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In
my remote location – a temporary one, I hasten to add – I find
myself, as I did during my recent stint in Fenham, in frequent interaction with
the local feline population. In this town cats lurk in unexpected places, and
it is almost always they who are sitting there in the place I come to, looking
bored or vexed, as if the wait had been long and as if it had been my fault for
taking so long.
Last
night there were three sitting atop a wall and one down on the pavement. As I
approached the spot, one jumped down from the wall. Naturally I could do no
less than bend down and stroke him. Before I knew, all four were around me. The
only touchy-feely one was the one I was stroking, a tabby who purred and walked
around my leg like a self-appointed spokescat for the rest. The others hovered,
not looking at me but making it clear that this was our meeting.
Eventually
I had to move on. But the cats would have none of it. The spokescat got between
my legs with such persistence that once he got himself kicked by one of my
walking steps. All four were coming with me, some in front, some alongside.
This was flattering, but also worrying, all the more so as I approached an
avenue with heavy traffic. How was I going to stop them crossing with me?
Fortunately
I had been flattering myself. They were only keeping me company as far as their
own place. The last building before the corner was some kind of workshop or
disused car park. It had a metal gate, quite solid, but with a gap underneath,
high enough for cats to pass. One by one my four companions went under the gate
and out of sight. Quite a relief.
This
calls to mind another memorable interaction I experienced with a cohort of four
cats. It was on the eve of the trip to Romania for my honorary doctorate, in
May 2018. For one reason or another, one night I found
myself in the unusual situation of being alone for the night in the riverside enclave.
The
four surviving cats – Tiger had passed away five months earlier – were no
fools. they knew something was afoot. I was not aware of any of them seeing me
pack a suitcase, but somehow they had caught wind of what was happening. They
had more water and more prey to hunt than they could wish for, and the hunting
skills of seasoned predators. But that didn’t mean they liked the prospect of
being left without human company.
When,
late at night, the time came for the Bouvier’s last walk – I was due to drop
him at kennels in the morning, on my way to the airport – an eerie sight
greeted me outside: the moon was out and the four cats were assembled, sitting
in quite solemn postures, all looking at me intently. They cut four totemic
figures, casting long shadows on the grass. I don’t remember them being
particularly upset – they did know how to express concern when they wanted to.
They seemed, how can I put it, serenely reproachful. Disappointed, even. And,
not meaning to shed retrospective light from later events, I think the cats
were showing me an awareness of the fragility of life. We were the closest of
friends, yet there we were, about to say goodbye for an unspecified time. Cats
have no watch and no calendar, and a detailed explanation from me as to everybody's
imminent return would have meant little to them. For them, regardless of any
wordy explanations, an unwonted absence was a threat; something that should not
be happening.
