She Got Jealous… of the Cat
I never imagined I’d find myself in such a ludicrous—if not downright silly—situation. Mum and I call each other every day, sometimes even twice: once in the morning and again in the evening. But for two days straight, I couldn’t reach her—she either hung up or just ignored my calls. I was properly worried. I was about to dash over to her house, suspecting her phone had given up the ghost. A new smartphone, mind you, gifted by my husband, Tom, for Mother’s Day, but Mum and technology aren’t exactly best mates.
Then—miracle of miracles!—she finally answered, though her voice was frostier than a London winter:
“Yes, I’m listening.”
“Mum, where’ve you been? I’ve been beside myself! Two days with no word!”
“I’ve been busy. Too busy to chat—especially about cats,” she snipped.
At first, I was lost, but then it clicked. This was all about our cat. For the past month, we’d been nursing Delilah—our regal black beauty, officially named *Lady Delilah Whiskerbottom III* (don’t ask). It started with her feeling poorly, then escalated into a whirlwind of vet visits, baffling diagnoses, injections, pills, IVs—all for nothing. She only got worse, and one clinic nearly finished her off.
Finally, at the third practice, we found a proper vet—calm, thorough, unflappable. Scans, tests, exams… He insisted on surgery. I was terrified of losing her, but I trusted him—thankfully. The recovery was gruelling: hand-feeding her, syringing water (sans needle), sleeping on the floor beside her. But Delilah pulled through. Now she’s back to her old self—eating, purring, draping herself over us like a furry little queen.
Just before Mum’s cold shoulder, I’d offhandedly mentioned the vet bills. You know how it is—eye-watering sums. Mum gasped:
“That’s more than my pension! Have you gone mad?!”
The call ended… not in a row, but not warmly either. I brushed it off, but clearly, Mum stewed on it until something snapped.
Hearing her gripe about my “cat obsession,” I cut to the chase:
“Mum… are you jealous of Delilah?”
“Don’t be daft! It’s just odd, spending more on a cat than your own mother!”
“But she was *ill*, Mum! Was I supposed to put her down? Cheaper than surgery, I suppose…”
“That’s not what I meant,” she mumbled, faltering.
“Look, you *know* Tom and I will always help. If you need anything, just say—I’ll come over, we’ll sort it. Money, groceries, whatever. You’re *first*, always. Delilah’s just… family too. We love her.”
Mum thawed. Her voice softened, and she finally said what I’d hoped:
“Well… you *do* help. Thank you. I just don’t see how you spend so much on a pet.”
“Because we love her. It’s not a competition. We love you *both*. Deal? Next time, just *tell* me if you need something. Or I’ll start popping round to raid your fridge and medicine cabinet.”
“Oh, Lucy, no inspections,” she laughed. “Sorry, I was being daft. Just come over—I miss you.”
“On my way,” I grinned. “And you’d better have baked those scones!”
That evening, Tom and I were at Mum’s. Tea, scones, chatter, laughter. Just like always. And I thanked my lucky stars for her—stubborn, prickly, but utterly loved. Delilah’s fine now, too. Here’s hoping it stays that way.
