(The First Couple of Weeks)

For better or for worse, I ignore the advice of the rescue shelter and the cat experts on YouTube, and allow Luna access to the entire house as soon as I open the door to her carrier.  And as soon as she exits her carrier, she slinks out and, with the occasional trips to the food station and litter tray, takes up residence under the sofa for the next two weeks.  And yet on the very afternoon of her arrival, I line up a dozen treats between her hiding place and me, sitting against the wall, and she emerges gingerly, sniffs the air, looks at me with those golden eyes of hers, then eats the treats one by one, all the way to the last one, which I am holding in the palm of my hand.  She sniffs my fingers, the edges of my hand, picks up the treat, crunches it, then gives my hand a brief lick before retreating.  Every day, she comes out to eat treats from the palm of my hand.  So you trust me, I think.  I try to touch her.  She recoils.  No.  No touching allowed.  

One day, life gets on top of me.  Work, money, physical and emotional exhaustion.  I slump on the sofa and burst into tears.  And, suddenly, Luna is sitting at my feet, looking up at me, blinking slowly.  I am overwhelmed.  This little black cat is my friend. This little black cat is comforting me.

After a couple of weeks, K. suggests blocking all access to the under-sofa area, to force Luna into the open.  We wedge our heaviest dictionaries into the gap between the sofa and the floor.  Luna watches us, sitting with her front paws together, like a ballet dancer, her tail coiled around her.  It takes us half a dozen attempts, because she always finds a way of edging through and hiding again.  When we finally succeed in sealing off the area, she readily jumps on the sofa and lies there, nonchalantly, as though it is really no big deal.

Every evening, when Howard and I sit in the living room to watch television, we hear violent scratching on the underside of the sofa.  And not just anywhere.  Just under where we sit.

“Luna, stop it!”

She is clearly lying on her back, front paws clawing at the bottom of the sofa, scattering small pieces of sponge and fabric all over the carpet.

We slap the sofa.  “Oy! Enough!”

She continues.  Howard reminds me it’s a new-ish sofa.

“At least she’s not scratching the upholstery,” I say feebly.

“Try spraying the sofa with white vinegar,” the receptionist at the veterinary surgery suggests.  “Cats hate the smell and it stopped my cat from destroying the furniture.”

It’s a heavy, three-seater sofa, but we manage to tip it onto its side and spray the area generously.  Even after we have aired the lounge, the smell of vinegar is pungent.  Luna struts in and slinks under the sofa, apparently impervious to the vinegar.  More bits of sponge fly out that evening.  

We collect Amazon boxes and cover the entire underside of the sofa with a double layer of cardboard.  This way, the vandal can attack to her heart’s content without causing damage.  That evening, we do not tell her off for scratching.  She stops scratching from that moment on.

*   *   *

I am determined to feed the mini-panther as healthy and natural a diet as is realistically and practically feasible with a formerly wild animal that has been alienated from nature by humans making it into an apartment pet who enjoys lounging on soft furniture.  A pet shop owner assures me that raw meat is the only way to go for a natural cat and hands me a packet of frozen beef.  “How natural is it for a cat to kill a cow?” I ask.  He swerves from the subject and tells me the meat grade is of several A’s.  

I look at the price tag.  “Why don’t I just buy meat intended for human consumption from the supermarket?”

He tries to find a counter argument, but fails.

I open a tin of tuna fish and present it to my apartment feline.  She sniffs it and turns away, haunches like a fashion model.  I try sardines, mackerel and pilchards.  She gives me one of her If you like this stuff, you eat it looks.  I buy an expensive tin of something described as “poultry and game”.  She stares at it and struts off.  I take out the magnifying glass to read the list of ingredients and discover it contains 1% green-lipped mussel.  Apparently, fish and seafood are not her thing. But when I open a tin of wild Atlantic red salmon for myself, she partakes of it enthusiastically.

I read that eggs are among domestic cats’ favourite foods.  I serve her a dollop of scrambled egg and a wedge of omelette.  Unseasoned, of course.  She makes the closest a cat can to a grimace.  

We settle on grain-free tinned food – chiefly variations on a chicken theme – with a minimum meat content of 89% for breakfast, a piece of baked chicken or beef mince for dinner and kibbles in between meals, as snacks or treats.

Then, a couple of nights ago, I fry myself two eggs in olive oil and shake generous amounts of salt and pepper on them.  My TV dinner while Howard is at the cinema, seeing the latest Sorrentino.  I turn away for fifteen seconds and Luna is on the coffee table, licking the runny egg yolk from my plate unapologetically.  I guess, like me, she will not eat eggs unless they are seasoned.  I’ll fry a third egg next time.

To be continued