Life with a rascal like Leo

A summer series devoted to pet owners and their beloveds. This week: How threelegged Leo keeps journalist Zoe¨ George on her toes.

Meet Leo. Leo is an a ...... , or as the local vets describe, a ‘‘rascal’’. He’s not the worst cat to grace the consult rooms, but he’s absolutely in the top 10, so they say.

He could give Scarface Claw, Tom Sainsbury’s Gingerbread and Wellington’s Mittens, a run for their money for all the (mis) adventures he gets up to.

Leo is half maine coon, the largest cat breed in the world. They are meant to be gentle giants. Leo was giant (we’ll get to that later), but not gentle. He’s anything but.

Nearly nine years ago he arrived at my place, as a survivor of the Christchurch earthquakes, after a stint of homelessness in the red zone.

He was gorgeous, with his luscious mane, big feet and furry tail. When stretched out he’d take up most of the couch, and at least half of the bed, leaving not much room for anyone else.

He knows he’s handsome. Others think so, too. Several years ago, a friend entered a photography competition. I was the model. During the shoot, Leo leapt into her camera bag, and the above photo was the result. Whose image was highly commended? Not mine.

Leo’s favourite pastime is hissing. He hisses if you walk past him. He hisses if you’re in his favourite spot in the sun. He hisses if you eat too loudly. He hisses if you reach over and put your hand on him when he’s licking his butt by your face at 3am.

Leo has a penchant for mischief. His

outrageous adventures were light relief during lockdown, via Leo’s Lockdown Diary blog on social media. No longer do people stop to ask how I’m doing. Leo is always number one.

Over the years he’s broken into neighbours’ homes and eaten the best cuts of steak off their benches. He’s broken in again, after they’d installed special microchip cat doors to keep him out. They’ve found him in their beds, on their lounge suites and stretched out by their fires.

He’s hidden in gardens and jumped out at unsuspecting small children walking by, and would lie in the middle of the road, forcing the neighbours to drive around him.

He would visit the local primary school at break times for treats and pats. That came to an end after I contacted the school asking for it to stop as he was getting seriously chonky. He was not impressed.

He loves food. Not cat food, though. It’s only the best human food for this fussy feline. You have to watch him, particularly when there is cheese (black truffle to be exact) or ice cream around. He’ll shove his entire head into your dessert bowl when you’re not looking and when he finally comes up for air, his face and whiskers drip with what was to be your daily treat.

Then there’s meat. If there’s some on your plate, you’ll spend the entire time trying to fend him off. If you’re too busy articulating instead of masticating, he’ll leap in, quick as a flash, and your succulent cut will be gone.

In his younger years he was quite the mouser. He relished in catching the furry pests and doing his bit for the Predator Free movement. His favourite places to disembowel them were either on my white pavers (not so great in the height of summer, when you then have to spend hours on your hands and knees scrubbing solidified mouse guts and a trail of blood off the path), or on the kitchen floor in the dead of night.

There is nothing like getting up for a glass of water at midnight, and feeling freshly slaughtered mouse innards squish between your toes.

Speaking of squishing, one downside to having a fluffy cat is furballs. He’s the grand master of them. I no longer go outside barefoot, after plodding in several of his gooey gifts on the front door step while fetching the morning paper.

The worst came just after lockdown. I had awoken after a celebratory night out with friends and discovered a rather runny one all over the front door, and in my Chuck

Taylors. What ensued was the most spectacular gut juice Jackson Pollock (on my part) as I tried to clean his mess. It took several hours with a toothbrush, getting into the crevices, to sort that one out.

He also liked to collect live we¯ ta¯ . His favourite place to deposit them was on my pillow, next to my head, while I slept. The scratching of little claws by your ear cavity catapults you out of bed.

He’s also tried to kill me on several occasions, either by smothering me in my sleep, or by lying in a main thoroughfare in the dark. I’ve tripped over him numerous times, and have twisted my ankle more than once.

But it hasn’t always been fun and games.

A few years ago, he was shot in the face with a BB gun. The pellet lodged in his nose. A few centimetres higher and he would have lost an eye. The vet said they had never seen anything like it. He looked like a punk. It suited him. I never found the culprit.

Then there was a cancer scare. After having a lump removed from his neck, the vets nicely asked if I could take him home early

Leo’s favourite pastime is hissing. He hisses if you walk past him. He hisses if you’re in his favourite spot in the sun. He hisses if you eat too loudly. He hisses if you reach over and put your hand on him when he’s licking his butt by your face at 3am.

because he was living up to his reputation. He spent a few days high as a kite, enjoying catnip and napping in the sunshine. Then, in September, he had a major blood clot. The vet said, very solemnly, the chances of survival were incredibly slim, and to prepare myself. It was unlikely he would live through the night. I published his Lockdown Diary blog farewell. The loving messages from fans flooded in. This was the end. The following day I returned to the vets. They were perky. Leo had not only survived, but thrived. They had isolated the clot; it was in his back leg. He was on the slab, ready to go. Off came his hind quarter. He would live on. (My bank balance wouldn’t.) Post-surgery he was ejected early by the vet once again. Getting him in and out of his cage is a total nightmare, that usually takes several hours and a human sacrifice. Giving him his daily medicine is the same.

The vets also recommended that from now on he’s only allowed outside on a leash. That lasted five minutes. One of us ended up bleeding profusely. It wasn’t Leo.

He leads a rather quiet life now, sitting on his favourite cushion watching the world go by, or stretched out under a sun lounger on the deck.

He likes to sit by me on the odd occasion while I work from home. But his new favourite trick is doing a ginormous poop in his litter box while I’m on a Zoom meeting. He then scratches at the door to be let outside before the smell envelopes the house and I have to excuse myself from Zoom to deal with his literal crap. While his (mis)adventures keep me on my toes, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Life would be less exciting minus my cantankerous, furry friend. Although, I would appreciate it if he could contribute to the household income following his major brush with death. And he still owes the neighbours for the stolen steak. Maybe it’s time to turn Leo’s Lockdown Diary into a book. Any takers?