Хелен Браун: Cleo

“Was it a scary cat?” I asked.

“No. It was wise, like a teacher. And it talked to me.”

“Oh no!” I smiled. “Not again! What did it say?”

“It told me I’d been protected for many years by a cat, that the cat had guided me to the right people. It said our world would continue to be racked with sadness and pain until we learn the most important lesson. To become everything we’re capable of we must replace fear and greed with love—for ourselves, each other and the planet we live on.

“The white cat went on to say my cat guide had helped me find love on many levels. There was only one form of love left for it to teach me, and I was already further along that path than I realized. Once I’d discovered that love, the cat guardian’s role on earth would be complete.”

A shooting star scurried across the sky. I was lost for words.

“Funny thing is,” Rob continued. “It was such an outlandish dream I told the boys about it the next morning. I described the shape of the lagoon and the surrounding hills. They laughed when I told them about the talking cat, of course. But then, a few hours later we visited a place that exactly matched the dream landscape I’d described. The lagoon, the hills. They were all there. If I hadn’t told the boys about it in such detail earlier they’d never have believed me. An Aboriginal man introduced himself and told us about the area. He said it was a sacred healing ground. He pointed out seven tall mounds around the edge of the lagoon. For as long as anyone could remember, he said, the local people had called them cats.”

From her vantage point on Rob’s shoulder, Cleo surveyed every human face in the shadows of the barbecue flames and winked.

Forgiveness

To forgive is in a cat’s nature—eventually.

One of the downsides of changing countries was that we no longer had access to reliable friends who thought nothing of looking after Cleo for us when we went away on holiday.

Even though we were getting to know our new neighbors, it seemed too soon to impose cat-minding duties on them. We’d never put Cleo in a cattery before. I was worried how a freedom lover like her would adapt to living in the feline equivalent of Guantanamo Bay for a week. She’d proved herself tough and versatile, though. I assumed she’d cope.

Assumption is a dangerous thing. A couple of days after we’d collected her from the cattery, her eyes streamed with gluey fluid. She went off her food and developed a cough. For the first time in her life Cleo was terribly ill.

Our neighborhood vet was plump and red-faced with a plume of silver hair. He prodded her with fingers the size of salamis.

“How old is she?” he asked, examining our precious cat as if she was something he’d scraped off his shoe.

“Sixteen.”

He looked at me in disbelief.

“Are you sure ?”

“I know exactly how old she is. She was given to us just after our older son died.”

“Well, if you’re certain she’s that old…” He sighed. “I wouldn’t hold out much hope for her. She should have died six years ago, according to the average life expectancy for a cat.”

He was a tough vet. I hated his cold words. Some time in the distant past he must’ve had enough compassion for animals to envisage himself spending a lifetime working with them. But whatever sympathy he possessed had either dried up or, for some reason, wasn’t directed at us. Maybe he shared Rosie’s opinion of my cat-mothering skills. Perhaps his wife had left him for the orthodontist around the corner. I wouldn’t have blamed her.

“I can’t promise anything, but we could try her on a course of antibiotics, if you like.”

If you like ? Did the man imagine we were ready to give up on her?

“Yes, please. She’s part of our family.”

He seemed oblivious to the fact that Cleo had been guardian of our household for so long, she wasn’t going anywhere as far as we were concerned.

“In that case, when you go home I’d prepare them for the worst.”

The girls gulped back tears when I repeated what the vet had said. They both had memories of Cleo peering over the edge of their cradles. Cleo was practically a surrogate mother to them.

“It’s just nature,” I said, sounding more like Mum than I intended. “We were lucky to have her this long.”

To our delight, Cleo’s eyes cleared and her snuffle evaporated a couple of days later. In less than a week she was back to her omnivorous diet. No housefly, rubber band or sock was safe. Her coat regained its sheen. She danced across the kitchen table, climbed the curtains. Cleo was her old perky self. The vet may have considered her the walking dead, but as far as Cleo was concerned, she was still in her prime.

But she’d given us a warning. Even though she was doing a good job hiding it, old age was creaking its way into her joints. She slept more than she used to and seemed to feel the cold more readily.

In fact, she adapted to old age with aplomb worthy of a duchess. The meow that used to be so pretty and accommodating became an authoritative yowl. Cleo had seen every form of human behavior in her long life. She knew when to take a stand and when to disappear. She’d always known exactly where to find the escape routes. In her younger days, she’d barely twitched a whisker when Lydia had carried her around the house upside down. Not so long ago, she’d allowed Katharine to dress her in a hat and specially knitted gloves for Melbourne Cup Day. It had been an act of patience and affection on Cleo’s part.

In acknowledgment of her advanced years we decided to make a few changes. Once past kittenhood, Cleo had always insisted on spending her nights roaming rooftops outside under the moon. Even in cold weather she’d preferred sleeping under the house, curled up around the central heating system. For the sake of her health, the girls and I agreed a change of lifestyle was required. She’d have to be an inside cat from now on. The trick was to find her a bed she approved of enough to sleep in.

Having monopolized and destroyed a dynasty of family beanbags, she was bound to adore the supersized beanbag I bought her from the pet shop. Sure, it was designed for large dogs, but there’s no way Cleo would know.

Cleo had a built-in radar screen that could detect anything to do with dogs from a distance of a thousand kennel runs. The beanbag couldn’t possibly have smelled doggy. It was brand new. Maybe it carried the thought remnants of its maker, who had mused over her sewing machine what kind of dog might end up sleeping on it—a dalmatian, alsatian or a plain old mutt.

So, despite countless demonstrations from us all showing how luxurious and comfortable the dog beanbag was, Cleo refused to go near it. We repositioned it in alluring sites around the house—in front of the fire, in the patch of sun on the kitchen floor. Our efforts were pointless. As far as Cleo was concerned the dog beanbag was disgusting.

Defeated, I flung it under the house for the rats (or whatever it was that chewed things under there). Maybe one bed wasn’t enough. Perhaps Cleo was trying to tell us she needed options—a day bed and a night bed. Back at the pet shop (where the assistant was starting to treat me like an escapee from an asylum) we bought a fluffy pink cushion and a brown padded pouf, both designed specifically for cats.

We arranged the pink cushion between the sofas in the family room. It was treated with the disdain it deserved. During the day Cleo preferred perching on a sofa arm or, better still, on the belly of a reclining human who was trying to read. Not only did this position provide warmth and a sense of superiority, it was also an excellent opportunity to floss her teeth along the edges of the book’s pages. The only bed she showed anything less than hatred for was the brown pouf. We set it up in the laundry where she grudgingly agreed to sleep at night, alongside her bowls and (the ultimate indignity) a kitty litter tray.