THE OTHER GIORGIO ARMANI

If you're a cat lover, proceed with caution...

I met many wonderful people during my days selling houses. None more so than Peter and Anne; a couple who began as clients and over the weeks progressed to being friends. I’d often pop in on my way home from work for a glass of wine and some conversation.

They had a beautiful home, full of eclectic things from their extensive travels. The kind of home where your eye catches something new every time and you ask where it came from and then you are entranced, as the story behind it unfolds.

They’d set a very high price on this home, despite it being on a busy main road, what we call a feeder-road, where delivery trucks and other large vehicles travel to and fro on the way to the nearby freeway.

The price was unrealistic. I’d said told them this at the very beginning, but they wouldn’t budge. They were in no hurry see, and they felt their home was worth every cent they were asking. I remember Peter saying the day I listed it, “Someone will walk in and fall in love with it. The way we did.”

“It may take a while…”

“Time is not an issue. I want people who will love it enough to pay what we are asking.”

So it began.

As an agent, I knew that the longer a home stayed on the market, the harder it would be to sell. Buyers would begin to wonder what was wrong with it. It would become a ‘lemon’, a term we used for over-priced, languishing homes.

I took many families through in the first few weeks. The price prohibiting their decision to buy, despite how much they liked it; but my instructions were clear: “Do not bring in any offers below the set asking price.”

The sale is not what this story is about. Peter was right. Four months later, I met a young family who’d just migrated from England. They walked in, instantly fell in love and purchased it on the spot, even offering ten thousand dollars over the asking price, to “secure it”.

The story is about Peter and Anne’s three Himalayan cats. They were siblings and of a rare sub-variety; they’d paid an enormous amount of money for them. Their names were Pierre Cardin, Coco Chanel and Giorgio Armani. Yes, I did question why. The answer was simple. They loved those designers. Fair enough, I’d thought at the time.

I am a cat-lover. I’ve never not had a cat in the house. Mostly strays or kittens picked up at the pound. These three exotic creatures with their long coats and regal stance were part of the reason I visited so often. Coco especially was very affectionate and on my lap the minute I sat down. Perhaps because I wore Chanel no5 at the time? Pierre always meandered over for a quick hello and then sat nearby, watching. Giorgio? Sometimes he’d deign to greet me from afar, other times he just plainly refused to make an appearance. Peter said, “He‘s a strange one.”

The cats had lived in the house since kitten-hood. When I did finally sell it, Peter and Anne purchases a town-house in a gated community built around a golf-course, both being avid golfers.

As I mentioned, we’d become friends, and I’d often bring my boys along (they were around 8 or 9 at the time), for a play with the cats. Coco and Pierre became accustomed to them visiting. Giorgio - he was his usual self.

Three weeks after Peter and Anne moved into their new home, I decided to go see how they’d settled in. I took the boys along. Coco and Pierre greeted us as always. Giorgio was not around. Sometimes he did that, choosing not to show himself immediately, so we didn’t think anything of it.

Having a coffee half an hour later, one of the boys asked Anne, “So where’s Giorgio? Can we look upstairs for him?”

“He’s not here love,” Anne replied. “He’s at the cat hotel.”

We knew what she was talking about; there was a place down on the Peninsula where pampered felines ‘holidayed’ whenever their owners went away. It was the equivalent of a five-star resort; we’d often driven past the imposing gates...

“Why’s he there?” my boy asked.

“He doesn’t like this new place,” Peter answered.

“The other two have settled in though, right?” I pointed out Coco, once again on my lap. Pierre was playing with the boys.

“Yes, they’re fine. Giorgio’s… well…” Peter paused and I really should have changed the conversation right there and then. He had an odd expression, part frustration, part… fear? “Giorgio’s different.”

“So what are you going to do?” I knew they could afford the rates but still, it must have been costing them a fortune, keeping him there indefinitely.

“Hey mum! Why don’t we take him home with us?” This from my oldest boy! My other one’s eyes lit up and he was nodding like one of those bobbing toys you see on dashboards.

We already had a cat, a scruffy tabby with half-chewed ears called Khyber, named after some Pokemon thingy?

“Err… maybe not babe.” I looked at Peter and Anne, eyes pleading. Like, help me out here, tell them he’s coming home soon, tell them he needs a lot of grooming, tell them anything!

I watched them exchange looks. I saw the same broad smile appear on their faces.

“That’s a great idea!” This from Peter!

“No no, we already have a cat… Boys -”

“Peter’s right,” Ann cut in, before I could finish saying “we need to get home; it’s almost dinner-time”.

“Can we mum? Can we?”

Giorgio arrived two days later in what could only be described as a cat limousine. A guy in a uniform including hat and gloves knocked on the door; Giorgio in a plush pet carrier in one hand, the other hand holding a rather large carry-bag.

So. The boys took him in. The driver left in haste. Khyber, who was very affectionate, immediately walked up for a greet and meet. Giorgio took one look, leisurely raised a paw, stuck it out of the open carrier door and swiped.

Khyber jumped like he’d stepped on some bouncy thing, all four paws stretched out. Then he charged out of the room as though chased by a pit-bull. He spent the rest of that first day under a bed. He spent a lot of time under furniture over the coming weeks.

Turns out Giorgio didn’t like our house either. He didn’t like us. He didn’t like anything.

We looked inside the large bag. He had his own food and water bowls, a litter tray, an assortment of toys, some expensive-looking bedding, his ‘papers’, a ton of grooming stuff and a rather long list of what we needed to do for him.

I began reading the list. What? Were they playing a joke on me? Had they had too much wine while they were writing it?

“Brush his coat twice a day; make sure to tease out every knot.”

“He needs at least an hour of supervised outdoor time mornings and afternoons.”

“He only eats the following: (There was a list of home-cooked meals.)

“He drinks filtered water only.”

The next line had me frowning: “Oh and be careful, he bites when he’s angry sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” He’d never approached any of us close enough to pat so I wasn’t sure what this sometime meant. “Boys!” I yelled out, forgetting the rest of the list. They were trying to coax him out of the carrier and failing. “Check out Wikipedia. Himalayans. Now!”

Oldest son grabbed the laptop.

“Says here mum, they’re called ‘Himmies’ and they’re… um… good indoor companion animals?”

“What else?”

“Well, they are gentle, calm, and sweet-tempered, but they… uh… possess a playful side as well.”

“What else?”

“They… um… crave affection and love to be petted and groomed?”

“You sure.”

“That’s what it says mum!” He gave me the ‘what the hell is wrong with you’ look.

“And he’s a pure-breed right?” There was nothing about biting and Wikipedia was a pretty reliable reference I thought.

My youngest grabbed the gold embossed black folder. “Yep. Hey, they have his parents and his grandparents and his - wow - there’s a long list here mum!”

We had no idea where our Khyber had come from; he had no papers. He also ate supermarket food, had never been ‘groomed’ and largely lived outside, bringing us the odd mouse as a gift. He did have this odd thing where he stole sneakers and socks neighbours left on their porches; we had quite a collection. He only ever brought back one of each pair though...

I looked at Giorgio. He sat in the carrier still and he looked angry. Maybe some food would get him out.

“One of you, grab the cat food.”

“No, you have to cook his food mum!”

“Grab Khyber’s food. Do it!”

The boys set out Giorgio’s bowls filling one with biscuits.

“Mum, what’s filtered water?”

“Oh it just means tap-water hon.”

“But it says filtered! Do we have a filter?”

“Just. Fill It. From. The. Tap.” I think I scared him. He rushed off and brought it back half-filled with water from the kitchen sink.

We waited. Giorgio sniffed the air once or twice. We waited. Half an hour later he stood, stretched and stepped out. Walked over to the food, took one long sniff, moving his nose around the bowl… then turned his back and went back into the carrier. Was he assuming this was a short visit?

“Told you, you have to cook!”

“Yeah mum, it says it on the paper.”

“I’m not cooking for a cat!”

“Well what’s he gonna eat then?”

“He’ll get hungry then he’ll eat what’s in front of him.”

Eight hours later, I was cooking. After a trip to the supermarket where I bought the free-range chicken, the fresh tuna, the lamb, the rice and assorted organic vegetables. I followed the recipe and made some salmon concoction. Giorgio ate it but didn’t look happy doing it; like it was an obligation on his part.

“Right, get him outside now. Let him do his business.”

They returned soon after. “He won’t mum.”

“He won’t? Did you put him in the bushes?”

“Says here he’ll only use the litter tray,” oldest son said, reading from the paper again.

“Well fill it up with whatever’s in that bag then.”

“And he needs to be alone. You know, to do it.” They were both now reading the list I’d dropped earlier.

“Seriously?”

I looked at Giorgio again. I swear there was an evil glint in his narrowed eyes.

We’d been a happy little family, the boys, Khyber and I. You know relaxed, laid back, no routine, no fuss…

After a week of Giorgio, we were… is there a hell on earth? The word dysfunctional had somehow crept into our little family, displacing happy.

When Peter had said, “Giorgio is a strange one,” I should have asked questions; a lot of questions. Later, when he’d said “Giorgio is different,” I should have heeded it as a warning. I hadn’t.

Our life suddenly revolved around this sulky, demanding little furry s**t. He didn’t walk, he meandered like some King strolling his grounds, an entourage following. When he wasn’t meandering or sleeping in his throne, he was hiding… Waiting…

The first time it happened I screamed. I’d reached the bottom of the staircase and suddenly he pounced, claws wrapped around my ankle and mouth - well he bit me! Bit me so hard he broke flesh and I had two little vampire-teeth holes on my ankle, seeping blood.

I called him evil. I called him some other very colourful words. I grabbed him by the scruff and deposited him in his bed. He looked up once, like “what’s your problem,” and then began grooming himself.

By the second week, the three of us looked like we’d just returned from a war. Band-Aids everywhere. “Oh, he bites when he’s angry?” The little beast was always angry! The chauffer who’d brought him had been wearing gloves, I wondered what his hands looked like underneath. Come to think of it, he’d seemed in a big hurry to hand him over. Pieces were falling into place. Like the look between my former friends… The scratches I’d seen on their arms, which they claimed, were from pruning the rose bushes…

Sure, I’d removed Peter and Anne from my speed-dial and my Christmas-card list. What kind of friend unleashed a devil-cat on you?

I cooked for Giorgio, the boys cleaned up after Giorgio, we all took turns with the grooming of Giorgio which included incurring fresh scratch marks every time. Poor Khyber watched; usually from under the sofa or peeking around a door. Mostly he stayed away from home, stopped bringing back odd shoes and socks too. Would he need therapy, like the rest of us?

A month later, nursing the newest bite and associated scratches, I’d reached the edges of insanity.

“Boys! Here, now!” I stood in front of Giorgio’s bed, where he lay with one eye open, ears upright and tail twitching, the usual prelude before a pounce.

“You are going to call him George. George will eat cat-food or he can starve. George will also be let out unsupervised. We will groom him once a week; I don’t care if he has a hundred knots. If it gets too bad, we’ll take him for a haircut. Got it?”

They both nodded. George looked very angry now and we all took a step back. But I wasn’t finished.

“If he tries the sneak and attack thing, you grab him by the scruff and shove him in the laundry. Got it?”

More nods. Another communal step back.

“One last thing.” I’d given this one a lot of thought… “If he goes walkabout, we’re not putting posters up or looking for him.”

“But mum-”

“He’s micro chipped. He has a tag. Whoever finds him will keep him, phone Peter and Anne or take him to the pound.” I hadn’t updated his record with our contact details. The only thing I’d gotten right.

They looked at each other. I’d expected further protest but then they both nodded.

George didn’t like the new arrangement. He stared and he stared every time we opened the laundry door - well not opened, just enough to peek in. He spent a lot of time in there.

You might wonder whether we’d tried the other option right? Showering him with love and affection, cuddling him, spending quality time… I had to have three stitches on my left arm and still have the scar to prove it. George wasn’t a lover, he was a fighter. A mean one.

Two weeks later, he didn’t come home. The boys were itching to say something after some hours of waiting. One look from me...

A month later, I got a call from Anne. She wasn’t happy.

“Giorgio is back at the cat hotel. Someone left him on our doorstep last night.”

“Oh.”

“There was a note. They said they’d kept him for a couple of weeks but… then they felt guilty, so they brought him back.”

“Oh.” Guilt my arse! I mentally calculated the number of scars he’d left in that household after two weeks.

“Of course we can’t keep him here… So -”

“About that… Listen Anne, we loved George -”

“Giorgio,” she corrected me. Oh I could have corrected her at this point but I let it ride.

“Anyway, we’re moving interstate and I’m afraid we can’t take him with us. He’d be too traumatised right, what with the move and a new house again…” I liked her and Peter, despite what they’d put us through. I tried the gracious way out.

“He bit you?” So she’d passed him off, knowing the consequences! Now I was getting mad!

“Oh no, no! He was a perfect gentleman. We loved him dearly. He was very loving, very affectionate.” (Sarcasm much?)

“Giorgio was?” She didn’t get it. Or maybe she hoped he’d undergone some miraculous transformation? I didn’t think so.

“Yep. We were devastated when he didn’t come home. Looked eeeeverywhere for him, the boys even put posters up, checked the pound, did everything!” There was a lot of sarcasm in my voice.

“He bit one of you. Sorry.” Now she got it.

“Sorry? Your cat’s f*****g crazy okay! We’re all scarred for life! How could you do that to us? Take him to a cat shrink!”

“Peter did mention Giorgio was different…”

I hung up on her.

I looked outside through the kitchen window and spotted a new Nike sneaker. The boys would do the usual knocking on neighbour’s doors looking for the owner. We were rarely able to reunite lost socks or sneakers with their owners though. I think Khyber’s thievery took place much further away. Smart cat, our tabby.

I don’t know what happened with George. I lost touch with Peter and Anne. On purpose.

Reviews

[. serah .]

-- i found this story so compelling that i've read it thrice since you posted it... -- i tend to read things through the prism of my own experiences and i think what strikes me as really stark is the behaviour of Peter and Anne... -- since quite some time now, i've been noticing how there are people around us who seem to be normal but do the most damaging things... -- what i find really shocking is how Peter and Anne could send "George/Giorgio" to a home where there were kids aged 8/9... -- did they even think about the kids for a moment or did they only think about freeing themselves from the bad behaviour of "George/Giorgio"? -- i think they only thought about themselves and the worst part is that they thought they are normal people and so they called again to possibly try and send George back to your home... -- George needed a cat shrink but i think Peter and Anne needed a human shrink... -- it's strange how such people live in our vicinity masquerading as 'normal' people... and their 'mental imbalance' remains a secret to them...

-- excellent work... with many insights into human psychology... and the narration was very earnest too... -- thank you for sharing this experience...

[Elise Anton]

You are spot on. I tried to keep it light-hearted and didn't dwell too much on them. Peter and Anne on the surface - and I guess that's what drew me to them - were full of adventurous stories from their travels and told them well. I was shocked truthfully when they agreed to give George to the boys. I had expected them to back me up. Coco would have been a different story as she was your typical lap cat. The fact also that they were spending a fortune keeping him in that place was kind of weird. Like you said, you never expect 'normal' people to exhibit this kind of behaviour. In a way I wish I knew what happened to George, both before and after we entered his life. The three were siblings. Two perfectly average cats, one... well... I've often wondered if it was a nature or a nurture thing... Thanks for reading and offering such deep insights. Much appreciated.

[. serah .]

-- you're very welcome... -- and yes... spending money on that resort for cats was an important part of their weird behaviour... and i can completely understand how one can be enthralled by stories about adventures... -- Peter and Anne were obviously very good at deception...

[Woody]

Gee, I didn't know there were evil cats. I'd always thought that you could win their affection by providing food and caresses!! was he maybe possessed or something? you should've taken him to a priest, to make sure.
your telling is engrossing, Elise. nice one.

[Elise Anton]

I didn't know either. We love cats, we've always had at least one in our lives. His siblings were cats, you know, purr, meeaw, the paw treading before they settle... George was... not a cat! Was he possessed? Could a priest or a shrink have helped? We were too mentally and physically disturbed to bother finding out! Hope he still lives, but that time has mellowed him... Maybe he's sitting on a lap right now, purring and being, well... a normal cat, Thanks for reading Woody!