Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Going Up . . . !

Would you like to hear about the latest accomplishment of my wonderfully supportive cat? I knew you would!

Little did I appreciate, when Chloe first shinned up her cat tree and went on to target the trees in Holland Park, that I would be the beneficiary of her love of climbing.

When you live, as I do, in a third-floor flat, you need a lift. Or such had been my reasoning for twenty-five years. The antique lift, that had regularly and reliably transported me and my baggage, had become a valued friend. How else to carry up the shopping? What other means for moving weighty cat-litter and heavy parcels? Then, a few months ago, we learned with a shock that our much-loved lift was not just antique, it had become obsolete. No longer was it possible to obtain spare parts. The entire lift would need to be replaced.

How long does it take to replace a lift? Believe it or not . . . three months!

With three months of disruption inevitable, it was decided that the public parts of the building would be rewired at the same time. Those of us who live in the building would have three months of filthy chaos.
But, or so we were promised, it would all be worth our suffering. At the end of those three months there would be a sleek, modern lift, state-of-the-art wiring, beautiful new carpets . . . all we had to do was to patiently endure the chaos and await the promised Golden Age.
What wasn't mentioned was that those of us who lived at the top of the building would also need to develop muscles of steel to cope with three months of climbing . . . but Managing Agents like to gloss over such minor details.

My concern was not just for myself, but also for Chloe. What chemicals were being used by the workmen? If these chemicals got onto her paws, would they do her any harm? Best, I decided, to carry her. This aim was achieved on the first journey down, but Chloe was having none of it on the way back upstairs.

Frantic wriggling resulted in her leaping from my arms and charging triumphantly up the dusty staircase.
She charged . . . she pulled . . . and, towed in her determined wake, I followed!

When you are past your first youth a little help is not to be scorned. This, I decided, was an excellent idea. With a damp cloth waiting inside the door to clean her paws on arrival, Chloe now happily pulls me up the seventy-two stairs on a regular basis!

I wouldn't dream of suggesting that you're in need of similar help, but . . . should that time ever arrive . . . well, you might consider taking advantage of Chloe's generous towing services!