Sissy's story

This isn't about trips and it isn't Rob writing, but I wanted to put Sissy's story up and I have just returned from a trip and so I'm hijacking Rob's blog.

Sissy's time with us. March 2001 - January 2015

Sissy, the most passive of cats, never asked for much, a place to snuggle, many morsels a day, a constant door opening slave and someone to curl into in the chill of the night.

We don’t know where she came from but think she saw, on the ‘invisible to humans’ notice at the bottom of our garden in Burrage Road, that there would soon be a vacancy. She moved into the conservatory and kept the beloved Boz company in his last weeks. They would curl up together and sleep the days away.

Did we know she was to be with us the rest of her life? Not at all. ‘She’s pregnant, we can’t have her in the house’, Rob said. And in any case she was unapproachable, hissing if you looked at her, walked near her, offered her food. We called her Hissy. She was not allowed in the house.

In the week after Boz died she offered such comfort. No hissing, approachable, there to be stroked. Not to be cuddled, not to sit on a lap, but to lean into you, sit by you. The vet said she was not pregnant but could not tell if she had been spayed. We called her Sissy.

Sissy had been in residence for three months when Daisy arrived and took being chased out of the house, as Daisy’s first homecoming activity, with surprisingly good grace.

While Daisy never quite surrendered herself to the friendship they would comfortably share a bed, a plane to New Zealand and compete for who got to the food bowls first. Sissy was always a gracious loser. But got her own back by sidling up and rubbing along Daisy’s coat – this is my dog; or moving Daisy on by inching her way across the floor in sinuous slides and rolls ending in a reach of a paw to Daisy’s nose. She also stole every bed that Daisy ever had, but both used to walk out together for their evening stroll in Hornsea.

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Sissy never had kittens, never became less fat – despite being on ‘diet’ biscuits most of her life – gave up killing animals smaller than herself once she realised they were valued too. She was easily spooked and treated the garden as a jungle with all the dangers she imagined were there. An ant could send her leaping backwards in alarm at great speed.

She was a good learner too and after Daisy died she took over the practice of nudging you gently – or firmly if you didn't pay attention – while you worked to get, well whatever it was she wanted, food, a stroke, a door opening … She also disliked humans arguing and I learned to conduct disagreements in a more temperate manner. She wanted a quiet peaceful life.

 

Never did she scratch, bite, lash out – apart from if you were a person who had to feed her overnight if we were gone. I heard tales of bitten ankles as the visitor tried to leave the house. She was sociable and loved and needed company and we eventually realised house-sitter not house-visitors suited her best. 

 

She never asked for much but loved to just be there and for us to be there with her.