I called the vet. “I’d like to make an appointment”.
“Why?” came the response. Then I had to explain. I’d found some strange long sausage-shaped growth thing on my cat’s inside back leg. I tried to explain. I tried again. Then I said,
“Like a tumour.” I was understood immediately and soon an appointment was made.

I turned up with the furry ginger monster in my arms (having refused to go in his cat box), a green lead attached to his torso in case he decided to try to unhook his claws from my shoulders and make a run for it. I was asked what the problem was. I toyed it over. Did I try to explain, again, or did I use the word that worked last time, albeit probably, and hopefully, inaccurate.
“I think he has a tumour.” I said.

It worked. We went through. The vet and his assistant opened the poor cat’s legs and took a look.
“This?” he said, nonchalently. I confirmed. “It’s just matted hair. Very common on Persians.”

Did I feel like an idiot? Well, the fact that he and his assistant were laughing at me, not meanly and quite openly, made it rather difficult for me to try and pretend it was one of my better moments. I accepted in good grace and decided I had little else to lose.

“Would you be able to check if he has a penis?” I asked. They looked up, not sure if I was joking. “I asked another vet to neuter him and I’ve been afraid that he actually castrated him because he used the word castrated, not neutered. I thought it was just a mistranslation, not believing someone would actually castrate a cat, but since I brought him home afterwards, I haven’t been so sure. His hair is so long that I can’t see. I’ve been feeling so guilty about it for months now.” This time they made no attempt to hide their good-natured laughter, and in fairness, I was laughing too.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained: my cat has a penis. It seems that castration is the ‘vet’ term for neutering.

Mr MacTavish getting some shut eye.

I’m getting up about three times a night. It’s the wailing. I can’t sleep.

Apparently I have to teach him to be quiet at night and change his sleeping pattern to coincide with mine. Every time he tries to sleep during the day, I’m supposed to wake him up. I do this with cuddles. And tummy rubs. Sometimes I just let him sleep.

“He’s like a child.” I hear myself saying, then cringe inwardly as I remember my good friend and former colleague Mr N. Upon being ‘invited’ (do management ever really invite?) to join a weekend meeting out of town, for which most of the team would be leaving their wives and children behind, Mr N replied, “I’m sorry I can’t. I have to look after my kittens.”

So that’s it. I’ve turned into a frightful bore who believes my kitten is my ‘cat-baby’ (what an awful term), who is equal to other people’s children, and is beginning to wonder if having a kitten entitles ”mama’ TG a right to caternity leave.

This is too good, to downright fantastic not to share.

If for any reason it doesn’t show up or doesn’t work, you can view it here.

Because of the camel tussle, our ascent of St Katherine’s was held up while the bike wheel was being straightened. A nice spot of bedouin tea in a village was most welcome.

Lolling around in double-wire cages in the village were these guys. Really not pretty little beasts, but apparently hyrax are good after they’ve been in the pot. Luckily, we didn’t stay that long!

So, bike fixed, the gents went up St Katherine’s mountain with the camels and the bikes, while the fairer sex component of the group returned down to the jeep (due to rather annoying, niggly injuries that wouldn’t allow us to bike).

We met these guys on the way to the spot where we would lay our heads for the night. They were so clean – if you’ve seen goats in Cairo, you’ll understand my delight – as well as happy.

Sunset, the gents returned just in time to make last light.

We slept under a starry desert sky and a brilliant full moon, protected from the harsh desert winds by walls of one of the bedouins’ old desert gardens.

(Forgive the last pic’s camera shake – need to get a tripod)

The desert is not the desert without camels, right?

Who said donkeys were the beasts of burden?

So here’s what happened. The camels coming down the single track didn’t give way, as bedouin rules dictate, to our camels coming up. The bike wheels got stuck in the other camel’s (wooden) saddle. A bit of a camel tussle, a bit of shouting by the camel handlers, and we were past. Unfortunately, not unharmed: one of the bikes’ wheels had been bent. This was Day 1, fifteen minutes after we had begun! Luckily, luckily, one of the guys is handy with them there old bike wheel spokes and managed to do a spot of repair.

The trip continued…

Nazif – my buddy today – a bit hot and sweaty after the ride!

The last time I went riding I fell off. A dog spooked the horse and a silly boy thought it was funny so he started screaming and laughing and waving his hands wildly around. I ended up in the dust, foot stuck in the stirrup and with a short (v short, don’t want to over dramatise this, it really wasn’t a big deal, I was just a wimp) drag before getting my foot out.

I got back on, in floods of tears and shaking with fear (see, there’s the wimp part).

It was early in the morning and afterwards I headed to work where delayed shock set in and my whole body seized up, legs included, resulting in me wheeling myself around on a swivel chair all day.

Then I got home and called a friend in LA as a treat to cheer myself up. Mid chat, I commented on how the chandelier in my living room was moving, well, more like swinging. “Oh,” she said, used to life on a fault line, “You’re having an earthquake.”

“An earthquake,” I thought, “Oh no, that means I’m going to die!” (it’s great having a mind that doesn’t panic in an emergency).

She followed with advice about getting under a table: I couldn’t, it was glass. Then advice about standing in a door frame, and with the closest being my front door I again I couldn’t because I was barely dressed and the requirement to dress modestly in Egypt overrode the need to survive (actually they’re very close).

So, I decided if I was going to die, I would go down (and it was far – apartment on 18th floor) doing what I love best: chatting with a great friend.

Post earthquake and worried that this might just be the first of more quakes to come, I hurriedly rerobed, gathered my passport, all my money, a change of underwear, glasses and contact lenses solutions and headed over to a friend from work’s. I paid the taxi driver and stepped out of the taxi in a rush (wanted to be somewhere I could relax) and whacked my head on the taxi door so hard that when I saw my friend I could barely focus on him to say hello, could barely even say hello, and looked like I was about to collapse. Baring in mind that the last time he saw me I could barely walk, he was rather alarmed.

In the end we didn’t have another earthquake, my muscular system got over the morning’s shock, and my head stopped swimming. I didn’t go riding again though.

Until today. I was rather apprehensive, but consoled myself that it was organised through the expat centre (CSA) and therefore must be somewhere half way decent. Turned out it was more than that. Horses were in great condition and very happy (something I haven’t seen a lot of in Egypt). Happily for me there were a lot of dogs (a good 30) in the yard, so the little ticker tape in my mind noted it was unlikely that dogs would spook these guys. It also turned out to be the stables run by a fellow blogger in Egypt, Maryanne Stroud from Living in Egypt who, refreshingly, is not a foreigner here for a few years of fun and cash, but lives here permanently, speaks Arabic and does not seem to be bothered about the size of anyone’s car (you’ll understand that last bit if you’re an expat).

The ride was great: slow and leisurely. Unchallenging physically, which is in no way a criticism as it was absolutely what I wanted – getting on the horse and being relaxed was enough of a challenge.

I am now floating in a bliss of feeling that I’ve achieved something. Nevermind that it was plonking my behind on a well trained (but with personality) horse and watching the countryside roll by.

Fingers crossed there will be no earthquakes today.

I can
and do
bitch and moan and whine with the best of them about you,
but
I don’t hate you by any means.

Driving along the busy Autostrad facing your gleaming
Mohamed Ali mosque
towering over shacks and tombs in the teaming
City of the Dead,
your streets litter strewn,
cars passing on the way to the slaughterhouse
live animals tied to the roof
I am disgusted,
yet somewhere,
at the core of my being
I cannot imagine
that I will leave you in just 18 months.

But
whatever it is
I love so much about you,
old city,
too precious is it to write:
those who came before me wore out the words.

So I love you.
Passionately.
And, at times
dislike you.
Intensely.

And perhaps that is all I can say.

There is one cow left in the whole of Cairo and it is in my neighbourhood mooing its lonely heart out.

It’s vocal cords won’t be straining for too long.

I can hear the frame being erected to drain its body of blood after its sacrificial slaughter.

I love cats. The fluffier the better. And I want a cat. There are two breeds of cat in Cairo: street cats and flat cats. The poor somewhat crusty street cats live in the wilderness of street life. Dusty feline paws tip toe around corners and between car tyres, ever watchful for the enemy. Cautiously checking for threats before progressing along a wall or across a street, tail down, less conspicuous, they hunt their next meal. Dumpster diving was invented by these urchins. Nothing is left over and little kitty bellies are satisfied. After a quick semi-clean, the street prowler climbs to a position of safety, a warm car roof, and takes its nap. Territories are marked by gangs and neighbourhoods by coat colours. White and ginger is this area of The Hood, the next is tortoise shell, ginger and white. Distant cousins I think.

Flat cats are an entirely different breed. Pampered, combed, coiffed on occasions and tubby, these members of the feline brigade never set their soft paws outside. In fact, they could not think of anything more horrifying, darling. They come from a long line of blue blooded feline ancestry who enjoyed the same king-like status in their abodes. Food is available upon demand, litter trays are cleaned by one of the staff and naps are taken whenever and wherever desired. This privileged existence can be lonely at times, so beautiful mates of similar heritage are found to carry on the family line.

It is one of these cats I want. Actually, I don’t want a cat, I want a kitten. Mr S (read Super-No-Sayer-on-the-cat-issue) is not keen. He is a little concerned that when he is away on business I might replace him next to me in the bed with the cat. This is not exactly true, as I envisage the cat sleeping in the bed whether he is in it or not. This sends him into fits of nervous laughter saying, “No way. No bloody (said in a cute French accent) way!” He does not yet realise that a house is not a home without a little fluffy wuffy.

I also want a dog. Well, a puppy. This Mr S is a little warmer to. As long as we don’t live in Egypt. Usually extremely logical, Mr S has lost me a bit here. Does that mean no pets for the next three years? This could prove problematic. I have visions of little fluffy and little puppy growing up together to be good friends over the coming years. There are few things nicer (but yes, there are some of course) than having a purring fluffy on your knee, or a friendly dog to play with.

This has been my thinking. Until today. The temperature struck (an outrageously for June) 39C in the shade on the balcony – at 5pm. It was 32C inside with the ACs going full blast. Perhaps it wouldn’t be fair to a little fluffy wuffy to have to sport a skinheed style for summer, just to keep cool.

Ok, I don’t normally do this, but it’s worth it just this once. This is one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen. It’s 1.5 mins, so not long, there is sound, but you don’t really need it and it’s worth watching all the way through. otters