After Cleo (15 page)

I'd always assumed love at first sight was a human-to-human thing, and not something that could occur between a middle-aged woman and a Siamese kitten. But in those few seconds I'd become enraptured. At some sub-cellular level that kitten and I belonged together.

‘See? I told you he's cute,' Mary said. ‘Shall we get you home now?' she added, probably sensing the danger and trying to get me out of the place.

When I tried to turn away the kitten slid his paw between the wire, reached out to me, opened his mouth and emitted an adorable squeak. I'd always thought Siamese had loud, ugly voices. This little fellow had just proved me wrong. Despite the warning notice with its ridiculous apostrophe, I couldn't resist. I took the kitten's paw and rested it between my fingers and thumb.

The kitten gazed into my eyes and purred ecstatically. All resistance crumbled.

‘Look at that!' said Lydia. ‘He wants to come home with us.'

‘Didn't you read the sign?' came a disapproving voice, slicing through our romantic tableau.

‘I'm sorry,' I said, tearing my eyes away from the kitten to address a spotty young man in tortoiseshell glasses. My first reaction was to dislike this pet shop policeman. Yet behind the tortoiseshell glasses his expression was protective. Thin and shabbily dressed, the youth was almost certainly underpaid. He was probably trying to look after the animals as best he could.

‘The kitten reached out to me and I . . .'

The kitten withdrew his paw and continued scaling the cage wall.

‘If you knew how many people come in this shop every day,' the youth continued. ‘They all want to touch the animals and every one of them has germs on their hands. They pass on all sorts of diseases to the animals.'

I nodded reluctantly and put my hand in my pocket.

As the kitten reached the top of the cage wall I wondered what would happen next. Climbing down back feet first would've been the most sensible option, but the kitten had no interest in predictability. Like Tarzan, he swung himself sideways, gripping the wire ceiling with one set of claws after the other. In an instant he was hanging upside down from all fours and, after making sure his audience was still enthralled, let out a triumphant mew. He was more circus performer than feline.

‘Is this kitten available?' I asked, hardly able to believe the words bouncing off my lips. The kitten's upside-down gaze swivelled from me to the shop assistant, as if waiting for the answer.

‘Oh, that one,' he said with the slightest ripple on his lips. ‘He's had conjunctivitis so he was in isolation at the back of the shop for a few weeks. That's why he's so much older than the other kittens.'

‘Older? I'd thought he was just bigger,' I gabbled. ‘But of course bigger
means
older . . .'

‘Shouldn't we go home and think about it?' Mary asked. ‘You'll blame me if it turns out a disaster.'

Once a big sister, always a big sister. The kitten released its grip from the cage ceiling and dropped rapidly earthwards. Lydia, Mary and I drew a breath in unison as he sailed past us only to land safely on top of a ball of brown fluff curled up beside the feeding bowls.

‘He always does that,' said the shop assistant. ‘Uses that other kitten for a landing pad. Sleeps on her, too. I don't know how she puts up with it.'

Unhurt, the brown kitten seemed almost grateful to have provided a mattress for her hyperactive friend. The Siamese shook himself, and after a few quick licks to check his legs and spine were still in place, swaggered over to the wire again to continue his charm offensive.

Even in my infatuated condition, I could hear faint warning bells. This kitten had so much personality he was on the verge of egotistical. He had potential to be a handful, possibly even a little dysfunctional. That only made me love him more. Like every woman who's been a sucker for a charmer, I didn't care. They weren't warning bells, they were wedding bells! Whatever erratic behaviour he didn't grow out of, I'd cure. Hadn't I raised three children successfully, more or less? A four-legged animal would be a pushover.

‘Would you like to hold him?' the youth asked.

I nodded vigorously. It felt uncomfortable having my future happiness dependent on a spotty young man who was so offhand about my attachment to the kitten. He hadn't even answered my question properly about whether the little thing was available or not. He seemed quite fond of the creature. Maybe he was planning to keep the kitten for himself.

When I asked the young man what his name was, he seemed embarrassed, perplexed even. Nathan, he said, turning pink and examining the shelves of dog food. I was beginning to get his measure. Nathan was a shy person who, disappointed or intimidated by the human race, felt more comfortable with animals.

Nathan opened the cage door and lunged for the Siamese, who sprang nimbly out of his grasp into a pile of shredded newspaper. The kitten remained motionless inside his hiding place, confident he couldn't be seen. He was betrayed by a small dark tail protruding from the spaghetti of paper.

‘He thinks it's a game,' Nathan sighed, reaching into the papery nest and lifting the creature out by the scruff of his neck. I'd never believed people who said that was a humane way to handle kittens, but the little fellow didn't seem to mind.

Nathan lowered his prisoner into my hands. Gazing up at me, the kitten purred like a lawnmower. He was so silky and warm. For the first time in what seemed ages, something inside my chest softened. Liquid honey streamed through my arteries. My breathing suddenly came from a softer, deeper place. Weeks of worry and pain melted away.

‘Is he for sale?' I asked.

Nathan nodded, adding that a free vet's check-up and reduced price for neutering would be included. I knew there were all sorts of questions people are supposed to ask before buying a pet. They flew out of my head. Nathan confirmed the kitten was purebred Siamese.

‘Does he have papers?'

Nathan shot me a defensive look.

‘None of our animals have papers,' he said. ‘If we bothered with that sort of thing they'd be way too expensive.'

It made perfect sense. I had no intention of putting him in cat shows, or using him for breeding purposes.

Lydia asked if she could hold the kitten. Reluctantly, I passed him over. He rolled on his back and writhed playfully in her hands. Mary, Lydia and I chuckled together. After such an anxious time, the relief of laughter was immeasurable.

‘What will we call him?' Lydia asked.

‘You mean what
would
we call him?' I corrected in my old voice, the sane one that knew getting another kitten would be preposterous.

I'd learnt from our experience with goldfish, years earlier, that bestowing an animal with a name creates a bond that sets you up for heartbreak. After Finny, Swimmer and Jaws had been lowered tearfully into what was becoming a mass grave in our back garden, I'd insisted any new goldfish we acquired would be nameless. They'd simply have numbers. As it turned out, One, Two and Three survived for biblical years by goldfish standards, creating hundreds of descendants in their backyard pool.

As I contemplated buying the kitten, I thought of Philip. When he'd moved in with us all those years ago, we'd been a readymade family complete with Cleo. It's one thing to take on a cat as part of a bulk deal, and something quite different to have a kitten land uninvited in your life.

Gender was something the kitten had in its favour. After Rob left home, Philip often complained half-jokingly about being the only male in a household full of women. (‘Even the cat's female,' he used to grumble.) If we took this little clown home, Philip might form a man-to-kitten bromance.

I'd never been a fan of Rugby, but it was Philip's obsession. As the kitten dived from Lydia's arms on to the pet shop floor and sprinted furiously toward the wall of birdcages, I was reminded of the fluid athleticism of one of the most famous Rugby All Blacks of all time – Jonah Lomu.

‘Jonah,' I said, over the budgies' shrieks of alarm. ‘Let's call him Jonah.'

Disenchantment

Beware of charm in cats and men

A pair of sapphire eyes glinted through slits of the pet carrier as Lydia bore Jonah gently up the front path. Mary followed behind with the food and litter bags, and a leopard-skin cat bed. I was in charge of the kitten's entertainment centre – a bag containing balls, fake mice and a ‘fishing rod' stick with an imitation bird and a bell attached to the end of an elastic line. It seemed incredible that one small creature required so much equipment.

A royal retinue, we escorted the carrier and its inhabitant respectfully down the hallway to the family room. Lydia lowered the box gently to the floor. It emitted a squeak.

‘Shall we let him out?' Lydia asked.

‘Maybe just open the cage door and see how he feels,' I replied. ‘He might want to stay in there until he's used to us.'

As Lydia bent to slide the carrier's latch open, its door bulged then burst on to the floor in an explosion of paws and fur. Jonah bounced on to the carpet, looked around and shook himself.

With pale fur and huge dark ears overshadowing his arresting eyes, he was cuteness personified. The only things that set him apart from classical beauty were his stubby tail and his back feet, which were several sizes too large for him.

He was much bigger than Cleo had been when she'd entered our lives so soon after Sam's death in 1983. Cleo had arrived when our family was torn apart by tragedy. I wondered if Jonah might play a similarly vital role, taking our minds off cancer and focusing us on the future.

After giving us a brief inspection, Jonah dived straight under the cane chair and peered out at us through the bamboo bars.

‘Oh the poor thing's terrified,' said Mary. ‘Let him stay there till he's more comfortable. I'll put the kettle on.'

I'd never imagined we'd end up with another cat, let alone a Siamese. It's such a presumptuous breed with so many overblown stories in its background. According to legend, only the King of Siam (modern-day Thailand) and members of the royal family were permitted to own a Siamese cat. Whenever a high-ranking person died, one of these felines was chosen to receive the dead person's soul. The cat would then be taken to live in a temple where monks and priests fed it the finest food off solid gold plates. The dead person's relatives provided cushions made of exquisite silks for the creature to lounge around on. Apart from eating, lounging and looking beautiful, the only other responsibility the cat had was to attend ceremonies. I hoped Jonah wasn't expecting that kind of life with us.

We tried to ignore him nestling under the chair, but it was like ignoring a peacock in a hen house. As Mary walked past with her mug of tea a paw shot out and batted her ankle.

‘He wants to play,' she said. ‘Where's that fishing line?'

The plastic bag rustled as she reached into it and removed the rod with impudent bird attached. As she trailed the bird in front of the cane chair, a paw sprang out and batted it . . . once, twice. The bell jingled a protest every time the bird was hit.

Lydia lifted the two front chair legs off the floor. Mary trailed the fishing rod bird into the centre of the room – and boom! Jonah surged out from under the chair and sprang on the hapless bird, grabbing it between his teeth and kicking it with his oversized back feet.

I'd been nervous of laughing since the operation. So many everyday activities – sometimes even just the challenge of sitting in an upright chair – caused jabs of pain so sharp they could take my breath away. But watching a kitten hammering the life out of a toy bird made me chortle so much I spilt my tea. It was a relief to know I could laugh again with no physical pain. In fact, it seemed to haul me back from fear and illness into a vibrant world in which life was continually renewed. Laughing at the kitten freed me up to laugh about everything else that'd been happening lately. It shook off the stale hospital air and brought me back to life.

Jonah sat back on his haunches and looked up at us appraisingly.

‘Do you think Cleo would approve?' Lydia asked.

With his lanky limbs and masculine swagger, Jonah was the opposite of Cleo in almost every way. He was twice her size at the same age. His fur was pale as the moon, while Cleo had been black all over. While his coat was soft, his fur was coarser than Cleo's. He was a thoroughbred from a pet shop. Cleo had been an unashamed half-breed from a friend with an excess of kittens. There was no way Cleo could mistake Jonah for a replacement cat.

‘How could she not?' I smiled. ‘Do you know what Cleo would want just now? A saucer of milk.'

Lydia hurried to the kitchen, emerging seconds later and placing a bowl of milk in front of the kitten. Intrigued, he sniffed it, then dipped a front paw in the liquid, forming a succession of pale circles on the surface. Jonah raised the damp paw to his nose, sniffed again and shook his head in disgust. With a swoop of his long back leg, he toppled the bowl over, sending milk gushing over the rug.

Mary stood up to get a cloth from the kitchen. Lydia moved to rescue Jonah from the flood, but before she could get near him he galloped across the floor and shimmied straight up the curtains.

‘Here, kitty!' I called.

Jonah hesitated for a moment, as if considering the invitation. But he narrowed his eyes and took flight like a trapeze artist, launching himself through the air to land on top of the kitchen dresser.

Knocked together by an amateur craftsman in the depths of the New Zealand bush in the mid 1800s, the kauri dresser had since become a live-in restaurant for generations of borer. Every time I opened a drawer, piles of sawdust were a reminder the dresser was another day closer to total collapse. I'd tried to get it renovated once by a ‘restorer' who'd left a flier in the letterbox. He'd returned the dresser reeking of cigarette smoke and booze, and in even wonkier condition than it'd been to begin with. Photo albums went in the lower cupboards to keep it stable. Our best wine glasses went in the upper cabinet because they didn't weigh much and would therefore be less likely to cause structural failure.