Helen Brown - After Cleo

‘Tell you what,’ said Vivienne with a mischievous giggle. ‘I could always put a photo of Philip on my website and see if I can find him a new home.’

When I told the girls about Philip’s decree their mouths dropped. Katharine gathered him in her arms and buried her face in his fur.

‘He can’t go,’ she said. ‘We love him.’

Oblivious to the drama he was the centre of, Jonah purred raucously. I wished I could envelop our daughters and cat in some magical maternal apron and promise everything would be okay. But so much was out of my control.

The girls swore to work even harder monitoring his litter tray, keeping him away from his most frequently visited corners and sniffing out the faintest hints of smells.

After they’d left for classes, I decided to clear my head with a brisk walk. Bare winter trees clawed the sky. Grey rags of clouds hung over the buildings. Almost on automatic pilot, I boarded a tram and rattled across the river to the pet shop.

Letting Jonah into our lives now seemed like a blunder made when I was too weak and vulnerable to have any idea what we were letting ourselves in for. If we’d wanted a cat, we should’ve researched and stayed well clear of the pet shop. We should have been sensible and gone to a shelter and rescued a mixed-breed moggy that’d have been grateful for a home. We’d been fools to fall for Jonah’s good looks and kittenish charms.

Peering through the pet shop window I could see a new batch of kittens was in. They were all identical to how Jonah had been – blue-eyed, sleek, cappuccino circus artists leaping about on elastic legs. Irresistible. One of the kittens danced across the cage while another crouched low and quivered, waiting for the moment to pounce on his sibling. A small group of people gathered to admire the spectacle.

A young couple, bundled up against the cold, stood beside me. They were captivated, just the way we’d been.

‘Let’s ask if we can take that one home tonight!’ said the young woman, her face ablaze with infatuation as she pointed at the kitten who was flying through the air about to land flamboyantly on his friend.

I turned to the couple, so in love they believed the only thing that could enhance their happiness was a kitten.

‘Don’t do it,’ I told them. ‘Get a puppy, or have a baby. Anything’s going to be easier than one of those kittens.’

They looked astonished. They must’ve thought I was a fruitcake. Burying my head in my pashmina, I hurried on to the vet’s. There was only one jumbo-sized bottle of cat urine neutraliser left on the shelf. We weren’t the only ones with a problem.

I knew when I got home Jonah would be at the window. Then he’d be at the door and meowing under my feet. My nose would be on high alert for fresh layers of ammonia in the air. I’d be scouring the house for spots on the window ledge or against the stair railings.

When I opened the gate I saw his silhouette against the lead lights. His noble head, the elegant tapering limbs, the sublimely long tail – how could a beautiful creature inflict such misery? His eyes flashed when he saw me, and his mouth opened in a pink diamond shape as he emitted an accusatory yowl. I couldn’t face him. Not just now. After heaving the jumbo bottle of neutraliser up the path and dumping it on the verandah, I strode across the road to the sanctuary of Spoonful.

Household tension was at an all-time high that evening. I was vaguely aware that Lydia was sporting the unflattering beanie (note to self: find appropriate moment to tactfully let her know that a hat with a brim would suit her face shape better).

When Philip arrived home from work, the topic of eviction was carefully avoided. The girls and I presented Jonah’s day in the most exemplary light. He hadn’t peed anywhere. In fact, we lied, he seemed to be settling down. He’d eaten a housefly and slept for several hours without stalking or yowling at anyone. Glossing over the more disturbing aspects of my conversation with Vivienne, I explained the morning’s misdemeanour was just a nervous reaction to the return of Jonah’s most favourite person on earth. It wouldn’t happen again.

After dinner, the girls and I kept Jonah shut out of the living room while the four of us settled in front of the television in case he reverted to more unacceptable behaviour. As we watched the day’s news unravel, I tried to ignore Lydia’s maroon beanie and the persistent meows on the other side of the door. A pair of paws appeared under the door. The pleading meows gave way to thumps. The girls and I exchanged glances. Philip’s face was grim and immobile. Lydia stood up and opened the door. Jonah ran forward. Snared dashingly between his teeth was a purple glove, its fingers waving happily at us. With head and tail lowered he trotted toward Philip and laid the glove respectfully at his feet.

‘See?’ Lydia said to Philip. ‘He’s saying sorry.’

Jonah jumped on to Philip’s lap and licked his hand. My husband lowered his gaze. For a moment I thought he was going to shoo Jonah back out the door. Philip hesitated, almost as if this was a first-time encounter, then raised a hand and ran it over the cat’s silky spine. Jonah yawned and curled himself on Philip’s knee. A flame of affection flickered in Philip’s eye. A smile rippled on his lips. Maybe the battle wasn’t lost.

Next morning, using my newly developed nasal radar I homed in on Lydia’s altar. A dark stain trickled down its side toward the floor.

It couldn’t go on.

Cleansed

When drugs aren’t all bad

Vivienne’s voice was warm and sympathetic over the phone.

‘If he was my cat I’d put him on a medication like Prozac,’ she said.

‘But . . .’ I began, hearing Mum’s voice booming from her plastic urn: ‘Prozac! For a CAT??!!’

‘Look, I’m sorry. I know we’ve discussed it before and you’re against it, but Jonah’s problems can’t be cured behaviourally. He’s got into a pattern you won’t be able to break.’

I felt a total failure. If pets reflect the personalities of their owners, what kind of lunatics were we?

‘It’s not your fault,’ Vivienne continued. ‘Orientals are nearly always high-maintenance.’

I drew a quivery breath. Our bag of options was empty. ‘Will he have to stay on it for the rest of his life?’ I asked.

‘Not necessarily. After a few months it might change his brain chemistry and he’ll start behaving normally again.’

Months?!

When I talked to the vet, she said not to feel guilty about having a chemically altered cat. She had a pair of Orientals at home and she’d had to put them on it every now and then.

Back home, I guiltily placed half a yellow pill in a dish of Jonah’s favourite tuna. When I returned several hours later, the tuna had gone. All that remained was half a pill gleaming in the bowl.

I ground the other half of the tablet into a powder and spooned it through his next meal – which he refused to touch. In desperation, I pummelled the medication to a pulp, added it to an eye dropper fill with milk and tried to squirt it down Jonah’s throat. He put his head back and sprayed it all back at me.

Vivienne paid an emergency visit and taught me how to hold Jonah firmly, prise his jaw open and drop the pill into the back of his throat as quickly and neatly as possible. She made it look easy, but when I tried it next day Jonah wriggled and squirmed like a seal before spitting the pill on the floor. Then he pretended to swallow it, after which he let it drop discreetly on to a cushion. After a gladiatorial battle, I finally won, stroking the pill gently down his gullet the way Vivienne had shown me. As Jonah skulked away, his tail lowered, I felt terrible.