The following article was written in January 2019. I wanted to write a narrative about one of our cats, but using a different time structure. You’ll see what I mean when you read it.

January 2019

Moo Moo the cat – so-called because he has markings like a Friesian cow (and because he's a cat) – has a routine. First thing in the morning (around 8 or 9am), he sits quietly at his feeding station, patiently waiting for it to dawn on his staff that there are more important things in life than whatever it is they happen to be doing.

Once he has eaten, had a drink and abluted, he charges upstairs. Once ensconced on the bed or window sill, he entertains himself by observing the birdlife outside.

At (his) lunchtime, he once again sits patiently at the feeding station. After that, he usually sits on the back of an armchair with his brother Willow, where he falls asleep. Sometimes, for a bit of variety, he'll go to sleep on a bed, or the sofa.

After his evening meal (feeding station, waiting patiently), he goes to sleep again or sits on a lap for cuddles. Then sleeps again.

The following morning, this sequence is repeated, with minor, if any, variations. This probably seems ordinary, even to the point of being banal.

October 16th 2017, 22:15

It's dark, it's late, and we're kind of worried about the fact that Moo Moo is still out, though perhaps not unduly so. When we first met Moo Moo, in a cat rescue centre in 2011, he was lying completely still and silent.

"Is he OK", Elaine asked the proprietor.

"Oh yes", came the reply. "He's just very laid back."

Laid back? How can a cat be laid back? What, does he smoke joints while listening to Pink Floyd albums?

It was Willow who decided that we were OK people, by climbing on Elaine's back. We agreed that these two would be our new companions.

Once home, Moo Moo spent the first six weeks curled up on top of a fridge. Nothing would coax him down, not even food. And he was completely silent. He did come down, but only after we'd gone to bed. He wasn't "laid back"; he was terrified.

We worked out that he must have been sorely treated, by a man. Every time I came along, or coughed, or wore jeans, he ran for his life. He did eventually come to the conclusion that I wasn't going to kill him. By "eventually"', I mean after about 6 years.

Once the obligatory six week home confinement period was over, we let him out. That's when he became the feline equivalent of a teenage boy, with a teenage boy routine, which he could have read in a manual:

At around 5 or 6 every morning, start screeching, demanding to be let out.

Once the staff have unlocked the cat flap, go out, and either terrorize the local wildlife or sit in the garden watching and waiting.

A short while later, come in through the cat flap (he did this with such force that on one occasion that he cracked it), and shout at the staff to provide breakfast.

Then he'd go out for hours on end, finally coming back in at some unearthly hour, when he would either do the feline equivalent of raiding the fridge or the larder, or play with whatever hapless creature he'd brought in.

The following morning, this sequence would be repeated, with minor, if any, variations.

Regular check-ups show that he is a healthy young cat, with no health issues to worry about, apart from a low-grade heart murmur. From his point of view, and ours, this is the best of all possible worlds.

October 16th 2017, around 22:20

Moo Moo crashed through the cat flap with his usual finesse. Only this time, it was accompanied by a howling and screaming which caused us to leap out of our chairs. We thought at first he'd brought something in. He hadn't. Then we thought he must have been hit by a car, because he couldn't move his back legs.

We phoned the vet's emergency service, and rushed Moo Moo round there. The vet felt his feet, and found them to be cold.

"It looks like a FATE – feline aortic thromboembolism – otherwise known as a blood clot."

Apparently rare in male middle-aged cats with a heart condition, this results in paralysis of the back legs. Sometimes, the pain is so great that even the cat equivalent of morphine doesn't work, and the animal has to be put to sleep.

After quieting Moo Moo down with painkiller, the vet returned to us.

"I'll have to give you a guarded prognosis", he said.

That is vet-speak for "He is not going to last."

We went home dreading the next day, when we would either discover that Moo Moo had passed away, or that we would have to take the decision to put him to sleep.

When we saw the daytime vet the next day, she said that even if he survived, his quality of life would be non-existent, because of not being able to walk. The kindest thing to do, she suggested, was to have him euthanised.

We asked if there was any hope at all. that he might recover some movement.

"A very small possibility", was the depressing answer. We decided that if Moo Moo was no better by the following day, we would say goodbye.

When we arrived at the surgery the next day, the vet came rushing out:

"He's improved! He's improved!"

After a three week stay in hospital, he was allowed to come home, and had a little bit of movement in his legs. He would be on medication for life, because his previously undetected severe heart condition meant that more blood clots could occur at any time, without warning. He would need daily physiotherapy, and not be allowed out ever again. And we were told to prepare ourselves for a life expectancy measured in months rather than years.

January 2018

After a few months sleeping in a dog crate so that he couldn't hurt himself trying to jump, and lots of physiotherapy, medication, laser treatment and that vital ingredient love, Moo Moo has been able to regain virtually all functionality.

"It's unprecedented in our experience", has been the refrain from every vet we've spoken to."It's a landmark case."

That's vet-speak for "Moo Moo is a miracle cat."