottoned on to this very quickly and spent the rest of the day popping in and out at will. The following morning he was nowhere to be seen. I called him over and over again but still no Monty. For about four days I texted the family who kept asking after him, walked the streets calling, put little notes through neighbours' doors, but with no success.
On the fifth morning I walked into the kitchen. A clattering at the cat door and in popped Monty rather dishevelled dirty and very hungry. He promptly ate some food, carried out his ablutions, and found the best place in the house to sleep, namely my armchair. He slept for the rest of the day. I can only assume that he had been locked in someone's garage or shed.
Later in his life we acquired another cat to keep him company. They became highly efficient cat burglars. On one occasion I took out a frozen chicken which I left on the kitchen counter to defrost overnight. It was wrapped in cling film, as solid as a rock and heavy. The house we were in at the time had a hallway that was adjacent to the kitchen. The following morning I found the chicken, or what was left of it, on the front door mat, half eaten albeit still half frozen, and two very smug and innocent looking cats apparently waiting to be fed with some probably very boring cat food after the night's feast.
Have you ever seen the musical show 'Cats'? Well, believe me, the various names like Mungojerrie and McCavity and their behaviour really struck a chord with me. 'McCavity breaks the law of gravity' says the poem. Monty would love to sit on the top of a narrow fence watching the dog from next door that would be driven wild because he couldn't get to him.
'When you think he's half asleep he's always wide awake.' I would find the duvet cover densely covered in cat hairs but no Monty to be found. He would purr with delight at being combed and de-fleed and then go and rub himself in the nearest flower bed in order to undo all my hard work.
Mungojerrie was described as the 'Napoleon of Crime'. Monty could cross the conservatory roof with a bird in his mouth, jump down precariously via a nearby fence, and drop the mangled bird at my feet. He would also present me with baby frogs which were terrifying because they screamed when he was carrying them in his mouth. For example, my daughter and I were enjoying a cup of tea together when he appeared one day with a screaming frog. On our jumping up in fright, he dropped it and the frog hopped all over the carpet trying to escape. We were also screaming in fright and at the cat. We had to get a broom and shoo the frog out of the front door, shutting Monty in the kitchen to stop him repeating the process. I also found some dead frogs under the cooker when I had to investigate a strange smell in the kitchen.
Monty was fascinated by the television. I have a photo of him jumping up to the television because there was a huge picture of a butterfly which he was trying to catch.
If I was going away for a few days (I had a neighbour who loved looking after him) as soon as I opened the suitcase he would jump in the lid and settle down as if to say, 'You are not going anywhere without me.' When I returned from a trip he would turn his back on me and refuse to purr for about 24 hours just to teach me a lesson.
Monty lived to the grand old age of twenty two. For the last year of his life the vet kept prescribing thyroid tablets but eventually I knew that Monty had had enough and reluctantly I said goodbye. Getting another cat is not an option as my lovely neighbour is no longer there and we do like going away a lot.
Monte Carlo's luck had run out. A hard act to follow.
