Pixie Peanut

Having struggled with what to write about for this blog, I decided (reluctantly) to face my demons head on, and write about a little female ‘companion’ who lives with us at home. My hope is that by writing it all down, I will be able to release all the negativity and pent up tension I am holding within and thereby feel much better and healthier and so (hopefully), become a nicer and calmer person.

As I begin to write this however, I am already feeling more than a little anxious at having to re-visit the whole saga of how Pixie Peanut (yes that really is her name) came to be in our lives. I must stress at the outset that I did not name her. Believe it or not, my mental health has thankfully not deteriorated so much just yet that I would give rescued street animals such silly names. That honour goes to my ‘beloved’ daughter who found the thing on the streets of Dubai and flew her to us as she wasn’t allowed to have pets in her flat. She was threatened with eviction or a huge fine if she didn’t get rid of the pest. Sorry, I mean pet! So, in her wisdom she sent it to the Residence of Mum and Dad.

Lots of children and adults have pets which range from stick insects to snakes, tortoises, fish, dogs, parrots and everything in between. Pets, I am told, enhance one’s life. They instil a sense of stability and belonging and de-stress life. All the worries and trials and tribulations of everyday living can be made better by having a pet to stroke, hold, cuddle and love.

Well, at least this is what I used to believe. The sad truth is that since we got lumbered with ‘The Rottweiler’, our lives have been turned upside down. The ‘beast’ has been with us now since December 28 2017. The date is forever engraved on my memory. She arrived on the same day as my new and long awaited washing machine. The new model replaced my old one (the machine I mean, not the cat) which we had had for over 22 years. The unveiling was a big occasion in Masood Mansions and we were delighted to notice that the machine looked as great in real life as it had in the pictures on the web.

When it came, I couldn’t control my joy at finally having a machine that I knew would work and actually wash clothes (unlike the old one that just lead them around in circles without water).

As the machine was still being unpacked, another delivery arrived. This one was unexpected and upon closer inspection, not as pleasant. The two young people delivering a huge crate which looked big enough to house a lion, seemed pleasant enough. They smiled and looked happy as they dumped the ‘cage’ on my porch and hurried off to a white van which had its engine running. I couldn’t understand the rush, but as I turned to inspect the item they left behind, I was shocked to see that it housed the most ferocious and angry looking animal I had ever seen. A black and white cat! The cat seemed to be glowering at me with what appeared like flaming orange eyes (or maybe that was just my imagination), and seemed to hold me responsible for it being tethered inside the container. The cage was so large that several of them screwed together, could have provided housing for a number of humans. Maybe I will put that idea to Kevin McCloud or George Clarke.

The cat turned out to be bad tempered and seemed ready for a fight as was scratching, biting and barking. Yes. That’s what I said. Barking! If you think I am exaggerating and that cats don’t bark, well, think again, because this one mightily does.

Excuse me while I go off the cat saga for a moment and talk about something more pleasant. I need to calm myself as it’s already becoming too much talking about The Beast. I am getting heart palpitations and that is not good.

I love my washing machine. It is quiet, efficient, does what it is told and sits quietly in the corner awaiting further instructions. It performs magic by giving me beautifully washed and fresh smelling bedding, towels and every garment you can think of. It has a purpose which it fulfils completely thereby leading me to be a very happy individual. Phew. Calm.

Now. Back to the cat. The cat however, has had the opposite effect. She has managed to do what even my own offspring couldn’t do in-spite of their best efforts; age me by 10 years.

My life is now separated into two periods; BM and AM; Before the Minx and After the Minx! Before she got foisted upon us, I had a lovely, happy and peaceful life. I used to come to work and be quite relaxed and would look forward to going home. Upon my return home, I would unlock my door to my little peaceful haven, bake shortbread, make a hot cuppa, put the telly on to some wonderful antiques programme, put my feet up and enjoy my happy environment. There were no disruptions, no having to jump up every two minutes, no shouting at the top of my lungs and no mess to clear up constantly.

In those happy days of long ago, when I used to meet people for the first time, they used to (I hope I don’t sound conceited here), be surprised to learn my true age and would comment that I looked 10 years younger. Of-course I lapped this up and made the right “How very kind of you to say” kind of sounds whilst trying to appear modest. I knew then that my closely guarded secret of using a famous face moisturiser, (Oil of Olay no less), was working wonders. I even considered contacting the company that produced it to ask if they would like me to be The Face of Olay (I accept that doesn’t have quite the ring that Face of Chanel does, but hey, you can’t have it all.

I know you may not consider me advertising Oil of Olay as exciting as Kate Moss modelling Rimmel cosmetics (you know, ‘get the London look), or Julia Roberts modelling a Lancôme fragrance and actually looking like a Pretty Woman. I still hoped however that my unblemished (but gently ageing follicles) would encourage millions of women to buy the stuff and in turn, make me rich.

My idea was to have two women of my age (me obviously) and another (old wrinkly) who had never before used the magic potion. The stage would be set to ask the buying public to spot which was which.

The advert could go on prime time TV (in between the ads with Helen Mirren and Eva Longoria) and when women saw for themselves the amazing effect of the decades of use of the pinkish gold liquid on my face and compared it to Specimen 2 (old wrinkly), they would queue up in their droves at their local Superdrug and Boots stores to buy umpteen bottes each.

Since we got Triple P (Pesky Pixie Peanut) however, all that has sadly changed. Everyone now immediately assumes I must be in my 70s. I know this as when I informed the Nurse at a recent hospital appointment of the year of my birth (55), she heard 45 and didn’t bat an eyelid. That’s when I realised that drastic action must be taken against The Moggy.

I do not exaggerate when I say that I have forgotten what peace looks like. I leave work quite happy and look forward to going home. It is only when I am near my yucky blue painted house (Mr M fell for a door salesman selling paint on the cheap. Thirty litres for £20.00! Apparently it had been ordered by someone living on a posh gated estate in Chigwell for painting the bottom of their swimming pool a beautiful azure blue. When they realised it was not azure blue but a dirty obscure denim, the owners refused to take delivery of it. Hence money in brown envelopes changed hands and it found its way onto our outside walls! The paint, I mean; not the money!

Sorry. I seem to have got carried away from what I am meant to be talking about. This is what happens when I get tense. I lose my thread; back to The Minx.

Since she has been with us, Pixie has destroyed my home, my life, my health and my peace. I am now ashamed to invite anyone over as all the wallpapers are ripped to shreds. The sofas, dining chairs and computer chairs have suffered a similar fate. Leather, vinyl and fabric is hanging off everywhere.  Many of my ornaments have been broken. I have lost count of the number of scratch posts I have bought Pixie in order to prevent further damage to my possessions. They have been ‘attacked’ to the point there was nothing left and so had to be binned. I desperately need to replace my shredded bedding, but daren’t as know Pixie will shred it again. Worst of all, our lovely old cat Oliver Baxter has been run off our property by The Pix. Her constant tormenting of the old gentleman that he was, left Ollie no choice but to leave home. Happily, he hasn’t ventured too far. He now resides with a neighbour who has ‘adopted’ him. I have seen him a few times and he seems quite happy and content in his new peaceful home. I just wish I could join him!

Pixie wakes up at 3-4am every morning demanding to be fed or let out. We haven’t had a good night’s sleep for almost three years! Mr M and I can no longer go on holiday together as one of us has to stay behind to look after her. No one else will. I have considered a cattery or cat sitter, but know we will get sued by both as she will kill (or eat) all the other cats and scratch and frighten off the cat sitter (if not kill him/her) too!

I think the money we have spent on Pixie’s food, cat litter, worm and flea medicines, leash (yes, we really did buy her a leash), collars, toys, vet bills, insurance and annual check-ups could have paid for a one bedroom retirement flat for me and hubby. In fact, she eats so much, that I have taken to calling her Pigsy. Staff at our local Costco warehouse have asked on a few occasions if we run a cattery such is the amount of cat food we buy there.

This may seem hard to believe but I have even spoken on a couple of occasions (and at great expense), to a cat psychologist for a cure to the problem. With her advice ringing in my ears, I put everything she said into practice. Nothing worked. In short, there isn’t a solution to The Pixie Problem. Pixie is Pixie and she won’t change no matter what. I also have to reluctantly accept the sorry fact that she is here to stay.

Pixie follows me around non-stop (even when I leave the house). I have tripped over her so many times on the stairs that I sometimes wonder how I am still alive and haven’t come to major harm.

Having said all the above, I guess Pixie is just like any other child that our Network members work with. Just as every child is different and unique, so is she. I must admit though, that when she is quiet (a rare occurrence), she is so cute. She can be incredibly loving and affectionate and loves company. That I guess, is so true of all children. They can be so naughty sometimes, but when they are quiet or sleeping, they look completely angelic (as does Pixie).

So, for the time being, I think I will keep Pixie until such time as some brave (or foolish), soul takes her on. Any takers?

 

 

 

 

 

 

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