One of the most frustrating aspects of cat motherhood vs. human motherhood (at least for me) is the gaping disparity in the availability and social acceptability of related paraphernalia. For human mothers, their future children are barely zygotes when they begin the race to accumulate as much non-toxic, primary-coloured, plasticy stuff as can possibly be afforded. A quick internet search revealed the following as the absolute minimum crap that must be purchased before a child starts making its way along the birth canal (and this was from the notoriously cost cutting NHS):

Nappies, bath and bath stuff, cot, bedding, moses basket, pram and buggy (or ram/buggy combo), baby carrier, car seat, clothes, bottles, steriliser, breast pump, breast pads, nipple cream.

This bare minimum alone must cost at least £1,000. Yet, while no one bats an eyelid at a rational, educated woman dropping the GDP of a small African nation to purchase the latest, greatest baby transportation mobile, a cat mother going into a pet store to purchase anything other than kibble or kitty litter is considered certifiable and submitted to much pitying glances and whispers. I’ve often felt like a 13 year old boy in a sex shop, scurrying out the door of Pampurred Pets as quickly as possible, with a catnip robin ensconced in an unmarked brown paper bag a and when I purchased a three-story cat activity centre, my Facebook friends dropped by half.

In fact, so victimised have I felt at others’ judgement that I am now tempted to purchase the above cat stroller if only to scare the living shit out of human mothers in the park. Oh the joy of finally being accepted into their midst only to have them peer beyond the rain cover at the furry, geisha face of my overweight feline son, Edward, and suffer the hideous consequences of their human child-induced inferior pelvic floors.

The collar battle is a battle that I have been losing since adopting Pitolin over four years ago.  Refusing to wear a collar is particularly problematic in Buenos Aires, given that microchipping is almost unheard of here so if your mog goes missing sans collar (a la Pitolin), the chances of getting him/her back are slim to none.

Isis has always been pretty cunning with hers, wearing it for a couple of days before engaging in a discreet, Houdini-like battle under the bed to rid herself of the contraption away from the prying eyes of her mother. The boys, however, took the collar wearing protest to a whole new level, both engaging in spasmodic fits of scratching and writhing until the thing would eventually flop to the ground. Pitolin’s reactions to the collar were particularly embarrassing for any parent: As soon as I’d fastened it around his neck, he’d begin hopping around frantically and nodding his head until the collar worked its way up between his jaws, at which point he would start gagging and spitting until breaking it off. He would usually time these fits for when we had guests, stumbling into the living room to begin his display and, more often than not, slicing up his gums in the process… provoking many a “Bloody hell, it’s a good job she doesn’t have kids,” look.

To make matters worse, safety collars do not appear to exist in Buenos Aires so placing your protesting feline into a traditional collar is akin to attempted cat-infanticide.  I spent many a work-day worrying that my babies were at home garrotting themselves and terrified that I’d return to find them dangling by their necks to the backs of chairs. I eventually gave up on the collars…and paid the price.

When we got Edward, I decided to make collars compulsory and managed to get hold of a couple of elasticated ones. Isis chewed hers up and shat it out a couple of days later and Edward simply raised an eyebrow in my direction before slipping it off his neck with a single claw.

Fortunately, a recent article in Vogue (proclaiming the return of fashionable neck-ware) convinced both of my fashion-forward kitties to give collars another try. And when fellow cat-mother, Aunt Sharon, returned from Canada with two (very nifty) clip-release safety collars, I was able to fasten them around their necks without protest. So far, so good.

In human motherhood terms, having a chunky child is (quite ridiculously) considered by some to be a punishable offence and can even lead to the child being taken away and placed with (one can only assume) Gillian Mckeith-esque Foster parents for immediate slimming. Fortunately, the RSPCA doesn’t exercise similar philosophies for those of us with furry fatties, but to say that the vet has started to get on my case about reducing Edward’s rolls is quite the understatement.

I had been taking the vet’s advice about measuring out his portions ever since his flab started slopping over the edge of her scales, but Edward’s problem wasn’t so much the portion size of his kibble as it was the stuff he was stealing on the side!

Since his adoption, I have been woken up in the middle of the night six or seven times by the sound of Edward swinging a bag of bread around the living room in an attempt to burst open the plastic wrapper. He has been caught face-down in the pans and trying to lick bits off used dinner plates on the sideboard numerous times. He is particularly fond of corn on the cob and when I shut him out of the kitchen one evening in an attempt to preserve this side-dish until the main meal had been cooked, he decided to launch his way in through the kitchen window, resulting in Edward smashing fat arse-first into the flower pots and the consequent death of several plants.

During my recent trip abroad, and given the highly sensitive nature of both of my moggies, not to mention Edward’s obesity, I decided to employ a cat sitter to make sure that they were both well looked after.

Finding a good sitter is no mean feat and finding a sitter who shares your exact same parenting philosophies is nigh on impossible. There’s nothing worse than getting home after a romantic night out only to find your kids jacked up and twitching after a night of scary films, fizzy drinks and popcorn. And it’s no different for cat parents. We were lucky enough to find a mostly great sitter, the only down side was that it was evident upon our return that Edward had managed to psychologically manipulate her into giving him extra portions of food.

I know exactly how he does this: Cue wide-open eyes and tales of his former life as an emaciated stray, surviving a wet winter by rooting through garbage cans and dragging scraps of food back to his tree, I just hoped she might be able to resist. She wasn’t.

We know this because although we returned to an immaculate house and two, completely chilled out and happy kitties, Edward’s at best, lumpy, physique was now almost completely circular. So excessive were his rolls that he was even sporting what can only be described as a mangina.

Needless to say, the weight is coming off quickly. It seems that we got here just in the nick of time to prevent Edward’s complete transformation from cute chubby kitty to full-blown slug.

I haven’t posted for a while as I’ve been visiting family in the UK, leaving my beloved furry children in the capable hands of a cat-sitter.

Family in the UK also includes my mother’s three year old mog, Dylan. When it comes to cats, my mother is one of those people who “judges a book by its cover”. And as a long-haired fluffy tabby cat (with, I’m convinced, Maine Coon ancestry) Dylan is one beautiful cover indeed. But don’t be taken in by the beautiful facade, for behind his perfectly symmetrical furry face lurks a ruthless savage waiting to clamp down on any human hand that comes within 2 feet of his person.  When Dylan bites, he bites through to the bone and engages your entire forearm in a death-grip designed to tear the limbs off anyone that tries to escape (much like a crocodile).  If you pick him up, he will apply the same manoeuvre to your neck.

My poor mother spent hours trawling through websites to try and find a solution to Dylan’s ultra-violence, took him to numerous vets and even consulted an animal psychologist…all to no avail. It wasn’t until we discovered that Dylan had a deeply-entrenched secret that he was hiding from the rest of the family, that we finally began to understand the reasons behind him acting out.

Dylan is a homosexual (we should’ve guessed really from his predilection for Village People-esque headwear…see above) and engaged in a tumultuous relationship with an ex stud cat from over the road. The homosexuality in itself isn’t the big issue but the fact that our neighbours took it unto themselves to record a series of video clips on their mobile phones of Dylan and their ex-stud cat engaging in lewd acts for the viewing pleasure of their other family members, is disturbing to the extreme!

So while they’re in fits of giggles over the recorded footage of Dylan sodomising their pet, the poor cat is on the verge of a nervous breakdown for having been outed so publicly. Not to mention that the video could at any time be uploaded to the internet, turning Dylan into some kind of gay, cat version of Kim Kardashian! It’s really not surprising he hates humans so much!

Despite its obvious tribulations, human motherhood is not without its perks: Half-burned toast and a cup of milky tea-in-bed on Mother’s Day; elaborate bunches of flowers snidely pilfered from the gardens of elderly neighbours for Easter, a plethora of pasta necklaces for birthdays and Christmas.

And as the children get older, the bounty only gets better.  My mother has four children and over the past 30-odd years has developed a sophisticated strategy of guilt inducement designed to send us all running for Space NK at the tiniest hint of festivities: “Don’t worry about getting me anything for Christmas, dear. All I want is a nice cup of tea and five minutes to rest my multiple-pregnancy-induced varicose veins and the calluses I’ve acquired in 30 years of washing, cooking, cleaning and looking after you and your brothers. But if you must get me something, some bubble bath would be nice.” And when a mother says “bubble bath” you know she means “an expensive selection of ewe’s milk, whale sperm and myrrh bath products developed from some poncey French dude and available on the shelves of Space NK and Space NK only.” and not “a bottle of that cheap stuff from Boots”.

Us cat mothers, however, have to make do with offerings that usually consist of the lifeless bodies of small mammals or birds, or worse, bits torn off of the lifeless bodies of small mammals or birds. In Buenos Aires, the cat-mother’s-day gift situation is even worse:  As the city is a fairly built-up area with little bird life that a cat could feasibly assassinate, my little angels have taken to capturing large, flying cockroaches and then depositing them at my feet (or worse) with a flourish and that “can I have some tuna now?” look.

Pitolin was a skilled, cockroach huntsman, particularly fond of capturing a large one, alive, and then bringing it to me in his mouth in order to allow me the pleasure of finishing off the job. One particularly humid summer, I awoke to a snuffling sound in my armpit. As I lifted up my arm to see why on earth he was nose-deep in the pit, out scurried a humungous roach who had obviously been seeking refuge from the cat in the crevasses of my body!

But what else can a cat mother do, but bash the gift over the head with a shoe, thank the cat profusely and keep reminding oneself that it’s the thought that counts!

For exceedingly furry beasts, living in a sub-tropical climate such as Buenos Aires is no mean feat, especially in the summer months.

With the thermometer currently edging its way up the 30s, the cats are obviously finding it increasingly difficult to keep cool.

Isis (the more intelligent one) has discovered a phenomenon called “the shade” and usually retreats to the house’s cooler nooks and crannies for a snooze at around midday. Edward, however, (not so bright) has taken to lying flat on the ground and spreading out his limbs as much as is felinely possible so as to absorb any available breeze that may or may not be blowing about. This occasionally gives him the appearance of having died a very dramatic death (as a completely paranoid mother, I often nudge him awake from his slumber just to check). It also leaves me wondering how on earth he survived for so long in the wild with a “drop and spread out” technique that must’ve left him completely vulnerable to predators.

Both of the cats have also taken to shedding their body weight on an almost daily basis. I am sure that I can collect up enough hair for a wig (or at least a couple of merkins) in just one mornings sweep. The vet reassured me that shedding during the summer months is a sign of a very healthy and well-fed cat. This did leave me pondering whether or not to take them off premium kibble for a while and reduce the quality of their coats on cheap-o “gati-miau” but I’ve decided just to get on and vacuum the stuff up! She did suggest shearing them but I don’t want them looking like they live in a concentration camp…or have lice! What would people think!

If there is one thing that a cat parent surely has to deal with far more than a human parent, it is the issue of infestations.

The other day, while examining Edward’s faecal offerings (from a safe distance) in the litter box, I noticed what looked like a see-through rubber band poking out of the side of one of his turds. I decided to give it a tug (wearing a plastic bag over my hand…I’m not completely insane) and finally separated a 10cm long, spaghetti-like worm from the rest of the mess. I immediately googled the creature (yes, yes, I removed the bag before touching my keyboard) and confirmed that it was indeed a sizable, adult round-worm (deceased).

Now, 10cm long is about as long as one of Edward’s back feet…bloody long. If anything of similar proportions ever emerged from the back end of a human child, an ambulance would undoubtedly be called and a science-fiction movie would undoubtedly be based on the incident.

As it was, far inferior treatment was given to my poor old mog who simply received a worming tablet from the vet before being sent on his merry way back home where a further 5/6 worms were subsequently shat out as soon as the tablet took effect (it was like the anal version of Tremors).

How on earth he has been able to maintain his corporal mass (with an emphasis on the mass) with a tummy-full of ravenous parasites is beyond me.  He’s even managed to cultivate a goose-neck since we adopted him just six months ago.  It can’t be normal.

His father and I have since purchased an industrial size box of surgical gloves in order to prevent further infestation from passing from mog to human. Apparently, round-worm in a human can travel up to the lungs, heart and even eye! At first, I decided that I would wear the gloves at all times when in contact with kitties but when Edward started giving me that forlorn, boy in the bubble-type look, I soon reverted back to traditional cuddling…hopefully not at my peril!

Edward’s rescue story was recently featured on the Care2.com website, after being selected by the Head of the Great Animal Rescue Chase organisation.

Despite being a little on the larger side, Edward’s photos still came out wonderfully. He is such a handsome fellow!

To read the full Edward rescue story, click here

Now that we’ve reached our thirties, many of my friends have recently begun to spawn human children.  On the one hand, it is nothing short of fantastic to watch them out and about with their mini me’s and at some point prior to menopause, I intend to join them (at least once) in their race to overpopulate. But as their interest in bugaboo’s and Tommee Tippee’s reaches new heights, their abilities to share in the delights of my furry family has, quite surprisingly, begun to decline.

It is quite strange to watch your friends turn into mothers. To cut their hair shorter, stop bothering with contact lenses and start purchasing trousers with elasticised waistbands. Trying to organise a coffee or (God forbid) dinner out with them that doesn’t involve a plethora of juice boxes and bananas or end in at least three items of your clothing being irreparably tarred in white sick or unidentified stickiness is no mean feat.  A simple outing can involve weeks of military calculations until a suitable plan can be drawn up usually involving some ignorant, overpaid and semi-responsible sod getting lumbered with the task of child death prevention for four hours. By this time, my now understandably desperate friend, wants nothing more than to knock down half a bottle of pinot grigiot (a taste for which I assume one only acquires post-partum) and wax lyrical over the delights of her offspring.

I do not wish to play down the vital importance of traditional, human motherhood and completely understand the amount of time and energy that my peers now have to spend preventing their chubby cherubs from meeting a premature and grizzly death elbow-deep in a plug socket. I get the vital importance of their little angels not being the only Jack and Mia’s in the playground unable to converse in at least three European languages. But if I am now to be subjected to hours upon end of Steiner vs Montessori or the vast benefits of baby sign language, I do wish that people were just a little more sympathetic as to the responsibilities of being a feline parent.

Now while I do appreciate that as a cat mother I am free as a bird to leave my charges unattended and indulge in any number of evenings of alcoholism and recreational drug use without either of them being removed from my care, it is still a complete misconception that cat parenting isn’t without its pitfalls.