Pedro

Our family living in the seventies with six children and father having a just adequate salary at the railroads, things were not very luxurious. Things became even more problematic when the oldest three, including me, became teenagers. To give us pocket money was almost impossible, so my oldest sister and I decided to make our own money by hiring ourselves out as babysitters. This was also very convenient, because we would have a bit of space and quiet to do our homework for school.

We were allowed to keep the money ourselves, so my sister spent hers on the skirts and dresses she was normally not allowed to have. My father was absolutely disgusted with her short mini skirts, declaring that it was asking to get bladder infections and he would not have any pity for her. He didn't like my spending of money either, hated every note of music on the albums of popmusic I bought.

Sometimes my sister took friends back to our home; my father was always interested but kept making his comments about the ridiculous short skirts. One day she came home with a girl with an ultra short outfit and a big white cat. Both were very friendly. The girl was called Brenda and had to go home pretty soon, but the cat didn't have one. Father was out working and my mother's mind was not strong enough to resist our pleas to let the cat stay. "But only if your father agrees."

The cat got the name Pedro and an old banana box to sleep in. The sisters arranged a nice bed for him with old doll clothes, which my mother regarded as a waste of nice things. But it looked nice and the cat even liked it, understanding what we wanted for him. The box was placed in the kitchen and all we had to do was to get some cat food and wait for father's judgement. He would be home quite late, so we would have to wait till the next morning to hear this.

Father came home in the night and obviously had taken the box and the cat outdoors, because the next morning we could see the box under the little school desk in the back garden. It was a Saturday, so we were able to have some negotiations with father. It was decided that the cat should stay outdoors, but did not have to go. All the children were a bit disappointed with this, but my sister put a finger to her lips and grinned. I think we all understood: just pretend he has his way and we'll have Pedro indoors whenever we can.

Pedro became very soon Patey and was spoiled every day. He understood the house and the surroundings became his territory and he decided to mark it to warn other cats off. The tom cat spray is very smelly, quite a horrible odour and of course my father was very unhappy about this. My oldest sister knew the solution: have the cat neutered. My father didn't have to think about that: "I'm not going to pay for that! He'll have to go." My sister and I reacted in one voice: "We'll pay for that."
Father grumbled a bit, but it happened like we wanted.

All was great with Patey and us children and I noticed that mother secretly gave him nice bites of food. There were some incidents: Patey proved to be an excellent hunter, killing nests of mice, little birds and even ducklings. My youngest sisters would be in tears and I expected father to banish Patey, but to my surprise he just explained to the little girls that this was what nature was about. He grew fatter because of our good food and the hunting stopped. 

One day I came home and Patey was lying on the doormat in the kitchen. He didn't lift his head, he was obviously very ill. My parents were in the living room and they were aware he was not well at all.
"You can't just leave him there to die!", I exclaimed. They just shrugged, father added that he was not going to pay a hefty bill from a vet.

My oldest sister and I wanted to pay the bill for the vet again, but had a problem. We had no money at all. She had spent everything on a new outfit to impress her new boyfriend and I had bought an expensive camera which had been used to make very arty black and white pictures of the cat, canals and railroad tracks. We both felt very bad about having no money for our beloved cat. That night my father agreed that Patey could sleep in his box in the kitchen. I wouldn't call it sleep; he was in a coma.

The next day the situation was the same and we were desperate for a solution. My sister came home that afternoon with one. Brenda told her about the veterinary academy that was part of the university in the near big city. They treated all animals, from gerbils to horses and mostly without a fee. She already had made enquiries: cats were treated for free too.

The next day was a Saturday again and Patey was put in an overnight bag with his trusted doll clothes and we went by train to the university city. (We could travel for free having a father that worked for the railroads.) It was a short trip by bus to the university after that. Once in a while we stroked Patey who a few times moaned in a high pitched voice, but for the rest hardly moved at all.

It was not a long wait in the clinic. A young guy wearing a rubber apron over his clothes came to get our cat. He talked to us and the cat in a very calming way, said that the cat was in good hands. He asked us if we trusted him and we nodded. Of course, there was no alternative. We waited with the empty bag between us and neither of us said a word. Finally the guy came back, there was some blood on the apron and he had no cat with him.

He shook his head and told us that Patey had been a very old cat and had died of old age. He would have been between 13 and 18 years old. My sister blurted out:
"But we had him neutered not even two years ago." The guy had to laugh:
"That must have been a bit sad for the old chap." He offered to get the dead cat for us so we could bury him, but we declined his kind offer. We both didn't like the thought of bringing a dead Patey back to our little sisters.

So he shook our hands and said goodbye. All the way back we didn't speak at all. I think my sister had the same vision in her mind: the guy with the blood on his apron. Probably Patey's blood. He had looked like a butcher and we had brought the poor cat over there to be slaughtered. Maybe a real vet had given a different result, but we would never know. I never should have bought the camera.
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