Helen Brown - After Cleo

When I asked the young man what his name was, he seemed embarrassed, perplexed even. Nathan, he said, turning pink and examining the shelves of dog food. I was beginning to get his measure. Nathan was a shy person who, disappointed or intimidated by the human race, felt more comfortable with animals.

Nathan opened the cage door and lunged for the Siamese, who sprang nimbly out of his grasp into a pile of shredded newspaper. The kitten remained motionless inside his hiding place, confident he couldn’t be seen. He was betrayed by a small dark tail protruding from the spaghetti of paper.

‘He thinks it’s a game,’ Nathan sighed, reaching into the papery nest and lifting the creature out by the scruff of his neck. I’d never believed people who said that was a humane way to handle kittens, but the little fellow didn’t seem to mind.

Nathan lowered his prisoner into my hands. Gazing up at me, the kitten purred like a lawnmower. He was so silky and warm. For the first time in what seemed ages, something inside my chest softened. Liquid honey streamed through my arteries. My breathing suddenly came from a softer, deeper place. Weeks of worry and pain melted away.

‘Is he for sale?’ I asked.

Nathan nodded, adding that a free vet’s check-up and reduced price for neutering would be included. I knew there were all sorts of questions people are supposed to ask before buying a pet. They flew out of my head. Nathan confirmed the kitten was purebred Siamese.

‘Does he have papers?’

Nathan shot me a defensive look.

‘None of our animals have papers,’ he said. ‘If we bothered with that sort of thing they’d be way too expensive.’

It made perfect sense. I had no intention of putting him in cat shows, or using him for breeding purposes.

Lydia asked if she could hold the kitten. Reluctantly, I passed him over. He rolled on his back and writhed playfully in her hands. Mary, Lydia and I chuckled together. After such an anxious time, the relief of laughter was immeasurable.

‘What will we call him?’ Lydia asked.

‘You mean what would we call him?’ I corrected in my old voice, the sane one that knew getting another kitten would be preposterous.

I’d learnt from our experience with goldfish, years earlier, that bestowing an animal with a name creates a bond that sets you up for heartbreak. After Finny, Swimmer and Jaws had been lowered tearfully into what was becoming a mass grave in our back garden, I’d insisted any new goldfish we acquired would be nameless. They’d simply have numbers. As it turned out, One, Two and Three survived for biblical years by goldfish standards, creating hundreds of descendants in their backyard pool.

As I contemplated buying the kitten, I thought of Philip. When he’d moved in with us all those years ago, we’d been a readymade family complete with Cleo. It’s one thing to take on a cat as part of a bulk deal, and something quite different to have a kitten land uninvited in your life.

Gender was something the kitten had in its favour. After Rob left home, Philip often complained half-jokingly about being the only male in a household full of women. (‘Even the cat’s female,’ he used to grumble.) If we took this little clown home, Philip might form a man-to-kitten bromance.

I’d never been a fan of Rugby, but it was Philip’s obsession. As the kitten dived from Lydia’s arms on to the pet shop floor and sprinted furiously toward the wall of birdcages, I was reminded of the fluid athleticism of one of the most famous Rugby All Blacks of all time – Jonah Lomu.

‘Jonah,’ I said, over the budgies’ shrieks of alarm. ‘Let’s call him Jonah.’

Disenchantment

Beware of charm in cats and men

A pair of sapphire eyes glinted through slits of the pet carrier as Lydia bore Jonah gently up the front path. Mary followed behind with the food and litter bags, and a leopard-skin cat bed. I was in charge of the kitten’s entertainment centre – a bag containing balls, fake mice and a ‘fishing rod’ stick with an imitation bird and a bell attached to the end of an elastic line. It seemed incredible that one small creature required so much equipment.

A royal retinue, we escorted the carrier and its inhabitant respectfully down the hallway to the family room. Lydia lowered the box gently to the floor. It emitted a squeak.

‘Shall we let him out?’ Lydia asked.

‘Maybe just open the cage door and see how he feels,’ I replied. ‘He might want to stay in there until he’s used to us.’

As Lydia bent to slide the carrier’s latch open, its door bulged then burst on to the floor in an explosion of paws and fur. Jonah bounced on to the carpet, looked around and shook himself.

With pale fur and huge dark ears overshadowing his arresting eyes, he was cuteness personified. The only things that set him apart from classical beauty were his stubby tail and his back feet, which were several sizes too large for him.

He was much bigger than Cleo had been when she’d entered our lives so soon after Sam’s death in 1983. Cleo had arrived when our family was torn apart by tragedy. I wondered if Jonah might play a similarly vital role, taking our minds off cancer and focusing us on the future.

After giving us a brief inspection, Jonah dived straight under the cane chair and peered out at us through the bamboo bars.

‘Oh the poor thing’s terrified,’ said Mary. ‘Let him stay there till he’s more comfortable. I’ll put the kettle on.’

I’d never imagined we’d end up with another cat, let alone a Siamese. It’s such a presumptuous breed with so many overblown stories in its background. According to legend, only the King of Siam (modern-day Thailand) and members of the royal family were permitted to own a Siamese cat. Whenever a high-ranking person died, one of these felines was chosen to receive the dead person’s soul. The cat would then be taken to live in a temple where monks and priests fed it the finest food off solid gold plates. The dead person’s relatives provided cushions made of exquisite silks for the creature to lounge around on. Apart from eating, lounging and looking beautiful, the only other responsibility the cat had was to attend ceremonies. I hoped Jonah wasn’t expecting that kind of life with us.

We tried to ignore him nestling under the chair, but it was like ignoring a peacock in a hen house. As Mary walked past with her mug of tea a paw shot out and batted her ankle.

‘He wants to play,’ she said. ‘Where’s that fishing line?’

The plastic bag rustled as she reached into it and removed the rod with impudent bird attached. As she trailed the bird in front of the cane chair, a paw sprang out and batted it . . . once, twice. The bell jingled a protest every time the bird was hit.

Lydia lifted the two front chair legs off the floor. Mary trailed the fishing rod bird into the centre of the room – and boom! Jonah surged out from under the chair and sprang on the hapless bird, grabbing it between his teeth and kicking it with his oversized back feet.

I’d been nervous of laughing since the operation. So many everyday activities – sometimes even just the challenge of sitting in an upright chair – caused jabs of pain so sharp they could take my breath away. But watching a kitten hammering the life out of a toy bird made me chortle so much I spilt my tea. It was a relief to know I could laugh again with no physical pain. In fact, it seemed to haul me back from fear and illness into a vibrant world in which life was continually renewed. Laughing at the kitten freed me up to laugh about everything else that’d been happening lately. It shook off the stale hospital air and brought me back to life.

Jonah sat back on his haunches and looked up at us appraisingly.