Douglas

Tributes should be paid while people are alive - or cats - and when the tribute can be read by the subject - even if cats can’t read. So here is my tribute to our most long-serving cat, Douglas. 

In the prehistory of K and I, sometime in 2004 or 2005, when she was only a colleague I admired from a distance, I had a dream. In the dream I went to K’s house, somewhere in the country, and a mutual colleague came to the door in a gatekeeper’s capacity. I reassured her that I was only coming to help looking for “Xx” - the two-syllable name of a dog. It was clear from the context that K had lost her dog and was upset about it. I was, so to speak, coming to the rescue. Memory has not kept the outcome of my mission, if any. But the dream was vivid enough to leave a strong impression. When I woke up, I could not help writing to the colleague with the history of my dream. She found it hilarious. I also wrote to K asking if she had a dog or dogs, or was fond of them. Her reply, for all I remember, may have consisted of a single word: “Cats.” 

Later, but not long after, when K and I were a reality, I came to discover that she did, in fact, live in the country, and that she had recently lost her beloved pet - not a dog, but a cat, Percy. As things progressed, the time came when she felt ready to replace Percy. 

We went to the then cat-and-dog shelter on Newcastle’s Claremont Road. We saw dogs of all shapes and sizes, most of them visibly desperate for human attention, dying to be taken home. Some of the dog’s tails wagged so madly that the wall-side of their cages was marked by red tail-shaped marks. The barking was a crazy polyphony of anguish and rage, a veritable chorus of canine lunacy. We were shaken by this bedlam scene. 

Not far from the dogs were the cats. The diversity was also considerable: fat cats, thin cats, some large, some small, some cute, some fierce. And we came to a cage inhabited by a family of parentless black kittens - three or four of them. The expression on their little faces was one of the most heart-rending visions ever: they were beyond scared. We were looking at the distorted faces of victims of the most unspeakable horror. Their eyes told a tale of dangers too cruel for such young lives. These kittens were the survivors of an unimaginable war, very likely involving human inhumanity. I was reminded of the Romanian orphanages that had been receiving much press attention at the time. We immediately set our hearts on these black kittens. They had been rescued in Benwell, we were told. They were a very recent arrival, and if we wanted one of them we would have to come back in two weeks. Agreed.

Back in the car, K began sobbing uncontrollably. What we had witnessed touched too many of her innermost strings. Although she was unquestionably a cat person, she grieved for the dogs as much as for the cats, all innocent victims of abandonment or neglect or abuse, all living witnesses of the evil side of human nature. 

When the weekend came, although I was not the cat person, it was I that sneaked back to Claremont Road without telling K. I had spent days haunted by those horror-stricken little faces and I needed to see what effect, if any, the safety of the shelter had had on the newly arrived black kittens. Much to my relief, I found them playing, their faces composed into more serene expressions. 

When we returned two weeks later, we found a much more settled set of siblings. K knew she wanted a male cat. As we became acquainted with them one by one, the carer was checking their gender. One of the kittens climbed up K’s arm and lodged itself in the hollow of her neck. “I want this one”, she said. The carer observed that she was yet to check if that one was a male. “I don’t care” was K’s reply - “I want this one”. We paid our due and we took the kitten who had chosen K. He was a male, and K named him Douglas, as in Black Douglas. 

All the kitten pictures of Douglas are in the hard drive of a laptop computer that was terminally damaged in an incident involving Tiger, the companion we were to find for Douglas. That was before the days of cloud storage, so I have not been able to retrieve the images. I hope the carcass is still somewhere in Redesdale, waiting for the advent of the super-smart technology that will bring it back to life.  

Douglas was a kitten of a nervous disposition. He darted across rooms, hid behind plants, jumped up and down unpredictable places. He seemed to be reenacting the dangers he had been exposed to back in Benwell, perhaps exorcising them from the safe distance of a warmth and quiet stone house in Coquetdale. 

One of the peculiarities of Douglas the kitten was his predilection for being right between K and me. He was happiest there, settling peacefully and purring as loudly as his little lungs would allow. The day we went down south to collect Tiger, he gave us an excited welcome back. Before he realised the precious baggage we had brought back, he ran from K to me and back to K in a clear effort to reassure himself that the family was still together. 

When we unveiled Tiger to him, he became petrified. He had not seen another cat for some time, and without a doubt he had never seen as beautiful a cat as Tiger. He was thunderstruck. And then he became obsessed. He was determined to make friends with Tiger, but Tiger would have none of it. Rejection caused Douglas visible bemusement. It was a saddening sight to see his efforts to play, to be kind, to offer affection - all spurned by a conceited belle. The story we were witnessing had touches of the beauty and the beast, compounded by the social chasm between the spoiled southern princess and the rough Benwell boy. 

The relationship between Douglas and Tiger never quite flourished. Douglas chased and tried to be affectionate, but Tiger ran away, or hid, or hissed or, if cornered, cuffed. That and what, for want of a better term, could be referred to as his mental health issues, amounted to a less than ideal first year for Douglas. Our black cat was a bit neurotic, and distinctly luckless in love. 

The move to Redesdale marked a new beginning. No sooner was he released into the fields than he became a hunter and an explorer. He feasted on the organic fresh products now at his disposal; he ran across fields; he climbed up trees; he had plenty of distractions from his spurned love; he came back home tired and he slept soundly. We had thought Douglas had grown to his full size in his first year back at Coquetdale, but soon we noticed a fresh spurt of growth. He became taller, longer and rounder. To say that he also became more beautiful might perhaps not stand up to cold scrutiny, but whatever he may have lost in sveltesse he gained in strength and confidence. Besides, we were not scrutinising our cat coldly: we were delighted to see him happier, more expansive, more settled, more comfortable under his fur. For it was about this time that he developed one of his most precious assets: his lush, shiny, thick coat. After a day or a night out in the fields he would come back smelling of turf smoke, and what a treat it was - it is - to sink one’s fingers into that thickness. Or one’s nose, for that matter, for maximum enjoyment of the catborne fragrance of the fields. 

That Douglas became a happier cat on moving to Redesdale is undeniable. And yet, in absolute terms one could be forgiven for describing him as lugubrious. His voice, for one, never lost its doleful tone. His miaow has a long, plangent sound that is difficult to dissociate from the omen of a sibyl, a portent of impending doom. You have to know Douglas to understand that, behind the aural appearance of a ghostly shriek, his wail is a greeting, or a call, or a request for food, as the case might be. But one can be sure that Douglas won’t waste his breath on idle conversation. His utterances are considered, purposeful and single.

Douglas’s overall demeanour is another factor of gravitas. He has never been known to show a cheerful disposition. Even when he is playing or purring with pleasure at being stroked, his face keeps the same serious, slightly solemn expression. His movements are on the slow side, ponderous even, devoid of the unseemly haste of lesser cats, except when he has pressing business to do, such as catching prey or answering K’s call. Whether looking into the house from  outside the French window waiting to be let in, or sitting statuesquely in front of the house like a grave sentinel, or even walking up to his dear ones, the deliberation of his steps and the look on his face give the invariable impression of the utmost concern.    

Less adventurous than Tiger was, Douglas does, nonetheless, also come out to the field. You may be walking the dog and be surprised by Douglas’s lugubrious call, followed by the slow progress of that portly figure towards you. He would then rub his side against your leg, inviting a reciprocal sign of affection. Occasionally he might hark back to the neurotic days of his youth and, when you bend down to stroke him back, he might run away as if you were a dangerous attacker. There is no telling what goes through Douglas’s mind at such times. It might even be one of his ways of being playful. 

For yes, despite everything, Douglas can be playful. At least, he can make us laugh, even if there is no guarantee that that is his intention. His dignified gravity seems to vanish when he lies down in any of a range of postures - some prone, some supine - he is fond of experimenting with. He is at his most amusing when he lies on his back, displaying the only part of his coat that is not black, namely his pubic region. Sometimes he luxuriates in a relaxed belly-up sunbathing attitude. Other times he stretches to his full length, forelegs in a hands-up extension and hindlegs equally straight, parallel to his tail. He must enjoy this yoga stretch, judging by the length of time he can stay like that. And he must know the entertainment value he provides on such occasions, since no-one who finds him in this kind of recumbency can resist calling another family member to enjoy sharing the view. 

Another facet of this fascinating cat’s personality is his generosity. Neutered as soon as it was recommendable, he is, of course, childless. But, when kittens arrived, Douglas took it upon himself to groom them, spending inordinate lengths of time on securing the cleanliness of the young. He did this even at times when he was weakened by poor health.

Douglas is no less caring with humans, particularly with K, with whom he has a very special bond. He has an uncanny knack for sensing when she is unwell or in need of moral support, and he rarely fails to provide it. His deep, rattly purr; his lavish, silky fur; his thoughtful, grownup presence - these are the ingredients of a fairly infallible formula for consolation.  

As the household’s makeup consolidated itself, Douglas’s parent-like selflessness to other cats, his ability to get on with them and with a dog four times his size, his best-friend’s dependability towards K and his dignified personality positioned him in a preeminent place: he became the patriarch of the house.    

Perhaps one should not sanctify Douglas. He is no saint. He can be demanding too, jumping on one’s lap when one has other things to do, making it plain that he wants attention. Is it paranoia, or does he single me out for this kind of demand? The frequency with which he sits on the very page of the newspaper I am trying to read, or puts himself between the floor and my chest when I am trying to do press-ups, seems more than coincidental. With shame, I admit to groaning with dismay or uttering profanities at some of these times. Were I to go beyond this and remove him physically from where he wants to be, his discomfiture would be visible in the asymmetrical angle of his ears and that gait we have come to recognise as Douglas’s annoyed walk. 

Another spot on Douglas’s perfection is his scant respect for other family members’ food. He is no stranger to helping himself to the contents of the dog bowl, to key ingredients one is about to cook with, to dairies inadvertently left out of the fridge, or even to sweets, cakes, biscuits or chocolate - especially chocolate. Yes, our Douglas does have a sweet tooth. There was a time when, as a negotiated theft-prevention strategy, I got into the habit of letting Douglas lick any yogurt remaining in my breakfast bowl. Let’s admit it, this was not purely for his sake; it was also an enjoyable form of bonding, and not unhelpful when it came to washing up. It also reduced wastage to let him empty the pot of yogurt before throwing it away.      

One evening, Douglas was seen sitting outside in an awkward bending posture. I noticed it, but thought nothing of it; he is, after all, an eccentric cat. K had noticed it too. Soon it became apparent that Douglas was retaining liquid. He was visibly uncomfortable, we were worried and we were not enjoying the smell. I won’t forget K’s phone call to me after the vet’s appointment. She was in despair. Douglas’s condition was serious and he was being kept in the clinic. The vet’s forecast was not optimistic. For the first time, a thought that had been an unspoken, unthinkable improbability - a world without Douglas - became a possibility, a likelihood even. To say that this was difficult to face would be an understatement. When I saw K that evening she was calmer, but there was no disguising her anguish and the sense of impending doom. There were things to discuss and decisions to be taken. We even made reasonably detailed mental arrangements - verbal, rather - for Douglas’s funeral. Let’s not go into that. 

A couple of days later, I believe, Douglas was dismissed from the clinic. He had made friends there and the staff spoke very fondly of him. We were sent home with a special kind of food for him, with instructions to be strict about his diet and with the tacit advise not to put our hopes up. We were religious about Douglas’s diet, and this was no mean feat given that there were another four cats in the house, none of them entitled to the premium specialist fare. We watched his movements; we gave him affection and care - an unusual inversion of roles for this most caring of cats. Slowly, but steadily, Douglas recovered, and within a few weeks he seemed to be behaving normally. The worst fears proved unfounded. Douglas’s old self - solemn, attentive, greedy, adventurous - was back. The relief of it took a while to sink in, although the fear was quick to return whenever Douglas failed to come home. But every time, even if it took him a day or two or sometimes more, he returned. He is here, the patriarch of the household, the one with the moral authority to command respect, with the generosity to lavish care, and still some sense of humour in him to amuse the family - and K’s Twitter followers. 

Another lease of life, another chapter in the deservedly long, mysterious story of this unique individual. That he should be still here, seemingly to stay, is one of the things that are well with the world. Few times has life seemed such a miracle of resilience and goodness as this time, this life, this twelve-year-old miracle - and counting.