Lucky puss the cat

The story of Lucky Puss (aka The Duchess)

As I write, our lovely old cat, Lucky Puss, has just celebrated her 27th birthday.  Our vet has never seen a cat anywhere near as old and I think that as so many guests fall in love with her it is apt to tell her story. 

I found her early one icy January morning in 1986 about 4.30am after watching the car in front knock her over on a country lane.  She was trying to crawl out of the centre of the road with her one working leg.  She was in terrible pain and distress.  Despite being on my way to an important meeting many miles away which was the final interview for a major promotion in my company with the main board of Directors, I could not leave her.  I rang my wife Val who was at home sleeping to get her to call a local vet.  I was actually heading for Birmingham but had to take a long detour to Leicester as that was the only vet that we could find who would open up for us.  I placed the very broken little cat behind my driver’s seat and high-tailed it as fast as I could (picking up three penalty speeding points on the journey from a cunningly hidden speed camera).  She was calling, screaming in pain and wailing in absolute agony all the time and I kept stroking her head on the centre transmission tunnel behind me and trying to calm her whenever I could.  She decided to take out her ill humor on me at one stage by slashing her rather sharp claw into the back of my hand.  I wear the small scar with honour to this day!

I met the vet who was waiting outside his clinic for me and carried the small and very frightened little bundle into his office.  He estimated that due to shock and the pain that she was only minutes away from death.  There was a problem, however.  It was obviously not my cat and he said that if the owner could not be traced (she had no collar) that the R.S.P.C.A. would not pay so he would be out of pocket.  I agreed to pay the bill.  It turned out that she had a broken pelvis both sides, her hips were broken in at least three places and her rear legs were both fractured as well. As well as muscle damage to her front shoulder and numerous cuts and much bruising.  She was in a very bad way and the vet estimated that she had no better than a 25% chance of survival.  He thought that she was one or two years old at the time.  £600 later (and this is when £600 was £600!), we had a little cat!  I did put up signs at the place that I found her telling any owner where she was  (partly to be honest in the hope of getting my £600 back!).  Nobody came forward or contacted us and so she became a member of our family.  We have always had Shetland sheepdogs who fortunately love other animals so there was no problem there.  After leaving the vets she needed almost three months of cage rest.  It was a long and torrid time as she almost faded away a couple of times and entailed several emergency visits to the vet and one panicked callout at 2 am (he was none too happy but grumpily arrived and in the process brought the still very ill little cat back from the brink once more). 
Spring came around and after all the weeks of being in one room she gradually started to explore the house and then she discovered our large garden and started to very slowly rediscover the ‘outside’, albeit with a pronounced double limp (it is rather difficult limping with both sides at the same time!).  After a few days of seeming very happy to be out in the walled garden she simply disappeared.  We called, put up signs and hunted all around the village but there was no sign of her.  We had become much attached to her and after two months of searching thought that she had gone for ever.   There was much sadness in the house and our Sheltie, Bracken, was pining and rather heartbroken (she had fallen in love with the little varmint and had studiously washed her ears whenever allowed to).

One evening I was at a rather difficult stage of cooking a very tricky sauce for dinner.  My wife Val had gone into the garden on some errand and had closed the frosted glass door behind her.  I could hear her calling me but to be honest did not want to leave my lovingly prepared sauce.  At the same time I could see her outline though the glass ‘dancing’!  Rather strange I thought and in the end (having pretended not to hear her call for a couple of minutes I thought that I ought to investigate (husbands will know that you can only pretend not to hear for so long!).  Upon opening the door I saw Val trying to hold onto a very thin, very dirty black and white cat who despite her small size and general weakness had taken on the fighting spirit of her distant cousin the mountain lion!  There was a frenzy of wails hisses, screams and curses (not all coming just from the cat) as Val vainly tried to hold onto a couple of pounds of pure evilness and hatred!  With the help of a towel we managed to get the struggling little fiend back into the house. 

What did she do?  As if nothing had happened she wandered over to where her supper dish used to be and after wolfing down her dinner rather like a marooned mountaineer strolled through to the fireplace and stretched out in front of it.  Despite being a warm evening we lit the fire in her honour (the neighbors must have thought that we were mad).  From that moment on she became placid, very loving and gentle.  Her wild days of living off the land were behind her forever.  That night she came upstairs and slept on our bed and did do for many years until we moved to France.  In her old age she now prefers a favorite cushion in front of the fireplace.  We think that before she had got completely used to the new house and her new family that she had decided to live in our large walled garden.  However once back inside she calmed down and has been our much loved old friend for over 26 years now. 

The day that we found her lying in the road has been celebrated as her 1st birthday and we celebrate with an extra special grooming (which she loves) and a tin of red salmon every year.  She turned out to be worth far more than the £600 outlay and it is in my opinion money very well spent.  We normally use the term ‘priceless’ to describe her. 

For this year’s birthday we decided that an extra special celebration was needed.  To reflect her dowager status she is no longer referred to as Lucky Puss (which she undoubtedly is), and instead has been rechristened ‘The Duchess’.  I swear that she preens rather more than normal every time we use that name. 
The years have been kind to her and she loves her life here in France.  She cannot see very well and sometimes bumps into things but once every day (as long as there is no rain which she hates even more than the vets) she takes a stroll around the exterior of the garden just checking that all is well.  She did a have a go at catching a butterfly in the garden the other day but it was a poor effort and I think that now she knows that only slightly wounded worms and snails with a limp are the only creatures that she is fast enough to catch.  She does stare wistfully at the fish pond occasionally but as she hates water and in any case cannot see the fish properly, the goldfish are safe.

Two aspects of her nature have not diminished with her advanced age.  She has the appetite of a small wolf cub!  If the dinner is late (which no matter what time it is served, in her opinion, it always is), she goes out of the front door and sits wailing on the kitchen window sill.  She stares in with her expression of ‘Quick! Feed me now before I fade away completely!’  She then spends up to an hour munching daintily on her rather special dinners (she is now spoilt rotten!).

She has a habit of lying in a rather strange position at night and I fuss her while she snoozes in front of the fire before I go to bed.  I always think that at her great age it might be the last time.  Every morning she fools me!  I come down and she is in exactly the same position.  I think to myself almost every morning, ‘Oh no, she has finally gone’.  I call her name but she does not stir.  As I tentatively caress her one last time she jumps up (at least as fast as a 27 year old cat can jump) and starts saying ‘Never mind the head rub, where the heck is my breakfast?!’

She really is in her twilight years now but she is still the ‘grand dame’ of the house and relishes her every moment.  If you call into to see us, give her a little rub between the ears (her favorite place).  You will be rewarded with a loving purrrrrrrrr (and maybe a little meow asking for more dinner before she wastes away completely!).

For the record I did not get the promotion after being told by my furious Managing Director that ‘business takes first place in front of bloody cats’!  I rather disagree.

Paul Bridgestock
January 2012