My Gran and Other Animals.

   Today is the one year anniversary of my Nans passing, and here I wanted to share the lighthearted autobiographical piece I wrote about her and read at her funeral. It's comforting to remember her as she was, I hope you like it.

My Gran and Other Animals.

We’re in the kitchen Nan and me. Its morning and there is a small long haired Yorkshire Terrier sitting with it’s nose pressed against the radiator behind the kitchen door. I do not know this little animal.

It’s not a new experience, finding mystery furry creatures in the house. In the 70’s Nan was always bringing home strays of the four-legged variety. One actually rang the doorbell one night, a small pregnant tabby cat we named Mitsy, on account of her soft mitteny fur. She stayed about 15 years and took her last breath in Mum and Grans arms.

Nan never could resist a furry face.  She once got in a fight with a very large man on Cloudsley Road because he hit his dog. “Pick on someone your own size!” she said.

     “What are you like Nan?” I said, “Giving me a heart attack with the fighting with big men over dogs.”

If I grabbed one of her jackets to pop to the shop, I would always find the following in her pockets; Tatty bits of tissues, monkey nuts for squirrels, special dog choccy buttons and smelly biscuit animal treats, particles of which would inevitably end up under my nails.

“Nan” I’d say, “Its like pets-R-us in these pockets, what are you like?”

“Well, I have to have something for all my furry little friends” she’d say.

These days Nan had moved from bringing home strays, and feeding any living thing that showed up (including a wounded pigeon that got stuck in a neighbours airy for a week, “I gave it boiled chicken and ham” she told me) to looking after other peoples animals, mostly without mentioning it to me or mum beforehand.

On occasion she would hide them in her room, then release them quietly into the house hoping we wouldn’t notice (It’s hard not to notice a black and white mongrel watching your telly with it’s paws up). She was afraid we would say no, a word foreign to Gran.

“Nan, why is there a small dog staring at the radiator?” I say.

     “Oh it’s not staring,” she says, “It’s blind.”

     “Right,” I say, “Who’s is it?”

     “It’s Eileens, she’s visiting relatives in Wales.”

     “What’s its name then?”

     “Ooo, I don’t know,” she says, ‘”I’ve forgotten it.”

     “You don’t know its name?” I say.

She’s not really concentrating. She’s looking in draws, sorting and rummaging, apparently trying to find her lottery ticket. The sun newspaper is open, waiting, with the numbers ready for her to check. She is wearing a pair of wonky glasses, having only one arm on them, they are the most recent victim of her propensity to sit on things.

She actually sat on mums cat ‘’Rhettmans’ once. We feared for his organs. Mum cried out in panic. “I’m nowhere near him,” Nan said. The cats face expressed adamant disagreement, and he velcroed himself to mum, who spent the evening kissing him, rolling her eyes at Gran and making jokes that I should watch myself or nanny might squash me.

“I do know it’s name, it’ll come to me in a minute,” Gran says, having located the lottery ticket, “wont help anyway, it’s deaf.”

     “It’s deaf and blind,” I say, “how does it know it’s alive?”

      “I don’t know,” she says, “it’s very old, it’s got no teeth either.”

     “Poor thing,” I say, wanting to stroke it but fearing I’ll give it a heart attack to add to it’s troubles.

     “Oh that’s it name,” she says, having finally sat down, “it’s Wanda.”

     “Wanda,” I say, “It’s a wonder all right, a wonder it’s alive.”

She can’t help laughing, and gets up to open a pouch of food.

“How’s it gonna eat that?” I say, watching her intently, as if waiting for a magician to perform a trick.

     “Aah bless It,” she says, giving it a little stroke, and gently putting it’s face in the juicy meat, “it’ll have to gum it I suppose.”

It’s present day, the phone is ringing. Someone answers, there’s a silence, a rustling, and a pressing of buttons. I know this drill, so I wait. “Hello,” she says finally.

     “Oh hello,” I say in a  posh official voice, “I’d like to speak to Smuffy Gran please, is she available?” (Smuffy is my nickname for her) I hear giggles down the phone followed by a little snort of laughter.

She tries to put on the same voice, “Yes, Muffy Gran speaking,” she says. She always misses the S, but her willingness to play along delights me.

     “How are you Gran?” I say.

She does another big snort laugh and I know what’s coming, her latest faux pas. Examples of which include; riding her bike wearing her jacket upside down, putting the cat food in the tumble dryer and then not being able to find it, realising at 3.30pm whilst standing in front of the fresh meat section of Marks and Spencer that she has been wearing odd shoes all day, and spending a whole weekend looking for her false teeth only for mum to spot them hanging off the back of her cardigan when she gets up to close the shutters Sunday night.

     “What have you done this time Gran?” I say.

     “I tried to ring Barbera on the sky remote control,” she says laughing, “I wondered why the telly kept changing channels.” I crack up, this is possibly my favourite to date. “ Nan,” I say, ‘”they broke the mould when they made you.” 

They did.

By Kelly J Hitchen July 2013.