The Amazing Life of Cats (20 page)
What a joy, after living alone for five years, to suddenly have a family of three little kittens! Francesca named the smallest one Peonia (Peony) after a cat she’d once loved, and my Swedish neighbour named the most brightly coloured one Mimosa. I cut a hole in the screen of my door and taped plastic sheeting all over my courtyard gate so they could not escape to the street. We were denizens of our own little world. I called them the Kitts. They called me Mummy. In Destiny’s language,
WRR-whrrrWRRRRRP
!
The Kitts did everything together and were kind enough to let me come along. We ate together, played together, slept together under a quilt and three colourful layers of fleece in a multi-vibrational pile of purrs. For the first time in decades my insomnia was gone—soon it was winter, dark at five thirty pm, light at seven thirty am, and I could sleep eight to ten hours without pills. The harmonic resonance of three kittens—one at my thighs, one at my belly, one at my heart—produced a state of peace and pleasure that transformed my sleep from necessity to delight, as if overnight someone who regarded food as just nourishment had become a gourmet. I gave thanks to the unknown foster-mum who had clearly once treated them with such love and affection.
Assisi’s
gran gattaro
, an eighty-year-old man named Nicola, put an ad in
Cerco e Trovo
(‘Search and Find’, a regional newsletter for buyers and sellers, seekers and givers of everything) and our lovely Mimosa went to live with a sweet professional young couple in Perugia—they continue to email me photos of her as she matures. Destiny, I knew, was going to live with me forever—I imagined us growing old together. When no one came looking for Peonia, I decided to keep her, too.
I have loved many cats in my day, but Destiny was—is—simply the most marvellous cat I have ever known. Beautiful, loving, subtle and deft, quick-witted, sensitive, funny and droll, intuitive, courageous, outrageous. ‘
Come una luce accesa
,’ said Francesca: ‘like a light turned on.’ Clearly not here for the first time, she was a wise old soul in a cat suit. She had her own language of whirrs and clicks and kews that I attempted to emulate. I composed silly songs for her which I’d warble or hum as she clung to my shoulders and purred in my ear, or while I brushed my teeth or attempted to put in my contact lenses. I invented wacky dialogues between us and spoke both parts aloud, glad my windows were closed against the cold so the neighbours would not hear me. Both Kitts liked to nestle in my arms, full-length against my chest, while I tried to type one-handed. When I returned from feeding the strays in the morning they would be sitting in planters on the wall waiting for my return. If I crept in the gate from a concert at midnight they would come tumbling down the steps to welcome me home. It was a love fest, and I have never been happier in my life—which has often been a happy one.
November and December passed in a state of kitty bliss, and after Christmas I began to let them ramble outside the propped-open gate for a couple of hours a day when I was home. Peonia was timid—she fled before strangers, flying up the steps to plunge into the safety of Britta’s Garden or rocketing back into our courtyard and hiding under our steps till all was clear. Destiny on the other hand was fearless, running out of the gate to greet a herd of tourists, letting herself be stroked by new admirers. Later, blaming myself for her too-trusting nature, I had to remind myself that she’d been that way from the start.
The Kitts were losing their baby fat, growing into sleek young Grrrls. Although it was only January there were many sunny warm days when they romped and played in our courtyard from dawn to dusk, and they acquired a fan club of walkers-by that included several feline-friendly dogs who routinely dragged their masters to our wrought-iron gate to wag their tails and marvel at these plucky little ladies. People talked to them, tossed toys between the bars for them, and a little Magic-Ball donated by a family from Trentino provided days of delight.
I had the two Grrrls spayed before mating season began in mid-January. Because these were rescued cats the vet kindly charged me only half price. Still, with vaccines, flea meds and follow-up antibiotics, it came to over half my month’s rent. Tough little Peonia bounced back quickly from the operation, but Destiny, more delicate, refused to eat for days, and my fear that I might lose her was a measure of how much she meant to me. When she recovered she was closer and dearer to me than ever.
Some people told me it was dangerous to let the Kitts explore outside my courtyard, that people might fancy them and grab them for their own. I’ve always believed in freedom for my cats and had never lost one. Until now.
Last Sunday I said farewell to the Kitts, playing in their courtyard, and went hiking with Francesca on Monte Subasio. Then, after lunch at her place I rambled homeward full of delight in the day, the walk, the sunshine, our shared meal, and the prospect of reading on my sunny landing while the Kitts had a safe little ramble up our street. But Destiny wasn’t there when I got home.
I propped open the gate and walked her usual circuit, calling her, my heart pounding because somehow I already knew she was really gone. Peonia sensed it too—she ran mewling up and down the street, sniffing at every door, searching for her. As the hours passed I started calling on my neighbours—everyone said, ‘Don’t worry, she’s just
in giro
—making the rounds.’ But in my heart I knew she was really gone.
I left my gate open that night, and every night since then. Put flyers with her photo up on my gate, on doors, in bars, in the piazzas. Cried myself senseless, could not sleep. People I barely recognise have tried to help me—dog-walkers are searching and calling for her, neighbours have let me into their hidden courtyards and cantinas, there have been some mistaken sightings. Friends who know Destiny send me their love and support and call in the angels. I know she did not just wander off and get lost—she knows the neighbourhood too well. I know she is not off rambling, leaving her home and her sister and me behind, especially in this week of freezing nights. I know that if someone took her in and later let her leave she would come straight home. The consensus is this: she has been stolen and taken away from Assisi. Her friendliness, her fearlessness, her youth and charm were her undoing. People are split into two camps on this: those who say, ‘Who would steal a cat?’ and those with sad tales of stolen kittens.
Today marks a week since Destiny’s disappearance. The worst part is waking in the middle of the night or in the morning—in the first moment, cosy and contented, with dear Peonia in my arms—and suddenly remembering. Then the heavy wave of grief washes over me again and knocks me breathless with my loss.
Is there nothing more I can do? As I may never know what really happened, I can only try to calm myself and quell the rage I feel towards whoever has taken her. Rather than think she was grabbed by some monster, I imagine that whoever took her was terribly lonely and in need of companionship and love. Or they took her to someone who recently lost a beloved cat and was inconsolable. Or . . .
What helps me most is to repeat a little prayer—really an incantation—I wrote in the early hours of one morning:
Prayer for my Destiny
May you be warm, may you be well,
May you be safe, well-fed, and free,
Beloved, and in good company.
All blessings on you, Destiny,
May you soon return to me,
May you one day come home to me.
Mara Seer
Dogs come when they’re called; cats
take a message and get back to you later.
Mary Bly
W
e never intended to have a cat. We were travelling too much for work and didn’t think it was fair to have an animal when we weren’t around a lot. Then a niece came to stay from overseas. The weeks passed and she settled in, enjoying a gap year with us after university. While she was with us she fell in love—with a beautiful part Russian blue with deliciously long legs and a Persil-white tummy, whom she’d feed at every opportunity. We insisted this charming interloper wasn’t to be fed or let into the house, but he and possibly she had other ideas. By the time Jacky left several months later, he’d more or less moved in, despite our best efforts to keep him out.
Cats have a way of weaving themselves into your lives, of getting what they want with consummate skill. Sooner or later it’s easier just to give in. And so Puss, as we called him (not very original, I know), became part of our lives, entertaining us with the thousand ingenious ways he had to ensure he got exactly what he wanted. Yet apart from his determination he was a gentle soul. We loved the way he would stride down the road to meet us after a long day at work, how just a gentle brush of his tail could be so comforting when either of us were feeling a little fed-up or sad.
Everyone loved Puss. The only time we nearly came to blows was when he strained a ligament and had to be kept inside for six weeks. His anger and frustration were palpable. More than once I ended up in tears trying to contain him. Eventually the six weeks came and went, and it was thrilling to see him walk without a limp, but less thrilling to see him continue his death-defying leaps from the pergola and from neighbourhood trees.
The years slipped past. And when he was twelve, he suddenly started to spend a lot of time indoors, sleeping a great deal. He’d often come and snuggle up close, as if seeking additional comfort. He didn’t seem to be in pain, but wasn’t quite himself, so we decided to take him to the vet. For once we took him together. At the time it seemed like overkill. The vet was concerned about a couple of lumps and suggested he keep Puss in for an exploratory operation the following day. As we left I remember our eyes meeting, and taking in every beautiful detail of him before we departed.
After an anxious day I finally got the call. They’d opened Puss up—he was still on the operating table. He was full of cancer. We could have him stitched up and let him limp through the next few weeks, but that seemed too unkind, so I agreed on the phone to euthanase him. It was a heartbreaking decision and even more painful not to be with him in his final moments. It didn’t seem right, even though he was already under the anaesthetic. I hated the idea of him dying among strangers. I hated having to make the decision over whether he was to live or die.
My husband Derek brought Puss home that evening after work. He was carefully wrapped in a clean towel. Together we laid him out on the towel on our coffee table, lit some candles and sat with him. Through our tears we told him how much we loved him. We thanked him for persevering with us and for all the exquisite moments he’d selflessly brought to our lives. It was hard to believe that he was gone, and yet as we gazed down at him, beautiful still, we knew his spirit had already gone to that happy hunting ground in the sky.
Puss remained with us that night, and early the next morning we buried him in the garden. The pain of his loss was greater than we could have imagined. A few days later we went to the wake of a colleague who died around the same time and, like many, cried there. On our way home in the car we confessed to each other we were crying as much for Puss as for our colleague. A few nights after Puss was gone, I awoke in the night to a series of gentle footsteps walking over me, just as Puss always did when he came in to see if I were still in bed. There were just a few precious steps, then he was gone. It was so reassuring to know he’d made a final trip to us to say goodbye.
We couldn’t bear the thought of another cat—at least not at once. If we did get a cat we decided it should be a rescued cat, and not for six months. Life went on. The pain of Puss leaving us faded, and all thought of having another feline friend was well and truly out of our minds, until one day I was dropping Derek off at work. Though there were a number of drop-off points, this particular morning I stopped in the local car park to let him out. As Derek was getting out of the car, I noticed a streak of black and white in my peripheral vision. As I turned I saw a tiny kitten no more than three or four weeks old. I yelled at Derek to grab it, fearing it might get run over.
Derek returned to the car with this little bundle of fur. I’d no idea what to do next as she had no identification on her. The only thing I could do was take her home and look after her until we found the owners.
My heart melted as this tiny triangular face stared up at me. She was tiny and desperately hungry, and even though it wasn’t a long way home in the car, she was fast asleep on my lap before we got there. We had two nieces staying at the time, who took great delight in helping to feed her. I’d promised them a day at the zoo, so locking our new arrival in the kitchen with some food and kitty litter we headed out for a few hours. Meanwhile Derek had put up notices around the car park asking if anyone was missing a kitten. After a fun day at the zoo we carefully opened the kitchen door looking for our furry friend, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Panicking, we looked under the table and chairs, but she had vanished. Then we noticed the laundry door was slightly ajar. And there in a giant pile of clean laundry lay our little visitor, fast asleep. It was only when she woke up that we realised she was covered in fleas. When we gently bathed her, the water was black with them. It must have been so uncomfortable for the poor little thing. It did mean all the washing had to be done again, but it was a small price to pay. As it turned out, Derek never got any responses to his posters in the car park. As the vet confirmed when we took her for her first appointment the next day, she’d clearly been dumped there.