The Three Lives of Oscar

Let me tell you the story of Oscar. This title implies that I knew his name at the start of my story. Not so. We had named him 'Darn cat!' but not with affection. Later, we found out his name, and we also found out he had three separate lives. I don't mean one after the other, as in the Disney Movie "The Three Lives of Thomasina." I mean concurrently. This may suggest a cat with cheek and a tad of disloyalty, but Oscar was more brazen. Imagine a rotund stripy ginger tom with a ragged ear and a look of disdain, especially towards humans. Other cats receive an aggressive stare and a low warning grumble before he pounces. They say cats are territorial. For a long time, our family never knew Oscar had his own territory. He seemed hellbent on making our territory his.

My name is Mary, and my husband Pat is a builder. We have a son Richard, and a daughter Amy. We also love cats and always have a moggy or two. They are very much part of my family and very spoiled. Naturally, we wanted the best education and associates for our children. This required money, and the right location, to enable us to send our children to the best schools. It also took time. . .

We had moved and positioned the small affordable house we bought as newlyweds to the back of the large section. Pat built a new house on the front half, which we sold. Second, we did up our humble abode before selling it. Our next larger home was in an old suburb on the outskirts of town. The tiny and old kitchen needed a massive overhaul. Builder Pat extended outwards and made a large modern kitchen and dining room. This area also had a laundry, so I no longer had to go underneath the house to do the washing. Impossible to wash clothes so far away with a baby. He also enlarged and modernized the bathroom. Somehow, he managed to pull this off and still have it flowing seamlessly into the older part of the house where we had three bedrooms. The amount we sold this for enabled us to buy another modest home.

The place we bought next was roomy but very plain and couldn't be made into anything like the dream home we wanted to own eventually. The bonus is that this home finally landed us in the location we wanted to live in. Naturally, we tidied it up and made it live-able. The children attended the local Primary School and rubbed shoulders with all the kids from well-off families.

Then we found the perfect run-down house. I don't mean as in our dream home. I mean as in with enough promise to make it into a home that the wealthy would seek after. Initially, my mother thought we were absolutely bonkers. She didn't see the potential. When we moved in, we only had a little money. The last place didn't sell, so we rented it to a family. Pat planned on doing most of the work on the recently acquired house himself. It took years, but we hadn't divorced by the time we finished it. Our children grew up with a pool in the backyard and a great school with schoolmates from lovely families. Outdoor living was primo, and we had a view.

Pat took out part of the upstairs floor and constructed a staircase. This connected the too-small top floor with the flat below. We lived in disarray during much renovating and rearranging. Thank goodness for the nearby shops and restaurants. We regularly ate out or bought takeaways until I had a functional kitchen. The pool gradually transformed from a green slimy hollow in the ground to a pristine body of water - for refreshment after a hot day at work or relaxation when we invited our family, friends, and their children over.

We worked hard to transform the run-down flat below into a large TV lounge; two bedrooms instead of one; a new bathroom to match the style of the one upstairs; and we enclosed the laundry. We ended up with a beautiful four-bedroom home; two lounges, one of which was the open plan extension of the dining area and modern kitchen; two bathrooms; and a lovely entranceway with stairs to below.

Gradually our moggies died of old age, though sadly, one did get run over. By the time our main living area had been completely modernized, we had bought a cat in keeping with our lifestyle and location. A pedigree ragdoll cat named Miss Penelope. Penny for short. She was gorgeous as a kitten and a perfect cuddly princess when she grew up. Later we bought a cheaper ragdoll to provide company for her. Percival did not have the typical ragdoll temperament. Though he loved our daughter, Amy, he remained very stiff and reticent with everyone else. He should never have been sold as a ragdoll. I suspect he had never been imprinted with the love of humans as a kitten.

When we finally sold this lovely home, we had enough to buy a mortgage-free three-bedroomed, three-storied townhouse in a modern style, still in our chosen upmarket suburb. By then, our teenage daughter Amy attended High School, while our son Richard still walked to his Primary School.

The day arrived when we received the keys to our new abode. We raced along to see it and to plan our moving day. The empty house should have been sparkling after its final clean. Imagine our horror when we entered our new home and had our nostrils assailed with the most awful stench. It didn't matter where we went; we knew a cat had been there before us, marking its territory. A large damp stain in the middle of the carpet of the downstairs lounge, smelling of cat urine, made us look at each other in horror. Had a cat been trapped in the house when the previous people left? We looked in vain for the culprit and decided he must have escaped via a cat flap. We found the cat flap beyond the downstairs lounge in the laundry. The back door opened into a courtyard surrounded by grass on three sides, with a washing line along the back fence. No cat to be seen out there, either. The cat flap swung to and fro, so the damage had been done by a cat, or cats, who had not been trapped inside. The marking of territory had happened on the two floors above as well. Before we left, with heavy hearts, we made sure the cat flap only opened outwards. I was outraged.

"It's hardly brain surgery to click shut the blasted cat flap when you vacate a property," I said.

"Actually, it's strange there is a cat flap. When we came to look at the place the people said they had no cat. The place had no cat smell. Maybe the previous people to them, had a cat," said Pat.

"You’re telling me some mangy cat waited until they moved out to stake his claim? Cats like that shouldn't even be in areas like this. They should be shot on sight."

"Oh Mary, you are funny." Pat laughed heartily. "As you know, cats are a law unto themselves and are no respecters of fences, boundaries or posh suburbs."

"You're laughing after such a cat-astrophe? No pun intended."

Our insurance company paid out for what it cost to clean the carpets and have all the skirtings professionally washed. We paid the excess. The moving day happened after the place had been sanitized to our satisfaction. We all kept a sharp lookout for the cat who had been responsible for contaminating an empty house.

After moving in and settling, including our two gorgeous felines, we continued our lives.

I work from home, and I have the place to myself when everyone leaves in the morning. The main living area is upstairs. The spacious lounge is downstairs opposite Amy's bedroom and ensuite bathroom. Off the main living space is a deck. I could hardly wait until Summer when I planned to sit out there and relax with a coffee or a wine. Pat's and my bedroom and bathroom are on the third floor. Our son has his room on the same floor as the living area. None of us has to put up with each other's noise. Penny sleeps on Richard's bed at night, and Percy sleeps with Amy.

Builder Pat had little to do in his spare time except he had a brain-wave. He moved the indoor spa on the ground floor to an outdoor location and converted the empty room into a fourth bedroom for guests. With little effort, we had future-proofed our home for an improved resale if we ever decided to do so. Finally, I put in my order for a modern kitchen to be installed. Pat did a brilliant job.

In the meantime, I had kept an eye out for any cats frequenting our property. Soon after we moved in, I saw a cat perched outside. Usually, he sat on the deck fence post as he stared inside or on our cane lounge suite on the deck as he focused his feline eyes on me. Unnerving. If looks could kill, his cruel gaze would have annihilated me. Definitely not an adoring slow blink. A squinty-eyed stare of loathing. One day he sat at the door staring in. I slid open the door to the deck and shooed him away. He shot me a venomous look, hissed, and bounded away. Later he returned to continue his vigil."

"Pat, I've seen a big ginger cat outside, staring at me."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"Haven't a clue. It hates me."

"Did it tell you that?" Pat laughed.

"No, but it stares at me all the time. Its eyes have a look of dislike."

"Oh Mary. I can't believe you can tell emotion from a cat's eyes."

"Well, I never thought so. But this cat clearly hates me. Gives me the creeps. He was probably the one who snuck in here and sprayed everywhere."

Summer gradually came. Our cats spent more time outdoors but never ventured far. Sometimes Percy would climb over the fence and sleep on the neighbor's trampoline in the sun. He could be seen from the deck. Penny loved to snuggle on a cane chair on the deck. The darn cat still hung around, becoming bolder and bolder. He tried to venture inside when the door was left open. Sometimes, as far as their food bowls where he snatched any remaining food. He'd terrorize our cats by hissing at them and batting them. Timid Percy would run for cover. But Penny tried to stand her ground. He pounced on her and scratched her nose a few times. Poor little princess.

Scratches on the nose progressed to severe harassment. One day, we heard Penny yowl, and she came rushing in with blood on her tail. Her beautiful tail had been bitten. We knew the darn cat had done it. We bathed it as best we could, but it developed an infection. So, it was off to the vet. The vet shaved the fur off her tail, leaving just a tuft at the tip. He had turned out poor fur baby into a lioness. We brought her back home, gave her antibiotics, and lots of love. When Penny arrived home, she recoiled on seeing her beautiful tail. She hated it and sulked for weeks, hiding away and staying inside. She only came right when her extremity returned to its fluffy plume, and she could swish it with pride.

In the meantime, I plotted how to get my revenge on the evil moggy who had terrorized Princess Penny. My son helped me set up a large cat cage we had as a trap. He researched how to online. We set it up on the deck with a bowl of food inside. Within a couple of days, we found the bully cat trapped inside. It snapped shut as soon as he ventured in to eat the food.

Part two of the plan involved placing the cage in the car's boot. I drove kilometers away to a run-down suburb and stopped right next to a park. I'm sorry, but my thoughts were not on the risk to the local bird life. I moralized that I was transporting this darn cat to an area that closely matched his uncouth behavior. I carefully checked that no one was looking on. Without further ado, I opened the cage and shouted at this disgusting creature to 'get out and never return.' He bounded out and away as fast as he could pad his paws.

When I told Pat about my actions, he voiced his disgust.

I, on the defensive, said, "But I did the only thing I could. I'm not prepared to have our babies at risk. I can't live with the doors closed in the middle of Summer. And I'm sick of his hateful stares. Good riddance, I say."

A week later, I heard the doorbell ring and rushed downstairs. A well-dressed lady stood there holding out a flier. I took it from her and looked at the photo in dismay. It was a photo of the darn cat, and the title read, "Have you seen Oscar?"

"My name is Christine and I'm from next door. I wondered if you may have seen my cat. He disappeared a week ago. I wanted to ask you personally because I know he often comes over here. You see, the last people treated him as their own and used to let him in during the day when I went to work."

What could I say? I didn't want to confess the truth. "Well, yes, I have seen him . . . but not lately. We didn't let him in because we have two cats of our own." I felt the color creeping up my neck and became shaky with regret and guilt. I saw her distress but couldn't tell my neighbor what I had done.

"I'll just have to hope someone has seen him and replies to the flier. I'm devastated he's gone missing."

"I'm Mary, by the way. So sorry but I'll tell you if we see him."

I felt so horrible after she left. It explained everything that had happened since we had bought the house. Oscar had believed our house to be his second home. No wonder he was so indignant we lived here and treated him with ignorance. He had been feisty and hadn't given up. Probably felt jealous of our cats. When I told Pat later, he had no sympathy for me.

"I bet you didn't want to tell the truth!" he said. "What you did was despicable. That poor lady. What she must be going through."

"But how were we to know? That Oscar has been such a menace. Maybe he'll find his way home?"

About six months later, Christine came over to see me again. I had not seen Oscar anywhere, so I doubted he'd returned.

"Hello Christine. Did you ever find that cat of yours?"

"Well, yes and no."

I wondered what she meant.

"I came over to tell you what happened. Oscar never came home. I was on a long walk several blocks toward town, and I walked past the back door of a corner dairy. There, on the doorstep, sitting in the sun licking himself, sat my Oscar. I talked to him. 'Hey, Oscar,' I said, 'where on earth have you been?' He looked at me and let me stroke him. It was Oscar, alright. Then someone from the family came to the door to see who was talking. I asked them, 'What are you doing with my cat?'

'Your cat? You must be mistaken. We've had Bruce for years. He's always here during the day. Never used to see him at night, but all this year, he's been here night and day.' Naturally, I argued with them. Showed them a flier that I still had in my bag. They didn't believe me. Said it must be a cat like theirs. Said he hadn't been catnapped and wasn't being forced to live there. Obviously, I was mistaken. Can you believe it?"

Deep down, I could believe it but feigned innocence. "How amazing. He certainly knows how to make himself at home. At least it solves the mystery of where he got to."

"In a way it does. But, even if he was living with me after work and those people while I was at work, it doesn't explain what made him decide to give up on me."

Later that day, I told Pat about the next instalment in the saga of Oscar.

"I'm glad Christine found out what happened to her cat. At least part of it. To think he had at least three homes he lived in," I concluded. "He sure listened when I told him to never return."

Pat roared with laughter. "He certainly knows what side his sardines are oiled."

"What do you expect? He's a cat. A cat who has attempted to live three lives."