My de facto partner, (that's how the Australian Government regards my relationship with my boyfriend of over 40 years) and I have been lucky enough to share our home with a number of cats. All have lived happily with us for 16 - 20 years without any real traumas, until they died. I won't go into the heart-wrenching details of the death of our beloved cats except to say that I doubt they could have been happier, whilst they lived.
I digress for a moment to describe how we recently overcame our financial problems which threatened to see the bank foreclose on our mortgage and force us out on to the street. The best we could hope for was a nice tree in one of Adelaide's park-lands with a broadband connection.
Anyway, to cut short the story of a year long effort of challenges with the local council and the real estate agent, the bank, thank the deity of your choice, granted us a bridging loan to subdivide our property and sell it. We were able to reduce our mortgage to a very small amount which the dear bank would allow us to repay over 18 years. We were able to keep our home on the now smaller block of land which doesn't worry us.
As an aside to this digression, I should tell you that the Real estate agent presented us with a quote for overseeing the subdivision which I refused and organised myself saving over $7,000 in the process. Of course it meant that I had to physically go all butch and build the council's demanded carport for our car, as well as organise the concrete, fencing, tree clearance, etc.
Our clever accountant made sure we didn't have a capital gains tax problem.
My friends, such as they are, were all very helpful telling me, whist I am up on the carport roof (at the age of 69) to "Be careful." I was beginning to feel like one of my characters from my Doors Of Love stories.
Finally we overcame all the council objections and the real estate agent found us a buyer for the newly created block of land.
We took out a small extra loan so we could paint and carpet the rooms. Then the gas cooktop blew up in the kitchen, and we replaced that. The electric stove stopped working and it was cheaper to replace it than repair. I still have some tiling to do in the laundry.
The keyboard on the computer lost the plot and I replaced that. I now have a wonderful mechanical action keyboard...I love it, no more tysop.
So that left us with a vacancy for a cat.
We decided that rather than get a kitten we would adopt an adult cat and thereby rescue it from the dreaded death by lethal injection. I always wonder about death by non-lethal injections.
We searched the local used cats site, and found a lovely 4 year old black male (neutered). The owner was a girl who just graduated her engineering degree and was moving to a job in another city where her accommodation didn't allow pets.
So we get the cat home. It had a name we didn't like, but decided that we would wait for it to show its character and that would give us a clue as to its new name. Little did we know.
First it wouldn't come out of its cat carrier cage. It hissed, snarled and growled in no particular order. It bared its fangs and snapped at our fingers. Okay, so I patiently offered it food and sat with it, making silly cat noises of soothing and welcoming sounds. Nine hours later it exited the cage and rubbed itself against my hand and leg.
It then proceeded to vomit on the floor.
An anxiety attack if ever I saw one. I knew about anxiety attacks as the de facto boyfriend had one when it looked like we were going to be destitute, but thankfully he made it to the bathroom and didn't vomit on the floor.
The next day pussycat ate and threw up, ate and threw up quite consistently, so I made an appointment with our local Vet.
I looked at the previous owners' Vet documents and saw that the cat had been vaccinated, but no other examination had been done because of, "extreme temperament problems."
So when the de factoed one got home I told him we were going to the vet. He told me he felt okay. He had just manage to land a full time job. We had some extra income. Lucky us, the Vet must have known and charged us $89.
Calmly we arrived at the Vet and the cat had sat quietly in his carrier cage. Once the door was opened he sprang at the Vet sunk his claws into her and clawed the now shocked and horrified de facto one.
The Vet decided a hairball might be part of the vomiting problem as the cat was very active and not at all underweight.
We returned home with some cat laxative. I was already having the shits with this animal. My poor lover's hand was looking quite lacerated.
Four weeks later, the cat is loving and sookie, and then for no reason attacks our ankles, and bites and scratches exposed skin. We are not going commando until we sort this cat out.
We watched the videos at My Cat From Hell site (recommended) where cat behaviourist Jackson Galaxy, advises on how to handle difficult cats.
We've done everything he suggests and the cat still summons the demons from the underworld right in the middle of his loving us. He's mental...So we have called him Psycho.
We'll post further bulletins, if we survive.