Wezi
Thamm Rule of Thamm
PUSSY TALK
When Sir William communicated with me in his own special
way, it warmed my heart and made me smile. Before you jump to any rash conclusions
I need to tell you that Sir William was a long haired, white Persian corset
cat with a slight red tinge running from the top of his head right up to the
tip of his tail. At his heaviest he weighed 10.5kgs, not overweight; just
a very big cat. Sir William had the softest fur, fluffiest tail and biggest
round eyes.
Anyone with a pet understands - how they communicate with us in their special
ways. Others may find this strange and even downright silly. Sir William (or
Willie) had several different “meows” depending on what he wanted
to tell me. He was every bit as lovely to look at as he was majestic and lived
to the ripe old age of 18 years, which is really old for a cat. He would rush
to the door when I returned home asking (in his own way) “where were
you? I have been waiting so long” or “about time, can I have something
to eat? Or simply, “I love you I am glad you are back.”
Once he was too ill to greet me and I remember the sense of loss I felt when
I opened the door and he was not there. He completely recovered, cost a fortune
in vet fees and I never did find out what had ailed him. But when I was poorly,
sad or depressed, he somehow seemed sense this and stayed close.
He would jump onto my lap a give my chin a few love rubbings and look at me
as if to say: “It will be alright, I am here for you.” The only
time I allowed him in the bedrooms was when I or one of the children were
ill and when I learned of my diagnosis; trying to come to terms with cohabiting
with the virus and the bad times on meds when I had the runs and intense nausea
and through difficult times after the death of my husband and my self inflicted
isolation. 
Willie would trot behind me whenever I dashed to the loo and sit there looking
at me with his big yellow eyes saying: “It can only get better or “What
doesn’t kill you will only make you stronger”.
When I lay in bed suffering from the side effects of medication, wondering
if it was a form of punishment from some higher power; or worried sick that
my children would be without a mother soon, Willie would lie next to me so
we would have eye contact. His sweet fluffy paws would reach out and nudge
me until I paid him attention. He would lay in the direct path of a ray of
sunshine coming through the window and sooth me with his deep purr. Then there
was the pure joy of running my fingers run through his white fur and calmed
and soothed me in a way medication never did.
A relationship with a boyfriend in later years proved short-lived when he
dared to substitute Willie’s smoked salmon and favourite French Camembert
cheese for some cheap tinned cat food. I agreed with Willie then, in that
we had very few pleasures in life so these we would have, regardless of the
cost.
I know there were times Willie did not understand why I went away on holiday
with the children and left him in the care of a good friend and he never did
entirely understand (or believe that it was for his own good) the humiliation
I put him through when I had his fur shaved off once a year or gave him a
bath with shampoo twice a year.
I always think of Sir William and our times together, whenever I see a cat
sitting on a garden wall, or doing whatever cats do at the bottom of a garden.
Without Sir William I daresay the hard times would have been harder. He helped
me through them all, listened without comment, never offered any unwanted
advice and if he could have done, would have dried my tears too. So I strongly
recommend to anyone with HIV in need of companionship to take a pet, they
are easy to love and have a lot of unconditional love to give back.
