Heavenly Beverley : Spitting, Biting and Resisting Arrest

Cats have gone down in history as inscrutable and somewhat mysterious creatures. The ancient Egyptians are probably the best-known civilisation to worship cats, but these fickle felines have also been linked to Norse mythology, depicted as a shape-shifting Peruvian god, another shape-shifting Greek goddess, a guardian of Chinese fields, a mischievous protector of Polish livestock, an earthly assistant to a Celtic goddess and lauded by Native American and First Nation tribes.

Actually, the idea of a cat being helpful is a little far-fetched, as far as I'm concerned. Cats are fairweather friends in the extreme - they are totally self-absorbed, only interested in being as domesticated as they choose and are usually only a step away from being feral. As Terry Pratchett once famously noted - cats, having been depicted as gods by ancient cultures, have always regarded themselves as such and do not let anybody else forget this reality either.

Having said all this, we have our cat, of course. The weekend following the breakdown of my first marriage, my great friend Sian took me firmly In Hand for a visit to the Cat Haven. Basically, I swapped a husband for a cat. And there are times that I have wondered if I jumped out of the frying pan into the fire.

So, in January 2005, I fell in love with a tiny kitten, with a tabby appearance in apricot, grey and white with startlingly green eyes. She also had quite a pointed face, which caused me to consider that she might have some Siamese heritage. My supposition was confirmed the second she opened her mouth.

She was already called Ruby, so I kept her name as that. After a less than auspicious first meeting with Sascha the Weimaraner, they soon sorted out their differences and became inseparable. A well travelled cat in her early years, she lived with me in three separate addresses in suburban Perth as well as four months in Queensland. Surprisingly, changing her place of residence never particularly bothered her.

Later Ruby's nose was put out of joint by the arrival of Pip, a canine companion for Sascha when I started work. She and Pip have always enjoyed a love-hate romance. If Ruby is feeling magnanimous towards Pip, she will allow him to sniff her bottom. If he has annoyed her a bit too much, a feline paw will lash out in Pip's direction as he passes her, leaving him under no illusion as to her mood.

A further crisis ensued with the arrival of Michael in our lives, along with his Beagle, also called Ruby. Awkward. Fortunately, Ruby the dog soon acquired additional monikers such as Ruby-Chew, Beagle (!) or the Problem Child, depending on how much trouble she was in.

And Ruby the cat was nicknamed "Cat-elle" and began responding to this altered name as well as her original. She also began an enduring love affair with Michael, that continues to this day. I believe his adoration of her is the only reason why the Problem Child has not been the target of an organised hit. Yet, occasionally, even the two Rubies will share the couch, much to our amusement. Only if they do not make eye contact.

Madame Cat is now thirteen years old. Apart from vaccinations and a few injuries, she has been remarkably cost-effective. Until now.

Apparently, renal disease is common in elderly cats. Along with galloping blood pressure, that we now know caused a bleed in one of her eyes. Becoming dramatically thinner over this summer, we resigned ourselves to taking her to the vet. This was challenging to say the least.

The first incarceration into the cat carrier took two of us to manhandle her inside. Then we have experienced the fun of giving her a quarter of a smallish pill every day. Initially, we were successful in abject failure. Ruby became adept in spitting the tablet out, or firing it across the kitchen or secreting it in her lips to be disposed of later. The exercise would be accompanied by much gnashing of teeth (hers) and a few yelps of pain (by us).

This task has almost been mastered by us, after a full week of less than ideal attempts. Now Michael wraps her in a towel, whilst I open her mouth, avoid her fangs if at all possible (which are in excellent nick) and fire when ready. My aim has become pretty good. Just as well, as she would appear to need this medication for the rest of her life.

Yesterday was the cat's follow up vet appointment. We stupidly assumed that she may be more willing to enter the carrier and give us less grief in the process, as the offending cage had been left in Plain Sight and we had been restraining her to give her the dreaded tablet once a day. Ruby had other ideas.

Bear in mind that she is a small cat. Despite wrapping her in the familiar towel, she materialised into a Whirling Dervish. Her legs and claws multiplied by a hundredfold. Just as we had jammed her front end in, her back legs would retaliate in undisguised fury. She attempted to use Michael's shoulders as a means of escape and latched onto my arm straight through my lacy shirt (that was a less than clever choice of outfit). The cat carrier was moving all over the bench and threatened to hit the deck. Somehow, we disengaged ourselves from her weaponry and shoved her successfully into the instrument of her confinement. Not without much protest, which continued, unabated, for the entire fifty minutes of our journey to the vet.

In spite of working herself up into the feline equivalent of a frenzied meltdown, her examination went well. She had actually put on some weight and her blood pressure had halved in intensity. Not to entirely acceptable levels but well on the way. We were pathetically grateful when, upon returning to collect her, Ruby was already scowling within the hated carrier. We set off in the direction of home with a bag of renal diet cat biscuit, which luckily, she is chomping agreeably.

We have to do this all over again in two weeks. The vet has suggesting reversing her into the cage. Any other bright ideas or tips will be most welcome.