Faraway cats, home cats

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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.  

One of the hens is limping. K thinks there is some kind of infection in her foot, the one she (the hen) can’t put down. When I asked W, who knows more about these things, he thought the hen had hurt her foot on the construction debris she had been exploring. He recommended soaking the injured foot in warm water with TCP. But the next time I saw the hen she was walking normally.

All day I thought with anticipation of the nightfall and the lunar conflagration it would bring. When the day’s work was done and tiredness set in, I took the Bouvier to the field but was disappointed to see that no moon had risen yet. No party, no late night, no moon. Never mind. The dog was entitled to is walk. He was off the lead, since in the night he is less likely to run amok. As I made towards the river he stayed behind near our bonfire spot. I reached the bank and waited, listening for the owl. No owl either. On tonight’s evidence, it seems that the owl remains silent if the moon is not out. The young Bouvier was not answering my calls and he had not joined me by the river, which was unlike him. I walked back to the spot where I had left him, and there he was, sitting in a cowering sort of way. He would take a step or two towards me, bend his body in a sideways arch and then sit again. The unpleasant smell was the telltale sign. So that is what was keeping him.

He had done his dogly duty in the field, but this time he had something of a loose stomach and he had either misjudged the angle or just been unlucky. The fact is that not all of it had fallen down, and there was a large mess sticking to the fluff of his rear. The Bouvier seemed mortified, and it was clear that he was unwilling or unable to walk anywhere in his present state. This had happened before, and I knew what to do. I went to the house, got a roll of kitchen tissue and came back to the field, where the Bouvier, as he hadn’t ever done before, had stayed put on the same spot. I laid the lit torch on the ground, stood in front of him and, holding the fluffy body between my legs, I bent forward towards his backside and wiped his bum.

It was hard to believe how much there was, as sheet after sheet of kitchen tissue came off soiled until there was a goodly pile of them on the ground. I realised this wasn’t going to solve the problem this time. After puzzling awhile over the humbled dog’s predicament, I coaxed him towards the house, left him sitting on the yard and went in to prepare a solution of warm water with washing up liquid. I probably don’t need to describe what ensued. Suffice it to say that, after repeated ablutions to which he submitted with surprising docility, the Bouvier began to wag his tail again. As I disposed of the rubber gloves, the water and the plastic container, I remembered the kitchen tissues in the field. I went to fetch them without a torch and found them easily, not only because I know my field and I remembered the exact spot, but also because, only then did I realise it, the moon was now shining in all its glory, and the field, apart from the temporary defilement of a few soiled sheets of paper, had once more become a silver temple. The unscheduled developments of the night meant that I was, after all, able to partake of tonight's lunar worship. If the owl screeched, I did not notice.