#oneaday Day 145: The love of a good cat

Apologies for last night’s bleakness. Not entirely sure what came over me. I think it was just the fact I turned the TV on to watch something while I was having something to eat and I was immediately confronted by a “Dell AI” advert that… didn’t advertise anything whatsoever. But anyway. That was then, and this is now, and now I am back from my overnight stay and monthly visit to the office, and I have been welcomed home by my wife and cats.

My wife is jealous of how much our cats love me. And not just our current two; I was clearly favoured by both Ruby and Meg also. I haven’t particularly done anything special to make any of them favour me in particular, but I can confirm that both Oliver and Patti have been all over me ever since I returned home.

And it’s nice. There is something wonderful about the completely (well, mostly) unconditional love you feel from an animal. Both Oliver and Patti simply like being with me. We don’t have to be doing anything “together”; they both just like to be in the same room as me, knowing that I’m nearby, and that if they feel like jumping on me to harass me for some attention and/or treats, I’m right there, nice and convenient.

I’d always known that having a cat around was a genuine joy. I grew up with two of the most wonderful cats you ever could imagine, for starters, and I still miss them both dearly. I have doubtless told this story many times before, but our first cat Penny was very much my “nursemaid” when I was very little, and as I grew up I felt very close to her.

After Penny passed on peacefully one night, it wasn’t long before my family decided that we didn’t want to be without a cat, and so Kitty (we didn’t name her) joined us. She was a wonderful bundle of joy who loved nothing more than jumping into your lap and lying down, regardless of if you were trying to do anything. Sadly she left us, well before her time, after an accident in the road outside our house.

I still think of both Penny and Kitty, and love them both dearly.

And having pets of my own has brought me immeasurable amounts of joy. I consider myself incredibly fortunate to have been blessed with such wonderful pets consistently — though the fact that every pet I have had has turned out to be such a wonderful companion makes me wonder if the way you nurture them as their carer has as much impact on their overall personality as their general nature. If so, that hopefully says something positive about me.

The only thing I wish is that I’d explored the possibility of having my own pets sooner in my adult life than I did; right from when Andie and I first adopted a pair of rats because we thought it might be fun up until the fussy little mogs who are currently adorning various surfaces in my living room, pet ownership has been a wonderful thing.

There are challenges, of course, and it is sad when you have to say goodbye to a beloved pet. But the possibility of those sad times in the future should never take away from the amount of joy pets can bring you. And, as with Penny and Kitty, the pets we have lost over the years are still with me in their own way, too. Willow, Lara, Lucy, Socks, Clover, Ruby, Meg… I will never forget any of them.

Pets are wonderful companions, excellent listeners and never judge you. And now, I cannot imagine ever being without them.

Want to read my thoughts on various video games, visual novels and other popular culture things? Stop by MoeGamer.net, my site for all things fun where I am generally a lot more cheerful. And if you fancy watching some vids on classic games, drop by my YouTube channel.

2534: Christmas Cheer

While I’ve somewhat lost enthusiasm for Christmas over the last ten years or so — I used to absolutely love it as a child — one thing I am pretty grateful for is the fact that I don’t recall ever having a “bad” Christmas.

I mention this simply because one of the most popular stereotypes used when describing the Christmas period is that of “the inevitable family arguments” that apparently occur in many households. While I feel that the descriptions of these are often somewhat overblown and exaggerated for comedic effect in most cases, these stereotypes presumably came about for a reason.

My Christmases growing up were fairly formulaic and predictable, but that brought them a certain sense of comfort about them. I’d wake up to find a selection of small gifts that had been snuck into a “Santa’s sack” at the foot of my bed, then go downstairs for a bacon sandwich and, once I was a little older, a Bucks Fizz. After breakfast, we’d go up to the lounge and open presents — my mother usually being the one who was most enthusiastic about this part of the day, and my father urging a certain degree of restraint — before relaxing with our new acquisitions for a little while.

After that, lunch preparations would get underway, with my mother taking the lead on things — we were a household of traditional gender roles, and also my mother is an excellent cook — and the rest of us alternating between staying well out of the way and occasionally fetching and carrying things as requested.

Lunchtime would come, and sprouts would always be on everyone’s plate, regardless of protestations, though those of us who really objected to them (such as me) would typically only have one of them, drowned in gravy to make it as inoffensive as possible. This would be followed by Christmas pudding, which would always be set aflame, and which I’d never quite work out if I actually liked or not — after 35 years of contemplation, I don’t think I do — and perhaps a cheeseboard to finish.

At some point during the day, the whole family would troop down to a local family friends’ place for wine and conversation for an hour or two; this was never a formal affair, but was always pleasant, particularly if the circumstances of the rest of the year had meant that we hadn’t had the time to catch up as frequently as we all might have liked to do. Then we’d return home, flop into our respective chairs and go back to enjoying our presents, mountains of snack foods and a generally relaxed, calm atmosphere.

I don’t remember a single Christmas that was blighted with arguments or troublesome political discussions, and I’m grateful for that. Perhaps these things did happen and I just don’t remember them, but they couldn’t have been especially traumatic for me if I can’t recall them at all.

These days, a Christmas exactly as I describe above is something that only happens once every couple of years now, since being married, we have the “one family, other family, quiet Christmas by ourselves” cycle going on. This year, we’re with my in-laws, who have routines of their own very similar to those that my family have enjoyed over the years, albeit with their own little twists.

And after a turbulent year — not to mention the chaos of working retail over the holiday period — I’m looking forward to a day where everyone, everywhere can just take some time to relax and enjoy themselves for once. At least, I hope that’s what everyone, everywhere is at least going to make an effort to try and do.

Merry Christmas.

#oneaday Day 889: Rats!

We got two pet rats yesterday. We didn’t start the day intending to end it with some pets, but they were cute and we’ve been fancying having a pet for quite some time. Given that we’re renting our house (and contemplating moving at some point, too) it’s not practical to get a cat or a dog, which would have been our first choice, so something small, cute and furry that doesn’t go very far was ideal, really.

I’ve never owned my own pet before. Sure, my parents had cats for most of the time that I was living at home, so I was used to having an animal around as a child and very much loved both Penny and Kitty. But since leaving home (on both occasions) I’ve never had a pet that is “mine” (or “ours” in this case). It’s a slightly daunting prospect, if I’m honest, because getting a pet is essentially saying that you’re confident enough that you can take care of some form of small furry creature well enough that it not only doesn’t die immediately but also (hopefully) comes to love and appreciate you.

Our two rats haven’t quite got to that stage yet as they’re both very nervy and scared still, but they’re getting there. One thing that has struck me about them is how clearly-defined their personalities are. Never having owned a creature of the “small and fluffy” variety before, I never really thought about them having particular personalities. I know from experience that dogs and cats have their own distinct character traits, but I’d never really considered rats as being the same. It does, of course, make sense — every creature, whatever species it is, is different and will react to situations in different ways regardless of primal instincts. At the most complex end of the spectrum, we have humans with their various neuroses, phobias, passions and addictions. And at the other end, we have our two rats, whom it’s impossible not to assign very “human” characteristics to.

One of our rats (who has since been dubbed “Willow”) is very shy. When we first got them she sat completely motionless for a very long time just staring at us. She’s moving around a bit more now but is still startled by loud noises and doesn’t like to be watched while she eats, drinks or indeed does anything. She’s already grown in confidence, though, so she’ll be fine in no time, I’m sure.

The other rat (since dubbed “Lara”) is the complete opposite. She likes to explore. She was the first to come out of the box and wander around the cage. She was the first to find the food and the water. She was the first to start climbing around the bars on the side of the cage — and she’s really rather good at climbing, too. She seems to be the smarter of the pair, as she figured out very quickly how to get into the “hammock” they have hanging from the top of the cage, and spent a very comfortable-looking few hours in there earlier today. Willow, meanwhile, came close to figuring it out but didn’t manage to get in there, and tended to bolt if we actually picked her up and put her in there.

I’m looking forward to the two of them coming out of their shell a bit more — they’re both very young and very nervous at the moment, but I have several friends who keep rats and say they’re great pets that are very friendly. It will be interesting to see these little balls of fluff grow and change over time, both physically and in terms of personality, no doubt. For the moment, they’re very cute and fun to watch; as time goes by, I’m sure they’ll become wonderful companions and parts of the “family” (for want of a better word).

#oneaday Day 137: Say My Name, Bitch

I have something of a — what — phobia? I’m not sure it’s that serious, but I have something of a thing about saying people’s names, for some inexplicable reason. It might be something to do with the fact that I never really liked my own name or the way my voice pronounced it when I was a kid (hence my habitual shortening of it to “Pete” everywhere in the world these days) or it might just be one of my many strange and inexplicable neuroses.

I can’t even pin down why I sometimes find it difficult to say the name of the person who is standing right in front of me and who, in most cases, I know quite well. Perhaps I worry I’ll mispronounce it (granted, it’s kind of hard to mispronounce most of the names of people I know, though I have no idea how to say the surnames “Ohle” or “Honea” to this day and worry if I ever meet the people in question face to face I’ll pick the wrong possibility and make a big tit of myself) or perhaps I just think that someone’s name is somehow a window on their soul, a piece of their person that is, well, personal.

I don’t mind people calling me by name, though, that’s the weird thing. And I’m aware it’s silly to feel odd about saying other people’s names — particularly if you’re calling out for someone. “Hey! You!” really doesn’t cut it in a room full of people — although to be honest, I’ve never really been one for calling out anyway, as I generally much prefer to just go over to the person in question and speak to them, as yelling just draws attention to 1) you and 2) the person you’re yelling at, who may not be grateful for the attention.

Of course, it’s easy to go the other way and start calling people by their name far too much. Then it gets a bit weird, people start raising their eyebrows and wondering why you’re “acting suspiciously”. Saying someone’s name too much is often seen as a sign of guilt, like you’re trying to avoid accidentally referring to the person as someone else, like an ex, or a hilariously deformed person you saw on TV that you can’t get out of your head while you look at your friend, however awful a person that makes you.

Maybe it, like so many socialisation things, is something you just need to practice a bit. It is, after all, one of the things about “growing up” — the moment when you stop calling adults “Steven’s mum” or “Mrs. Stevenson” and start calling them “Geoff”. (Steven’s mum’s parents didn’t like her much.) Perhaps there’s still some sort of residual hang-up in my mind about that, like so many things.

Ah well. One more to add to the list.

#oneaday Day 112: Standing on Ceremony

It was the wedding day of my friends Ben and Amy today. It’s been a long time coming and they’re going to have a very long and happy life together, I’m sure.

One thing that struck me during the ceremony, though, was how odd ceremonies as a concept are. Very formalised and based in tradition, they’re a far cry from the way you act in regular day to day life.

And I guess that’s the point; a wedding ceremony isn’t something you do every day (hopefully) so it stands to reason that something should make it extraordinary. So why not infuse rings with meaning and symbolism, and why not insist that people are facing each other at the correct time, and why not delve into Old English when necessary?

It’s all about tradition. Concepts such as marriage and the like are almost as old as society and civilised living itself. To modernise them after they’ve been the same (or at least similar) for so long would be to break with years, decades, centuries of tradition.

That doesn’t mean people don’t do it, of course. Unconventional weddings are great fun to be a part of. But there must be a reason that so many people choose to do things in the “traditional” and apparently antiquated manner. For all the trappings of modernity we have these days, it seems that there are some traditions and ceremonies that we still respect.

I wonder if we’ll still be theeing and thouing in two hundred years time? Smart money’s on yes.

#oneaday, Day 324: Humbug

It’s easy to be cynical about Christmas these days, given that it starts in mid-September and proceeds to get increasingly more present in the months leading up to December until it is eventually omnipresent. (Happy, Mr Hussick?) By the time it actually arrives, people are so thoroughly sick of the whole “Christmas” thing that they just want it over and done with for another few months until the whole thing starts over again.

It’s not like that for everyone, of course. I doubt that the kids out there are as cynical about Christmas. I certainly wasn’t when I was a kid; Christmas was a time to be excited. There was a different atmosphere about the whole day, and not just the tangible excitement over getting presents or eating copious amounts of turkey dinner. It felt like a special day when nothing could possibly go wrong, when it would be impossible for Bad Things of any description to happen.

I haven’t felt like that for years now. I forget the last time I felt that way, but I’m pretty sure it was back in my childhood. Perhaps there’s more to be said for the belief in Santa Claus than people give credit for. It doesn’t help that the last few Christmases I’ve had were pretty underwhelming at best and downright unpleasant at worst. The Christmas that I had to work over and then spent the best part of Christmas week lying in bed alone suffering with a strong bout of flu—proper flu, the “can’t get up because your whole body aches too much” flu—was a particular lowlight, but the events of the past year haven’t made me particularly feel like celebrating anything at any point.

I am spending this Christmas abroad, though, away from this cold, grey, depressing land. I’ll be over in the States, where I’ll be spending most of the time with my family, including my brother, his wife and his kids, whom I haven’t seen for some time. I saw John earlier this year, but it’s still been a while. I’ll also be spending at least one weekend with my very good friend Mr Chris Whittington, former host of the Squadron of Shame SquadCast, and hopefully we’ll get the chance to put together a special seasonal/end-of-year show for everyone to enjoy. Then we can kick 2010’s ass out the door and let it rot in the gutter like it deserves to.

I seem to recall having similar thoughts at the beginning of this year; that 2009 had been, on the whole, shitty for most people involved including myself, and many of us started 2010 with hope for the future. I can say with some confidence right now that I’m just happy to get to the end of each day at the moment. Any time I’ve had a bit of long-term hope for the future, what with job interviews for positions I’d give my right arm for, those hopes have ended up being dashed for one reason or another. So right now it appears to be something of a case of taking each day as it comes and hoping something good eventually happens.

Not a great way to do things, but little else I can do right now. So you’ll forgive me if I’m not exactly full of festive cheer.

#oneaday, Day 307: Wait. Terry Wait. Overwait. Call The Wait-er.

How much time do you think you waste every year waiting for things to happen? Whether it’s waiting for the phone to ring, the response to an email, the answer to a question, an alarm to go off, someone to call you into their office or for your delicious improvised curry sauce to thicken, chances are you spend a good proportion of your time waiting for things to happen or for other people to do things.

Just think how much more we could all get done without all this waiting. Consider how long it takes someone from any Government agency to write back to you, drawing out what is usually an unpleasant process (why else would you be writing to an arm of the Government, were it not to complain about something?) even longer than necessary. Perhaps your question was a simple one that can be answered with one word—the words “yes” and “no” were invented for exactly this situation—but no. More often than not you’ll receive a letter back informing you that they’re “unable to action your correspondence” or, in English, “not able to reply to your letter” and demanding further details that you’ve already given them at least fifteen times.

This sort of thing is annoying and, in this age of instant communication, bordering on inexcusable. Who writes letters any more, anyway, for starters? Wake up and smell the electronics.

The trouble with taking this attitude, though, is that it starts to filter into other parts of your life. You find yourself wondering why the text message you sent thirty seconds ago hasn’t been replied to yet, without thinking that the recipient may just have better things to do than respond to a message that simply says “COCK! PISS! PARTRIDGE!” because they might, in fact, have a job to do. You forget the context of a reply on Twitter because someone replied to something you posted four hours ago. And in the meantime, you sit staring at your computer screen, iPhone or, in the worst possible scenarios, your wall or ceiling. Because you might get that response you need in the next thirty seconds/minute/half an hour/hour/day and you couldn’t possibly do anything useful in the meantime. But of course you can’t send another message following it up because that’s pushy and rude and you don’t want to look like an asshole.

Well, bollocks to it. We need an inversion of this situation, where “important” things get resolved quickly rather than are “endeavoured to be responded to within 72 hours”, and where it’s okay for your friends, family and/or that hottie you texted to be quiet for a few seconds/minutes/hours/days at a time. Because let’s face it, staring at a wall is marginally less productive than staring at a toaster waiting for it to pop.

Because at least if you stare at a toaster, you end up with some delicious toast. What’s your wall ever going to give you?

#oneaday, Day 104: Silence is…

I’ve been back home visiting my folks for the past couple of days. They read this, so don’t be expecting any uncomplimentary remarks, not that I’d do that anyway!

It’s been quite some time since I’ve been home. Even longer since my brother and I were both here. Since he was in the country this weekend, I took the opportunity to catch up with my whole family at once. My immediate family, anyway.

It’s always odd coming back to your childhood stomping grounds. There’s always something different to how you remember it, whether it’s a new housing development that never used to be there, the fact that your childhood home now has double-glazed windows (despite past insistences that would never happen) or the cars across the road being a different colour. Changes are always particularly striking when you’ve been away for a while.

The biggest change since I grew up here is probably the silence. I don’t know if it’s the fact the cat is no longer with us, the fact that the aforementioned double-glazing keeps the noise out quite well or simply that there’s not been any music on the stereo while I’ve been here. But I’ve become so accustomed to living in a relatively noisy environment – living in a city centre, enjoying activities that make noise – that the silence here is strange. It feels like something’s missing, like it should be filled with something,

But silence doesn’t have to be filled. There’s no need for noise all the time. Perhaps John Cage was on to something when he composed 4’33”.

Funny where your mind wanders in the silence of the dead of night.

An Open Goodbye

The blogosphere is undoubtedly chock-full of posts like the one I’m about to make but that doesn’t make any of them less meaningful to the people involved. While the words that the writer commits to “paper” (for want of a better word) may mean nothing to casual readers or people just “passing through”, the writer themself can feel better simply by the act of getting them out in the open. Yes, it is completely and utterly self-indulgent, but that’s what I feel as I begin to write this, and I hope you, the reader, will understand that. Normal service will resume shortly and I’ll get back to enthusing about games, using bad words and ranting about the state of the country. But for now, this.

Yesterday I received the sad news that our family’s cat, who lived with my parents, died after being run over. The full meaning of these words didn’t really hit me until late in the evening, and more so today when I found myself unable to face even contemplating speaking to anyone else for a good proportion of the day. I’d like to take a moment to share a few thoughts and memories in the absence of a “funeral”. Some may wonder at the amount of attention being given to “just a cat”, but if you think that, you’ve probably never owned a beloved family pet and lost them. A family pet who is loved as much as Kitty was is absolutely a member of the family, and never “just a pet”.

There have been two cats in my life. The first, Penny, was, according to my parents, my nursemaid when I was very young. If I was ill, she’d sit outside my bedroom door “on guard”. If I cried, she’d come and “tell” my folks. She was part of the family, right down to sitting at the table to have Christmas dinner with us – because if there was one thing she loved, it was human food.

Penny died of old age one night about eleven years ago. She knew it was going to happen. She sat down in front of our heating vent in the hallway of our house and stayed there for the evening. We said goodnight to her and went to bed, leaving her some water and food where she was. When we came down in the morning, she had passed away quietly. We said our goodbyes and buried her in the garden beneath a cat statue, where she sleeps now.

The house was quiet for a while without a cat. Very quickly, our family decided that we didn’t want to be without a cat – it was just too quiet after so many years of having Penny – so we took a ride up to the local animal sanctuary to meet the candidates.

Kitty (who already knew her name, so there was no hope of ever changing that!) was a tiny little thing who was very nervous when we met her. She was cute and friendly, despite her nerves, however, so we chose her and took her home. It took time for her to come out of her shell – for the longest time, she was afraid even to go outside. Apparently, her previous home had had dogs who had terrorised the poor thing into submission. As time went on, however, she grew more confident and also grew physically from the tiny cat we had picked up from Wood Green animal shelter into a rather larger one!

She was a very friendly cat. She made an effort to make people like her – even self-professed “cat-haters”. She would simply jump in their lap when they came to visit, sit there and purr until even they admitted that she wasn’t that bad, after all. She would also jump in your lap for a cuddle at the most inopportune times – having dinner, attempting to write an email, reading a book… If you were in a chair and you had a lap, you were fair game.

It’s a fair bet that wherever she is now (I have it on good authority that while all dogs go to heaven, all cats go to Valhalla) she’s jumping in the lap of someone, rolling over and purring contentedly. I can just see her lying in a Valkyrie’s lap with a big silly grin on her face.

And so this post is to say a very public goodbye to Kitty Davison. You will be missed sorely by all who knew you and loved you, and I hope Penny takes good care of you.

Rest in peace.