El Andalous - More About Cat Sitting

 

Milo Wanting Attention

This is rapidly becoming a cat blog. Sorry about that.

Anyway, six weeks on, and Theresa’s flat was quite dirty. Cat hair was everywhere because the cats are molting (or at least Milo is) and they have the run of the place. It’s a bit of a thankless task, but Theresa decided she wanted the flat cleaned (it’s thankless because Milo will simply molt all over again). Anyway, it’s not my place to argue. And maybe she had a flat viewing or a potential renter.

Even though we have cleaning staff here at El Andalous, it’s pretty busy at the moment and the staff was largely already fully occupied cleaning for rental handovers each day. Eventually, it was Theresa’s turn. I wanted to explain about keeping Gino shut inside and not to let Isa get at Gino, so I asked when the cleaners would start. Ugh, eight thirty in the morning. I asked Ahmed to tell them.

I got there for nine o’ clock and the flat was full of cleaning staff. There must have been at least five of them. Their trolley was in the flat, cushions were all over the place, rubbish bags were everywhere. And Ginos’s door was open. Uh oh.

In my panic, I had a rant at the cleaners, but I don’t think they understood a word I was saying. I eventually got them to understand that there should be three cats (the other two go outside, so they can always escape for a while. I wasn’t so worried about them). I thought I’d got them to understand about keeping Gino inside, but later events demonstrated that they had no idea.

I returned later to see if Gino had reappeared. He was located hiding under the cupboard in his bathroom, so all was okay. I asked them to keep the door shut, and demonstrated. They nodded. I hung around and three minutes later, they’d opened the door. I shut it and asked them if they could keep the door shut. They nodded. Yes, you’ve guessed it. Three minutes later, the door was open again. On the final attempt, I thought they’d finally understood.

I went up again and the door was open. Ugh. Fortunately, Gino was still hiding and I think Isa was too upset by all the men to cause a fight. I shut the door. This time, it remained shut. Hurrah.

Evening came, and I thought I’d better check that the cats were okay. They’d kept Gino’s door closed, but the men had opened the door from his bedroom onto the patio instead – an invitation to Isa to terrorise and an escape route for Gino to get lost. Panic! However, Gino had been too scared to move, so he’d now hidden himself inside the cupboard. He came out when I called and I shut the patio door.

And another thing was wrong. The cleaners had shut the patio door from the lounge. This meant that the two outdoor cats couldn’t get outside. I think Isa was already elsewhere, but poor Milo had been trapped inside and was bursting for the toilet (his and Isa's litter box is on the patio). As soon as I opened the door, he rushed out.

I don’t know how cleaning can take so long. The cleaners resumed the next day (they were supposed to wash the floors and vacuum the sofas, but they did everything).

I went up a few times, but it seemed that Gino was safe because he spent the day in hiding and Isa wasn’t venturing in while the cleaners were there. Finally, evening came, and the cleaners had finished.

I went up to check. Gino’s door was open. I heard a miaow. He’d got himself stuck behind the fridge (which is in the lounge area, where he normally shouldn’t be). I rescued him and he dived back into his own quarters. I filled up the food and water for all of the cats, but not much had gone from any of their bowls and hardly anything to clear in the litterboxes. The cats had obviously been too stressed to eat while the cleaners invaded (the men had left all their stuff in the flat overnight, so it probably felt unsettling). Milo turned up and started eating like there was no tomorrow.

I returned the flat to normality and breathed a sigh of relief.

El Andalous - Cleo's Arrival

Cleo Settling In

 

I’ve already written about Maria’s death (RIP). She left behind her cat, Cleo. Maria doted on Cleo. When we were on holiday, she’d always save any cheese that I didn’t eat so that she could give it to Cleo on her return. Cleo was her pride and joy.

Somehow, a home had to be found for Cleo or she would be put down. I agreed to take her in if no one else would, explaining that it would not be my preference, but if there was no other solution, I’d do it. Apparently, two others had said the same thing, but their homes were less suitable due to both of them already having too many waifs and strays in their care. It didn’t seem right for Cleo to be put down, and also disrespectful of Maria’s love for Cleo.

This meant that Cleo ended up with me. Joke reported that Cleo was a very shy cat and spent all her time hidden in the wardrobe since Maria’s death. A shy cat is good for me. I don’t want an aggressive, boisterous pet.

We’re not really allowed pets in El Andalous, but there are quite a few owners who have them. Since I’m now one of the longest residents, I felt no one would complain if I took Cleo in. However, I didn’t particularly want to advertise that I was taking on a cat, just in case.

I had to wait until Joke could get a vet to transport Cleo as Joke believed Cleo would need to be sedated first. As it turned out, apparently, the vet only had to throw a towel over her and shuffle her into the cat carrier, and all was good (relatively speaking).

To my extreme embarrassment, when Joke arrived and picked up the carrier, Cleo wouldn’t stop yowling. I’d thought we’d shuffle quietly past reception without them realizing what was happening. Instead, Cleo made sure that everyone knew just what was going on. But nobody stopped me from bringing her into my flat.

When released, she immediately hid behind the television cabinet (where it’s not particularly clean). Joke warned me that even though she’d fed Cleo every day since Maria’s death, Cleo still wouldn’t let her stroke her back; she’d only accept Joke stroking her head.

After Joke left, Cleo had a little walkabout and decided that it was even safer if she hid behind the shower (where it was even dirtier). I was a little worried that she’d yank out the electric wires connecting to the shower (it’s a fancy thing that does steam and all sort of other things if only I had the instructions). Fortunately, she’s quite gentle.

I talked to her every now and then as she lay behind the shower, but otherwise I let her be. I moved her food and water to the bathroom. By the time I got up the next day, she’d eaten her food and pooped in the litter, so it wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be.

At 5pm, it was like a lightbulb. She suddenly strode out and decided to make friends with me. She let me stroke her, showed me her belly, sat next to me on the sofa, then curled up in a ball and seemed very content.

I went to bed and she hid behind the shower again.

The next day, she yowled by the front door. I couldn’t let her out, of course, but I cringed at the amount of noise she was making. She returned to hide back behind the television (progress) until 5pm when she followed me about and sat next to me wanting cuddles.

The following day, she allowed me to stroke her back. I felt privileged. But now she stared and meowed by the balcony door. Poor Cleo. She misses Maria and her old home, no doubt.

Today, for the first time, she played with a pom pom ball that I’d made for her. It was nice to see her play. She’s twelve years old and her lack of interest to that point made me wonder if she was beyond play, but obviously not.

I’m surprised at how much affection I feel for Cleo and it’s so lovely to earn the affection from her. I can see myself turning into one of those awful pet owners that insists on showing pictures every day of their furrbaby. Long live Cleo!

El Andalous - Haircut

 

The Haircut

I’d been deliberating for a while about getting my hair cut. It’s a trip into Hurghada, which always feels like a huge effort. On top of that, I have to decide what I want done with it. It’s easier to have it short for swimming, so I was thinking of a new short style or perhaps returning to how it was for my passport photo.

Another thing holding me back was my eczema, which I still have at the side of my head. It just won’t go away. I keep on thinking I’ll wait for it to go before having my hair done, but that day never arrives.

And there was yet another problem. I’d done something to my shoulder. I’m not sure what, but it hurt. Maybe I slept on it wrong? I was still able to swim (so I didn’t think it was the swimming), but I couldn’t lean my head back. And you need to lean your head back if you want your hair washed at the hairdressers. However, looking online, it seemed that it would take around six weeks for an aching shoulder to recover. And I only think about getting my hair done when it’s already pretty desperate. I wasn’t sure I could wait six weeks.

In the mean time, a hairdresser opened up in El Andalous! That was one hurdle out of the way (the trip to Hurghada). Stephen told me he’d been and recommended it. But he’s a guy. Women’s hairdressing is something else. I’d heard some people saying it was a European hairdresser and she was very good. The prices were also reasonable – the same as in Hurghada and not inflated due to being in Sahl Hasheesh. In a moment of enthusiasm, I asked for an appointment the next day.

The man serving spoke good English (he turned out to be the owner) and I explained to him what I wanted. He then explained it to an Egyptian lady (the hairdresser) in Arabic. This wasn’t the European lady I was expecting, but never mind.

She took me to the mirror and I showed her my passport photograph. She started cutting. I asked her if wanted to wash my hair first as it’s easier to cut hair when it’s wet (so I believe). The man translated and she showed me her water spray and indicated everything was fine. Okay. Maybe they’d decided not to wash it after I’d explained that I couldn’t rest my neck back. If I’d have thought about it, I’d have washed it under the shower before coming in.

Many hairdressers are scared to cut hair too short. Not this lady. Snip, snip, snip. I’m usually told it gets shorter after it’s dry, but this was already shorter than I wanted. However, the man had exited and the woman didn’t speak any English. I was scared that if I said anything, she’d just make it shorter. But my fringe needed correcting. I pointed to it with a heavy heart and explained that I wanted it feathered, thinner. No way was she going to understand that. I was right. She translated it as me wanting my hair yet shorter, so she grabbed a whole chunk of it and lobbed off a good further inch. I tried not to scream when I said “No!” but I fear my voice was a little high pitched.

I repeated again, pointing to the fringe (as I had done before). Somehow, this time she understood, gave a big smile, and showed me the right implement. Phew. It thinned out nicely, just as I wanted. I felt it was a little slanted to one side, but I wasn’t going to ask her to correct it in case I ended up with no fringe at all.

I thought we must be finished, but then she decided to wash my hair. Bizarre. I had to lean forward over the basin, so it was a bit awkward, but that wasn’t her fault. Then back to the mirror. She dried it and then trimmed some more. She didn’t appear to check that both sides were the same length (which hairdressers usually make a point of doing). As it was, one side was slanted and the other side was straight. But asking for corrections was too risky.

Anyway, finally I could leave. The man came back in and enthused about how great it looked. “Wow!” he said. I hate that self-conscious feeling after having my hair done. Being British, I smiled politely and nodded. It was too short, but it wasn’t horrendous, and it would grow back. And the lady was very nice. I even gave her a tip.

Reactions to my hair have been mixed. Some people love it, others really don’t. It’s probably better than I’m making it sound here. I will try going there again as it’s handy and I believe the European hairdresser comes in twice a week, so it’s probably a matter of making the appointment with the right person. Live and learn.

El Andalous - Three Cats

 

Milo

Isa

Gino

My upstairs neighbour has gone away for two months to Miami (which is where she’s from; well, she’s from everywhere, since she’s also Egyptian, and also has an Italian connection somewhere, and her husband is English). I volunteered to look after her three cats while she was away, on condition that she explained exactly what I had to do. I’ve never owned a cat, and I grew up mostly with dogs, so cats are a bit of an unknown quantity for me.

It didn’t seem too bad – scoop out the litter, top up their food and water, clean the litter trays every now and then. Keep one cat in the bedroom and bathroom annex because one of the other two cats will kill it if it sees it (oops). Everything I needed was left for me, plus some money should I need to buy additional food or litter. I insisted they demonstrate how to scoop out the litter, which they did (and this gave me greater confidence as I really was clueless). The other two cats were outdoor cats, so the balcony door is left open all the time so they can come and go as they please.

It sounded pretty easy and I thought it might be fun to get to know the cats.

The three cats are Gino (the indoor cat in the bedroom), Isa (the cat that hates Gino), and Milo (cool cat).

The first day, I went in to scoop Gino’s litter and top up the food and water. Gino dashed under the bed straight away, absolutely petrified of me. I didn’t think any more about it. I replenished all the supplies, went to check that Gino was still under the bed…  but he wasn’t there. Uh oh.

I looked everywhere, but he was nowhere to be seen. He must have darted out and ran away as soon as he could. I’ve never seen a cat move as fast as Gino can. I didn’t even see him escape. To double-check, I got two other neighbours to help me hunt for Gino, but none of us could find him. We gave up and thought we’d see if Gino would just turn up again.

Day one, and I’d already lost one cat. It wasn’t a good start. I was a complete and utter failure.

Next day, there were bits of white fur strewn across the living room. It looked like Isa had attacked Gino when he tried to return. My stress levels rose. What if Gino needed the vet? At one point I spotted Gino sitting with Milo on the fence at El Andalous. He looked healthy, so that was a relief. Gino appeared to be going to come towards me, but instead he darted behind the fence and into the derelict building (which I can’t access). At least he was alive.

I checked the flat later in the day and there was urine and faeces all over the bathroom floor; a cupboard had been yanked out. But no Gino. Isa had won again. Poor Gino.

I spent the evening in my neighbour’s flat, hoping Gino would try to return again. Instead, Isa came and appeared to be waiting for Gino to arrive so that she could terrorize him. I managed to entice Isa into the second bedroom and shut her in. She wasn’t happy and I could hear her bounding about. I had visions of the door being scratched or the window being broken. Then there was silence. At midnight, still no Gino.

Next morning, I went to the flat again. Hurrah! Gino was in his part of the flat. He still fled from me at lightning speed, but at least he stayed in his home territory. I was able to shut him back in and then let Isa out. To my surprise, Isa was sleeping quite happily and didn’t move straight away. There was no sign of damage from all her bounding about. Phew.

So, all’s well that ends well. But it was a baptism of fire.