Paintings "Made Better with Cats"

Love it. Love it. Love it.  Full story (and pictures) here on the BBC website.  Could never resist a ginger cat.

Neighbourhood

 I love this time of year.

I live in a typical 1980s housing development.   A cul de sac of houses, varying sizes, on the outskirts of  town.  One of the pluses is that we are a short distance away from open country and the river, and thus my morning rehab walks generally take me in this direction. A bit further each day.  On other days my head rules my heart and I take the busy, far less pleasant route that leads into town because I'm aiming to reach the nearest letterbox, which will mean independence, i.e. no need to ask someone else to post my mail.

But this morning it was the river walk and a kind of celebration.  I walked far enough to catch sight of the river itself - haven't glimpsed it from this spot for nearly five years.   You have to look closely but it is definitely there, just behind the froth of cow parsley.

Even the walk home can claim its own delights.  One of the houses has what you would call a cottage garden.  Cornflowers, irises, pansies, foxgloves. Shrubs. Bushes. A copper beech.  All gorgeously unkempt and unmanicured, unlike the adjoining plots (mine included).  I'd like to stop and just stare but I don't - the owners might think I'm planning a robbery or somesuch.

And as a bonus the friendliest of cats lives here.  She walks towards me and rolls over in pleasure. Later she allows me to stroke her.  I feel duly honoured.  My sort of garden. My sort of cat. 

 

Beast

Two - 2, a photo by elefthis1 on Flickr.

Don't need much excuse for a photo of the late, lamented cat. He wasn't posed for this shot, honestly. I just came into the room and there he was sitting calmly alongside his miniature double. I grabbed the camera.

This is my entry for this week's Photo Friday challenge "Beasts".

****

Today it feels the world has stopped on its axis. No drama or crisis in this little corner of the planet, just a grey, damp and very still January day with no percepible movement in the immediate surroundings. There is a low-key, understated beauty around if you look and listen for it: the first snowdrops; the silence; the complex silhouettes of the trees with clumps of misletoe dotted at various points through the branches - the latter a sure sign of the cleanliness of the air, or so I'm told.

****

I've started chanting again.  Thirty years or so ago I was given a mantra, and it suits me.  I've always loved voicework and singing and the morning and afternoon ritual of sitting down and sending out the sounds has become a necessary part of my day now.  All sorts of benefits are supposed to derive from it and I'm not dismissive of the claims.

****

The sorting through and chucking out of stuff continues with DVDs currently in the frame. I'm watching each one again before reaching a decision. Today it's Raising Arizona (charity shop). Yesterday was Hideous Kinky (also charity shop). A few days ago, The Chorus (a definite keeper).

It's all preparation for the new life chapter. In actual fact I'm dubious about this concept of new chapters: barring the major stuff of life - sudden accidents or illness, bereavement, house moves and so on - minutes, hours and days merge and flow into each other without definite endings and beginnings.   I mean when I'm able to be out and about more, to be a social animal again who has much less time to watch DVDs.

Anniversary

 It was the speed and suddenness of the whole thing.

One year ago today, a Friday just before midday, he was sleeping.  He suddenly awoke and went straight into his first ever full-blown seizure, flailing on the floor, rigid, pupils black and unseeing, his body jerked this way and that by an invisible force.  It probably only lasted a minute or two but seemed to go on for hours.  He came to eventually in his own urine, disoriented and dazed.  It took him time to be able to stand.

I knew there and then what I had to do.  He was eighteen years old with a history of failing kidneys and the resulting toxins had built up in his brain. The prognosis was that there would be more seizures and a general deterioration. I phoned the vet and asked for a home visit.

The car pulled up at around 2.30pm. A knock on the door. The veterinary nurse was with him.

They did it so well.  They both sat on the rug in the centre of the lounge  and arranged a few towels around them.  The cat, ever curious, wandered over unsteadily to investigate.  The nurse stroked him, talked softly and tickled him under his chin.  He rolled over onto his side on one of the towels in ecstasy, eyes closed, purring.  The vet prepared the hypodermic and very gently inserted it into his belly.  No need to restrain him in any way. He didn't notice the needle going in, his chin was still being tickled, his paws were kneading the nurse's uniform.   Then, peacefully, he drifted into sleep, still purring.  After two or three minutes the vet checked his heart with the stethescope. 

A perfect end.  And that was it.   I thanked them both as well as I could.  Mainly just by repeating thank you, thank you.

If a cat could ever be said to have good manners, he did.  Affectionate, quirky, self-contained, never pushy, a friend for all of the fifteen years we lived alongside one another.  And, as a bonus, he was very beautiful. 

I have his ashes still, which I will scatter in the river when I am able to walk there. Occasionally as I go around the house I talk out loud to him.  It's a happy thing to do, he's part of the fabric of this place and of my life and his presence still lingers.

Night garden

10pm. Plaintive and persistent miaowing. Projected onto the neighbour's fence by the dull orange glare of the streetlamp, the silhouette of a cat, spookily distorted. Too dark to see the actual animal.

Notes

The grassy square opposite the house is strewn with fallen leaves, innumerable shades of yellow and ochre. In the late afternoon sun a little boy - fair hair, bright red jumper - pushes an equally bright red bicycle through the leaves. The bike is a bit too heavy for him to control and he swerves from side to side as he makes his way home, his small body consumed with effort and concentration.

****

Guarded forays into the outside world - no more than one a day followed by rest - but so much time is spent on my own. Reading. Watching TV. Surfing the internet. (TV has tended to take over when pain levels are up; at such times escapism and distraction rule). These days the recovery consists of small spurts of progress followed by consolidation. Energy levels are still horribly low so graded but regular exercise (important not to miss a day), a good diet and fresh air, along with fortnightly cranial osteopathy sessions, are what is needed. I can't speak too highly of cranial osteopathy and of my practitioner. It has saved me.

So hard to focus, to formulate ideas, to string thoughts together. If my ego were writing the script I would have used the past two years to produce a first novel or learn another language or read the complete Russian classics. What a joke. Such achievements as there have been seem pretty paltry from the outside but that's not what this period has been about, not at all. It's been about survival, being stripped back to the core.

****

The cat's blood test results are in. The problem doesn't seem to be kidneys as I had feared. Instead one of his liver readings is higher than normal, plus he has lost a small but noticeable amount of weight over the last three months. These symptoms could point to something ominous or they could simply be a consequence of his age. Vet's advice: bring him in for regular weigh-ins every three weeks or so. If he continues to lose weight then another blood test to clarify exactly what is going on.

Meanwhile he's happy. Eating, sleeping, purring. To be honest my instinct is to leave him in peace.

October

A heavy, warm rain. The horse chestnuts have turned a gold-brown though the silver birch, apart from the odd yellow leaf, remains stalwartly green, resisting the steady march towards winter. In the next few days I'll phone the gardener to arrange for the final tidying up session of the season. Lavender to cut back, ditto lemon balm. Lawn to mow. The dying laurel bush to be despatched.

****

A nervous week. The cat - already on a special renal diet - started drinking more water than usual. A while ago I was warned by the vet that this could be a sign that the feline Grim Reaper is sharpening his scythe. In the last 24 hours the drinking has diminished but to be on the safe side we are taking him in for blood tests. A friend has been roped in for assistance - at 5+ kilos he is far too heavy for me to carry at the moment.

We've had these scares before but I'm aware of the fleetingness of life, even for one seemingly so resilient. When the time does come - be it next week, next month or next year - it will be very hard without him.

On the fence

Seventeen years old and for me each day counts. This was taken two or three years ago and the back legs are creakier now, so he stays earth-bound for the most part. But he still purrs loud and long and the sweetness of nature is unchanged.

Snow

You'll have to indulge me with this post, readers in North America and, indeed, other parts of England. And Wales, and Scotland. Our snowfall has been minimal in comparison to yours, probably, but nonetheless in these parts it's a rare event. I'm not working till Thursday so can enjoy it all as I prowl around the garden with a camera.

A touch of cabin fever mid-evening yesterday. Home alone after an exceptionally social and stimulating and surprising weekend. Restless. The urge to pull on boots and go out into the fields, into the snowy darkness, to explore. Sloth overcame courage and I surfed the net instead.

*****

The male blackbird is getting braver in approaching the patio, the one spot in the garden that is free from snow and where I can scatter crumbs. He flies off with staccato cries of alarm when the the cat approaches the French window - just a few feet separate them through the double glazing. Suddenly my elderly cat is transformed from the peaceable beast that I know. He crouches, every muscle on alert. Teeth chattering. Pupils dilated.

My companion. Still a hunter after all these years. His instincts remain as sharp as ever. Does the same apply to his owner who is also, in her own way, ageing?

Survival

Running down. Tired. Days till I leave work. Days till Christmas. The cat's special diet for failing kidneys is out of stock till the New Year. The vet and I are working out what to feed him till then. It's OK. We'll manage.

This winter is desperate. No snow but a insistent , threatening cold that we rarely experienced in the city. Heavy frost. Ice that doesn't melt. A sense that darkness and death are not too far away. If the gas and electricity as well as the cat food supplies failed, for example. I live in a modern-ish house with no fireplace. Build a fire in the garden with newspaper and branches foraged from nearby fields and woods. Dismantle the washing machine. No use for it without electricity. We walk a narrow line in the developed world.

The inner drums make excellent braziers. I know someone who has several.

Halloween

The most recent attempt to finish a Harry Potter novel. Failure once again in spite of the cat’s unexpected attempt to up the fear factor (moral: always have a camera to hand). I realise I am in a minority.

****

One stormy night this week a friend and I cycled home in the dark along the river path. A section unlit, overgrown and so narrow that we pedalled silently in single file, headlights bobbing in the dark like a pair of foolhardy fireflies. Rain beat in our faces and the cold cut to the bone but exertion and waterproofs minimised the discomfort.

Elemental. The river to our left, a dim, eerie grey-green, its surface ruffled and harried by the force of the wind. Bare willow branches tossed this way and yon, in terror or ecstasy. Wet face and hair and a pulse of wild exhilaration.

****

Halloween

Imminence. Deep darkness
wraps itself around us:
hidden lanterns glow.

Of Cats and Men

From the Hebrides, c. 1930, Iain the herd boy with his cat, Eachunn.

A friend in Scotland sent me this postcard last week. For framing, definitely. If he is still alive, Iain would be very old now.

It reminded me of a June evening in Italy ten years ago ...



... when the man behind the counter of a small hardware shop - I was trying to buy batteries - allowed me to take a snap of him and his cat. He nodded when I asked if I could photograph the animal, scooped up the sleeping feline from his place on the counter and led us outside.

Not a good shot, technically speaking (what is that thing that seems to be coming out of the young man’s ears?). The day was fading fast and the cat was struggling to get down. I think the obliging shopkeeper was happy though and I certainly was.

Something about this combination of men (or boys) and cats undoes me. The two cats appear to be startled and pissed-off respectively, but look at the expressions on the faces of the humans .....

Bulletin

Subject: 1 pale ginger cat. Neutered male.

Age: C. 14 years.

Health: The heart is strong. The remaining teeth aren't wonderful but in view of the risks of giving a cat with kidney problems a general anaesthetic, the vet's advice is to leave things as they are.

Behaviour in the surgery: Impeccable.

Location: In his favourite spot where he has appointed himself guardian of the newly acquired, ahem, Money Plant. As usual he ignores the neighbours.

Weather outlook: Sunny.

Household gods

The ritual:

5.30am. Our neighbours are still asleep. We climb the stairs together, but as we near the landing he scampers ahead. He has eaten. I have my mug of hot black coffee. The study faces east and on June mornings like this it is flooded with sunlight.Still in my dressing gown I switch on the laptop and scan emails, blogs. He stretches out in his usual position on the window ledge, next to the brass figure of the Lord Shiva as Nataraja, the dancer.

Four-armed Shiva dances the world into enlightenment. The cat, felis catus, relaxes in the sun. He is, lest I forget, a creature of the goddess Bast, patron of the sun, women and secrets. He watches me intently. Now and again I return the favour, entranced as always by the way he folds his front paws inwards. Neat and tidy.

A few hundred yards away an early train clatters past. After a while I close the computer and head for the shower.

The cat stays where he is.

****

Summer solstice. In the abundance of such clear, generous light, everything seems possible, all barriers surmountable. Of course life isn't like that. Darkness has its own time. Dreams are shattered fairly regularly. Physical and emotional blockages imprison as deep as any dungeon.

Persistent delusion then? I don't think so. For good or ill, this is what light does.

Ageing

His coat is the sandy brown of a lion's pelt and the sculpted profile resembles those of the cats in Ancient Egyptian paintings. He's beautiful, but of course I'm prejudiced.

He's getting old. Over the past eighteen months he's turned into a lap cat, rarely venturing outside even in good weather. He sleeps more and more, though he's perky enough when awake. The vet guesstimates he's around fourteen, but since he's a rescue cat we don't really know. Could be more, could be less, but it's clear that the days of playing the wild rover are gone for good.

I could never get him to stay on my lap when he was younger. Twenty seconds maybe if I held him down with both hands, then a struggle, a wriggle, and he was gone. If he was feeling particularly benevolent he would place himself next to me on the sofa, his flank against my thigh. Thus far but no further. I felt honoured, in the way we humans can by the occasional attention of a normally aloof cat.

Since we left London it's all changed. Whether I'm sitting on the sofa or lying in bed he jumps up. It's become difficult to read, impossible to knit - his furry bulk imposes itself between me and the object of my attention. He stakes his claim to my lap, kneads, turns round in a circle and settles. I feel the movement and warmth of his small body and the soft beating of his heart. As I scratch beneath his chin the purring redoubles. Quite quickly he falls asleep. What is seeking, I wonder. Body warmth? Comfort? Life force? Certainly his health is failing. There are chronic kidney problems and in addition he's losing weight and nobody knows why. He's also lost most of his teeth. Between the special diet and the vet's bills his care is expensive for someone on a limited budget, but I pay up more than willingly.

You see, he's a companion in the literal sense of the word. Since he arrived at my door over ten years ago I've had more meals in his company than in the presence of any one human. He's been there through the arrival and subsequent departure of two lovers, the death of both parents, through excitement, contentment, grief, anxiety, boredom. Through a mugging. Through a house move. Through the flu. He sleeps on the bed through my morning quiet time. He makes me laugh.

Ach. There'll be time enough for knitting later on, and in the meantime I go to a coffee shop or the library whenever I want to read in peace. He can have my lap, my body's warmth, whenever he needs them.