It has been estimated that in a 12-year lifespan, without human intervention, a single female cat could be responsible for as many as 3500 descendants.
And guess what! That single female cat lives here.
Mother Cat has tricked us good and proper. We were waiting for her to finish nursing her last remaining kitten before getting her spayed, but she obviously got wind of our cunning plan, and hot-footed it off to the nearest Cat Tart Nightclub during her early days of motherhood, to hook up with some gullible Tom or two, who were only too willing to keep her in the Family Way.
We may have to rename her Eternal-Mother Cat if we can’t come up with a foolproof method to keep her out of Tom’s way until her next litter is weaned and we can whisk her off to the vet for The Snip.
We could of course take her to the vet now, but we have become soft (even softer) in our rural dotage, and simply cannot bring ourselves to be that harsh. And, having experienced the high rate of attrition in her last litter, and the subsequent disappearance of one of our original three inherited cats, we feel that this farm has space for a few more felines – particularly if they turn out to be anywhere near as delightful as our current kitten (who, incidentally, has become known as Little Cat, after Little Cat the Elder took her leave).
So here we are, once again awaiting a birth, but without the luxury of an estimated date of delivery. And Mother Cat’s belly is ballooning a little more each day, even though she already looks ready to pop. However, unlike her pregnant human counterparts, her grand girth does not appear to be impeding her cattish agility. She continues to leap spectacularly high
to snaffle up unlucky evening moths, and to scale tall trees and buildings with the panache of a pot-bellied Spiderman.
Her appetite has also scaled new heights, as she eats  for two/three/four/five/six…….., and she likes to round off a tasty meal of three different varieties of cat food with a desert chosen from the wild-life trolley. Perhaps she is not really pregnant at all. Perhaps that bulging mid-line is caused by nothing other than a giant food-baby.
And of course, just like any Pregnant Thing, Mother Cat’s emotions are in slavery to her hormones. One minute she is affectionately sharing her space with trusted humans, nuzzling and purring and generally being The Nicest Cat in the World, and the next minute she has burst into tears for no reason, or is hissing bad-temperedly at anything that has the audacity to breathe within five feet of her recumbent personage.
Meanwhile, poor Little Cat (the Younger) cannot understand what is going on. Why won’t Mummy play with her anymore? Why doesn’t Mummy love her anymore? Perhaps she can regain Mummy’s love and affection by pretending to be a big, round, grey apple resting quietly in the fruit basket.
