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| A rather camera-shy Petronius the Arbiter |
The first cat is the steepest…
I was outside Darwen rather than Damascus: however, the conversion took place just as abruptly, with only a few seconds warning. One moment I was being asked…
– How would you feel about looking after Jay for a while?
[All of my friend’s cats – and horses – were named after birds: Blackbird – ‘Blackie’ for short – a rook-coloured bruiser wearing white gloves (probably concealing knuckle-dusters); and big bullying brother to Kestrel – a beautiful, mournful tabby, with the same gleaming toes; and currently Jay – who, not being a blood relative, was beaten up by both of them almost daily, and therefore frequently went missing for days, and always came home injured. Why Kestrel didn’t also fly away – without the “coming home” bit, of course… – I shall never know for certain. Timidity is one possibility; but likely also some warped form of sibling loyalty.]
– I thought the countryside might do him some good… – especially away from the other two.
[…who would continue their problematic relationship for a few years, until the inevitable happened: Blackie luring his poor, innocent sister three-quarters of the way across a busy main road… – and at rush hour, natch. And then brutally smiling: overly pleased with his malice and overpowering need to be capomandamento. He hadn’t touched her; honest, Ma. And honestly: the look on his face, the nasty piece of work. It’s amazing he didn’t wipe those white gloves together in glee, and cackle. At least it was instant. (And yet he guarded my unborn son steadfastly, when his mother slept, for months: with a still-beguiling tenderness.)]
– I’ll just go and get him from the car, shall I?
The next moment I appeared to have a very content white cat (with black splodges: some of which – oil, and other such crud, from semi-permanently cowering under cars – would wash off, later, never to return) cradled, of his own choosing, in my somehow welcoming arms. (And my reaction to this, somehow, seemed so innate; somehow, so harmonious, so satisfying, so complete. That’s when I knew; that’s when I had an inkling of how Saul must also have known… – just before he was told.) He – Jay – had been gifted paradise. He knew it; and, now, was never leaving. And it was so obvious to everyone – eventually, including me… – that this would be the case.
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I didn’t know how old he was (and don’t think I ever did): but it became pretty obvious, pretty quickly, that, despite his slightness – to the point where most people assumed he was a she… – Jay was not (just) the soft unassertive punchbag I had assumed. With me – when he was home… – yes, he was affectionate to the point of passivity: generally trailing me around the house; keeping my lap warm; and sleeping next to me… – although the route he frequently pursued to get to the bed wasn’t necessarily the one you would assume from such a creature: despite me installing my first-ever catflap (with my first-ever jigsaw). It really did have to be seen to be believed!
It was the local farmer who first spotted him effortlessly and noiselessly springing up onto the upstairs window ledge at the front of the house – front paws gaining a firm hold, then winching up the rest of his body: sometimes using the unseen rear-paw-holds in the hand-dressed stone to maintain grip and momentum, like Ueli Steck on the north face of the Eiger… – before quickly hauling himself through the perpetually-yawning fanlight, and disappearing. (Why do you think cat-burglars are so-named?) All executed in a few seconds: with the majority of that time taken up ensuring that none of his boundless energy would be wasted; ensuring that his access was indeed clear.
It was also the local farmer who spotted Jay, as the sun set, scrapping uproariously with a fox. When he eventually came home, tail down low, his fur was coated and splattered with congealed blood, and the kitchen floor featured a fading trail of crimson bean-prints. Dick Smith could not have done better. It was only another reluctant (but painstakingly thorough) soaking that established (to my complete amazement) that none of this was Jay’s. He didn’t have a scratch on him!
His hunting skills – especially his ability to entrap small(ish) mammals (although he often gazed at the horses in the field in front of the house with what looked like unhealthy intentions but an exceedingly healthy appetite!) – were so well-developed that he should have been called Nimrod. He was therefore keen – as are so many felids – to demonstrate his prowess – including his ability to feed his talent-free ‘family’ (meaning me) – as frequently as possible: usually depositing (what was left of) his weird-smelling trophies (and squelchy late-night snacks) on the carpet at the bottom of the stairs (something he had in common with my following cats). I therefore learned (eventually) to stop on the last step, and turn on the hall light, when I went downstairs in the morning.
These occasions, thankfully, were not too commonplace (and are partly behind my playing games with subsequent felines several times a day); but they at least demonstrated that Jay occasionally remembered the catflap’s whereabouts: his greatest accomplishment (in what could have been an Olympic sport: perhaps the equivalent of a triathlon?) – of Dragging Prey Over the Back Wall and Through the Back Door in the Dark – undoubtedly being a large-sized half-rabbit. Whether he had trimmed it to size to (just) fit through; bits had fallen off en route; or he had already consumed (or disposed of) the rest, I cannot know; but I remember that the catflap took quite some scrubbing.
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He was also the inspiration for the poem Missingness, and its addendum PS: I told the cat – and that’s how I believe he would best wish to be commemorated. (That, plus the strange stains on the hall carpet.)
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Purrseverance…
Petronius the Arbiter, Jay’s successor, was named after the cat in Heinlein’s book The Door Into Summer (as my current cat, Pixel – see below – is named after Heinlein’s The Cat Who Walks Through Walls): precisely because he exhibited the characteristics described therein more than any other I have had the pleasure to share my life with. He would check every single “people door” (with human help); perch by each window; peek through the catflap until he got a wet nose; then stand forlornly, staring through the glazed patio door at mostly rain, but occasionally snow, wondering what he had done wrong.
While still a kitten, all fluff and buzzes, Pete had worked out a simple philosophy. I was in charge of quarters, rations and weather; he was in charge of everything else. But he held me especially responsible for weather. Connecticut winters are good only for Christmas cards; regularly that winter Pete would check his own door, refuse to go out because of that unpleasant white stuff beyond it (he was no fool), then badger me to open a people door. He had a fixed conviction that at least one of them must lead into summer.
– Robert A Heinlein: The Door Into Summer
We found Pete outside that door, one day: nobbut a kitten; nobbut skin and bone; and obviously very, very ill. How he had dragged himself away from the house, probably fifty metres away – where, shortly afterwards (after many other cats were found: some even worse off than Pete; some even dead), the old lady had been forced to have them all rescued, and then go into a home… – is almost certainly another one of those astonishing feline stories of heroism and determination (see above). But the vet (extremely local, thank goodness) said, as a result, that he only had a few hours of life left.
So we emptied our savings account; and a week later – now insured – he reappeared: neutered, tummy full, and with a very stylish Elizabethan collar – which he slipped out of the moment he was home. How else was he to vanish through the catflap?
Except he didn’t yet understand how it worked: tied as it was to another damnable collar – featuring both a magnet and a bell (of course!) – which he wasn’t yet wearing. Once he’d got the hang of it, though, it saved him again and again from the gang of existing neighbourhood moggies – all of whom were a bit slow, chasing him home; but all of whom appeared to be twice his size. He soon developed his own territory, however: and then it was him telling them what he wanted; along with something about “sleeping with the fishes”. After six months or so, everything settled; and he ‘lost’ his special collar – a spare also mysteriously vanishing within days. I replaced the catflap for a bog-standard one: and he had the complete freedom he had always wished for.
This included going for walks with you – sans leash – around the neighbourhood.
If he heard the front door open, he would come racing from wherever he was napping; check the weather; and then – if it was nice out – sit on the front step, waiting for you to hurry up. Once you got to the road (only busy at school-times), he would check which way you were going, then walk in front of you: taking the, er, lead. (Sorry.) That is, until he reached a garden that seemed like it might be interesting: where he would go and have the nosy us humans can’t. He would then pop his head up in a different garden, further on, to let you know where he was; and then either rejoin you, or disappear again.
He always stayed close by, though, as if he was at the end of an invisible retractable cord; and never strayed – not even on the main road: which was usually quite busy; but well-supplied with long, exciting, walled lawns and flower-beds. The furthest he would go was to the doctor’s, about half-a-mile away (where the Big Road was); and he would even walk to the vets, a little closer – although you would have to pick him up to get him through the front door; then hold him on your knees. If you had to leave him, to travel further on, he would say goodbye, then find his own way home (where you would usually find him waiting for you).
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He was the cheekiest cat I’ve ever known (hiding under the floor, when I was replacing wiring and pipes; and sometimes, when he was in the mood, never quite doing what he was asked); and, like Jay, was a very good hunter… – with all the bottom-of-the-stairs yuckiness this implies. (The bell did not have the desired effect; and I have therefore not bothered with one since.) He was never truly naughty, though (not even picking at that first set of stitches); and obviously eternally grateful for being rescued. He was therefore happy to doze on my lap for hours; or next to me, when I was working at home. He also had a wonderful habit of sleeping in the small gap between my head and the headboard at night – which I actually found quite comforting (at least whilst he was small and kittenish).
When the sun was out – or there was yet more renovating being done (including ripping the roof off the back of the house to install a large-ish home office) – he would go and sleep in the derelict and undisturbed land at the back, behind what he obviously considered was ‘his’ garden; and then zip around madly, when we came outside, like Tigger: racing jingly balls, or bobbing at butterflies and bees, and trying to lend a helping paw with the horticulture. He was joy unconfined; and, to be honest, I don’t think he ever grew up. Which is a Very Good Thing Indeed. I have been trying to emulate him ever since.
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And felinally…
As mentioned above, after Felix died, I obtained Pixel, another rescue cat, without thinking. (They were the best thoughts I’ve never had, to be honest.) I will write more about her soon. All I need to say here is that she is proof that feral cats can domesticate themselves, given enough love, space, and understanding; and that she is an utterly wonderful and constantly astonishing companion (although she will insist on trying to keep me active, silly girl). I still (and will always) miss Felix madly; but she is something else completely. And that is all that matters.
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