Pussy-cat, our shrink and saviour

Some say that the Brits aren’t a famous nation of animal-lovers, but rather an emotionally disturbed lot that are projecting all their neuroses on their innocent, but sometimes confused, pets. I think I know what they mean.

Somewhere in the third world, a long time ago now, I found myself tempted by severely attractive women. They all promised me a good time. Trouble was, at some point there was going to be money involved. It would be arranged to look nicer of course, almost like girlfriend-boyfriend, but we all knew the deal.

Oh no, this mustn’t happen, I thought. I’m not like, you know, like that. To pay for a woman, especially if she has darker skin and less money, is bad, almost burn-in-hell-bad, right?  So what to do?  I’d already paid for an expensive one week diving course and couldn’t just leave.

I headed to the beach shop where I bought over-priced tuna and then proceeded to feed the local street cats. As you do.

It didn’t take long for all the cats’ friends to come around and join the party and with starving felines loudly meowing around my feet I thus distracted myself from the danger and avoided falling from the grace of (self) righteousness. Amen.

and with starving felines loudly meowing around my feet I thus distracted myself from the danger and avoided falling from the grace of (self) righteousness. Amen.

Up north, another cat came to the rescue. A nurse was working in an NHS-hospital and the time had come steadily closer for her daughter to give birth. She was about to become a grandmother for the first time. That she would be there, by her daughter’s side, was obvious and not a matter for discussion. Her mother had been there for her, just like her grandmother had been for her mother. As she saw it, life doesn’t get much bigger than this.

She’d told her ward sister in advance that when the time of labour comes she must jump on the first train going south. The sister had mumbled something about “far off in the future”, and that “we’ll see”. But when the future eventually arrived, on a Wednesday, the sister didn’t want to know. “No,” she said, pointing with the finger at the off-duty which was penned in with black ink and kept in the red folder on the sister’s desk, “you can’t get leave now, look; you’re on duty today, tomorrow and day after – who’s going to replace you?”

Well, just ask someone to do overtime or call in a bank or an agency nurse, she thought. Worst case scenario, they would be short, but no one would die. Anyway, she would do the same for her colleagues.

However, she did feel slightly uncomfortable. There was confrontation in the air and that had never been her thing. But when she said “Sorry sister, but I have to go”, she immediately felt much better. Vocalising the words helped her see how simple it was. Her job or her daughter’s birth? Easy. It really wasn’t much to talk about. Besides, there was a train to catch. “Good-bye,” she said, “I’m going.” Behind her, she could hear the sister continue talking, saying something about “disciplinary.”

The train from Yorkshire to London takes several hours, but so do most first-time births. She walked in to her daughter two hours before her first grand-child was born. Like always when your baby gets a baby it was a miracle and she praised her God.

When she got home a few days later she found a letter on the floor inside the door. She’d been summoned to a disciplinary meeting in the hospital that same noon. She first went to her ward and asked for the ward sister. A colleague told her that the sister had gone off on emergency leave. Emergency leave? What had happened? The colleague lowered her voice and told the nurse that sister’s cat had died. “And that cat was her life,” she added.

Trying not to look too happy, the nurse hurried off to the disciplinary meeting. In the room, another sister, an HR-person and some manager she didn’t recognise, were all sitting at one side of the table. She placed herself opposite and got explained to her that, as she had been absent from work without valid reason, her action had to be classified as gross misconduct and she would be subject for a written warning.

She shot from the hip. “Why is my ward sister not here?”, she asked, surprising even herself. And then, without waiting for a reply, she continued; “I know why she isn’t here; her cat has died!” Here she paused and stared at her opponents.

I know why she isn’t here; her cat has died!

“Isn’t it?”, she said, “her cat has died and that’s why she’s off on leave, some sort of leave?” The room got quiet. Legs shuffled and someone coughed.

“So,” continued the nurse, “she’s getting leave for her dead cat but I don’t when my daughter’s giving birth?!” Glances were exchanged and eventually someone apologetically suggested that, on this occasion, maybe a verbal warning would do. No way, she hadn’t done anything wrong. She’d rather resign than have any warnings and that’s that and that’s what she’d told them.

The meeting was wrapped up and thanks to the cat’s so timely passing, and the sister’s excessive grief, she continued to work on the ward without any disciplinary actions whatsoever.

Poor pussy though.