Cat on a cold tiled roof – BBC News

Image copyright Sue Elliott-Nicholls

When your spouse is having chemotherapy and you’re under pressure at work you really don’t need anything to go wrong, writes Sue Elliot-Nicholls. Like the cat getting stuck – genuinely stuck – on the roof.

It’s the summer of 2016, Brexit has just happened, my poor husband is in hospital having hideously aggressive cancer treatment, and I’m due to expend a week filming a Tv sketch display. Things must run smoothly.

Guess what? They don’t.

My 14 -year-old son develops a highly contagious skin infection, leaving him looking like a bit-part player in a cheap zombie movie. He can’t be anywhere near my husband because of the risk of infection so I’m operating between A& E on the ground floor and the cancer ward on the 10 th, ripped apart by divided loyalties.

In the end I call my 20 -year-old son for help. He comes straight from a 48 -hour rave, glassy-eyed, dry-mouthed and very smelly. As he escorts his little brother out, I can virtually insure the nurses’ eyes rolling.

But compared to what is to come, this is nothing.

After two days back home, my brave spouse passes out from the effects of daily radiotherapy and high doses of chemo, so he is re-admitted as an in-patient.

My oldest son , now sober, rested and reeking fresh as a daisy, agrees to take over hospital visiting responsibilities.

Things seem to be back on track, until I arrive home late at night and notice that our cat, Bones, isn’t around.

Youngest son points out that he hasn’t find him the working day, or the night before. Rattling the cat-food box and calling his name, I can hear a cat pathetically meowing in response to my calls.

“Bones? ” … “Meow.”

“Bones , where are you? ” … “Meow.”

“CAT? ” … “MEEEE-OW !!! ”

Image copyright Sue Elliott-Nicholls

The boys and I tear all over the back yard are seeking to situate the source of the screams.

They choose he must be trapped in the garden that backs on to ours, the one that belongs to the empty( alarmed) house, so they get the ladder out to climb over the wall.

Me: “What do you think you’re doing? It’s alarmed! ”

Boys: “Calm down mum, why are you so emphasized?

Me: “Oh I dunno, your dad’s got cancer, we can’t find the cat and I’m being picked up for work in four hours, what could possibly be emphasizing me out? ”

I send them to knock on neighbours’ doorways while I investigate in the next street. I’ve read about how cats can get stuck in sheds and cellars and the like.

After 20 minutes of trying( and failing) to get our non-English speaking neighbours to check their cellar, their daughter comes down the stairs, sweetly smiling.

“I love your cat, he comes into me and my sister’s bedroom, what’s his name? “

“Bones, ” I say, inwardly screaming. “Never mind his name! Is he here? ” He’s not.

I now have* looks at watch* three hours until I have to get up for work.

I try next door. A doddery old boy answers and tells me he hasn’t considered the cat, although he has heard it and is it anything to do with the two louts currently climbing over the wall into the garden of number 34?

I fly home like a banshee, and screaming in a Peggy-Mitchell-like fashion. The boys climb down, looking at me with a mix of anxiety, disdain and, worst of all, sympathy.

We are silent for a while, freaked out by what we have become. That’s when we consider Bones, his sad little black-and-white face dimly illuminated in the moonlight. He is stuck on the chimney stack.

Image copyright Sue Elliott-Nicholls

“Bones? Get down, how did you get up there? “

Bones doesn’t answer. Bones doesn’t come down. Bones only stares at us with a tragic look upon his face, meowing into the cold night air.

That’s when the oldest son indicates climbing out of his bedroom window on to the roof to get the cat.

“No! Are you fucking? That’s all I need, dad in hospital, the cat on the chimney and you with your legs hanging through the roof. NO. Do not even should be considered it.”

I call the RSPCA 24 -hour helpline to see what they can suggest.

A reassuring dame with a motherly voice talks me down.

“Have you got any tinned fish? Leave that out for him, I expect he’ll be down in the morning. If he’s not, call us again – and don’t worry, try and get some sleep.”

I fall into bed, shaking, trying not to think about work in two hours, the cat, my husband and what a harridan of a mother I’ve been to my poor kids, who were, after all, only trying to help.

The next morning at dawning my heart leaps – all the fish has gone! But it sinks again as I realise that Bones is still up there, his meows getting weaker, his eye wider. Another crafty cat has taken advantage of developments in the situation and eaten the bait.

When I get home that night Bones( AKA that bloody cat) is still up there. I think he’s “re gonna die” on the chimney in front of our eyes. How will I tell my husband? He loves that cat more than their own families!

I call the RSPCA again and recur the whole sorry tale, shamelessly utilizing the cancer to pull on their heartstrings. It doesn’t run.

“The cat will be OK for another night. If it’s still there tomorrow, bellow us and we will send person out.”

Stupid cat, stupid stubborn cat, he got up there, why can’t he just come down? If merely my husband was here, he’d know exactly what to do.

Image copyright Sue Elliott-Nicholls

I begin to do my breathing workouts. Tomorrow I have a day off, tomorrow it will all be fine.

Day four – tomorrow – has come. I resolve not to leave the house until Bones is safely off the roof.

I call the RSPCA who say they are very busy and can’t send anyone out after all.

I call the fire brigade who tell me the RSPCA need to assess the situation first.

I call on the neighbours. They too are worried. Half the street is out offering suggestions/ tea/ sympathy.

Colin the decorator brings out his ladders – but they don’t reaching. The teens at number 30 are dangling chicken out of their skylight.

I call various cat charities, and the council. They all suggest the RSPCA. Or the fire brigade.

It is now late afternoon and I am screaming. My kids are more worried about me than the cat. What’s worse is that I haven’t find my husband for three days. I decide to leave the cat where it is and go to the hospital.

That’s when it occurs to me, my light-bulb moment, on the top deck of the bus. I get Bones – a stray – through a cat fan on Twitter. She has thousands of cat-lover adherents. Perhaps Twitter could save the day? I tell @peachesanscream the whole sorry tale. “Don’t worry, ” she says. “We’ll sort this out.”

She tweets, copying in the RSPCA: “Family in difficulty, spouse has cancer, cat stuck on roof for 3 days, anyone in the area that can help? ”

Image copyright Twitter

It runs like sorcery. While I’m still on the bus, tweets come flooding in from roofers, cat lovers and other kind people. They’re coming in too fast for me to process. I’m about to reply to some of them, when my phone battery runs flat. Will nothing go right?

Image copyright Twitter

Deflated, exhausted, I arrive in the cancer ward holding back the tears.

My oldest son is there, on the phone as usual – but it’s not what I expect. My husband whisperings: “Sssh, it’s the RSPCA.”

It is by now 5pm and the RSPCA, probably concerned about the many Twitter messages they’re copied into, and harassed by my son, who has been calling every hour, ultimately offer to help. They can arrange for the fire brigade to come, is anyone home? Yes, yes! I call my youngest son, who the hell – thank goodness – at home.

Twenty minutes later youngest son rings to report that the fire brigade came round, climbed up a ladder and calmly grabbed Bones by the scruff of his scrawny neck. They brought him down to the rapturous applause of the entire street. The pesky cat was rescued.

Image copyright Twitter

Me: “Have you fed him? “

Son: “Yes, and I devoted him a hug.”

Me: “Aw, what did the firemen say? “

Son: “I didn’t give him a hug in front of the firemen! They’re men, like real men.”

Euphoric and depleted I squeeze into the hospital bed next to my brave and stoic husband. I think about how great my family and neighbours are, how men and boys are not as flaky as we girls often paint them.

Then it occurs to me … There were firemen in my house, there were actual firemen in my home, and I wasn’t even there to flirt with them.

Post-script: Sadly, Bones has since succumbed to a kidney infection. Sue’s husband is still waiting for the all-clear. And a new kitten has been adopted – from the RSPCA.

Image copyright Sue Elliott-Nicholls
Image caption Bones relaxing after a few days out on the tiles
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