It has not been a good week for Catonthenetherege.

It’s not been a good week for Boynotquiteonthenetheredge either, come to that.

These two unfortunates met at the top of the stairs in semi darkness. The former never having lived with the latter’s kind, at least not for a long time, lacks the instincts of cat-owners everywhere – which include a firm grip on the handrail and a slight pause for the thunder of paws, going past in either direction on an errand made suddenly urgent by the presence of a person.

Their meeting was not an auspicious one.

He hurt his knee.

And landed heavily.

On the cat.

Breaking her leg in three places.

Pandemonium – and some very expensive vet bills – ensued.

The children were hysterical, difficult to console, and not terribly happy with The Boy.

Well, Big Small is more philosophical, but Small Small shows distinct signs of harbouring A Grudge. (This is something she does well, and definitely gets from me). [Top tip for blended family interlopers: don’t break the kids’ pet’s leg. You’re welcome].

The poor Boy has clearly not been unaffected either, suffering not only the Small Small’s disapprobation, but also sleepless nights remembering the crunch. He has since admitted he now sees cats in the street several hundred yards away and gets palpitations lest he unwittingly damages them.

The cat herself made a sound I’ve literally never heard an animal make in my life, and hope never to again.

She has, however, since found solace in savaging every veterinary professional trying to help her, and I’ve had several conversations with people asking me whether Catonthenetheredge is usually a ‘challenging’ animal, and requesting my permission to sedate her in the interests of preserving HUMAN life and limb.

Having chosen, with the blessed assistance of insurance, to keep the limb most in question, Catonthenetheredge is now officially BionicCatonthenetheredge, and will likely set metal detectors off in the airport next time she goes on her holidays. Hence the Frankenstein scar.

Not content with this meagre suffering, I myself then proceeded to make a further attempt on her life (thank God she’s got 9) by being functionally innumerate and somewhat overtired, and massively overdosing her on the opiates she was sent home on – my first clue being how unusually compliant she was. It was not a fun wait for the vet to open and check her over…

Poor, poor, poor kitty. (She is fine. Stuck in a cage for 10 weeks for her leg to recover, and not happy about it, but otherwise fine).

The whole thing, all in all, has been something of an Adventure. The sort I could have really done without – and the Boy is not the only one it’s left with palpitations.

The thing about the Anxious, though, is that it turns out we’re actually pretty good in a crisis, you know.

I calmed children. I caught the damaged cat. I soothed the Boy. I got to the emergency vet. I got the insurance sorted.

Having something on which to focus our worry for a while – particularly where there is positive corrective action to take – is far easier and more rewarding than dealing with the generalised and universal worry we normally live with, and which we are powerless to mitigate.

I’ve found that to be true for the whole of the last four months, as well as for this specific domestic disaster.

The whole pandemic, really, has played into my hands. I’m not just anxious, I’m OCD, so I LIKE washing them. I LIKE knowing what mysterious forces are out to get me and mine and how to combat them with face coverings, distance and disinfectant.

The trouble is, of course, that crisis mode can’t last. Once the ‘crisis’ is over, the anxiety is still high, and it throws long shadows. Oh, they might not be reasonable shadows, and you might well know it, but they LOOM.

Right now in the dark mine whisper about the fragility of life, of bodies, of bones, whisper the what ifs, what if it wasn’t just a leg, what if a stupid accident happened to one of the kids, the crunch of THEIR bones in my mind’s ear, and the lack of control over all of it, how we are all just hostages to capricious fortune…

It’s made worse right now of course by the fact the Smalls aren’t even here to squeeze and defy anxiety with reality.

They’re on their first ever 7 day holiday with their Dad, and I feel like I’M the one who has lost a limb…

It physically hurts. And if I can’t keep them safe when they’re here, I sure as hell can’t keep them safe there. So here I am all wound up and dressed up in protective tiger-mum gear, with nowhere to go.

When I have spoken to them, they are obviously having the most wonderful of wonderful times. Which is of course what I want for them… but which also hurts in its own way. All the times I don’t get to see, or be part of. All the times I am not missed. All the times I am irrelevant.

If there’s a silver lining at all, I suppose it’s that at least there’s someone to look after and soak up the surfeit of directionless love. Even if it does scratch me every time I dare reach in to change its litter tray.

I may not be able to squeeze it, but at least I have the scars to prove it is alive, healthy, and reassuringly unhappy.

Catonthenetheredge, you are a mean, rubbish cat, but I love you.

Not least because that wobbly pink swelling I thought was the gross part of your wounds turns out to be your naked tummy, and proves we ARE kindreds, after all.

xxx