Shirley Murphy - Christmas Cats - A Literary Companion

Like O. Henry's young couple, cats don't stint, don't calculate, don't hold back. They don't hide their gifts on a high closet shelf, saving them for some future Christmas that might never come. They never fret that their gifts will be deemed unworthy. A gift is a creation of the moment, of the eternal now. The purr, the snuggle, the fond headbutt, the dead mouse, the soggy favorite toy… these gifts are ours now, right now. Give what you have, say our cats, generously and from your heart—and do it right now.

Cats aren't burdened by fears of being inadequate in the sight of their mothers-in-law, or of disappointing the neighborhood cookie mandarins. They're not in thrall to holiday cliches or stereotypes. They feel no obligation to conform to anyone's expectations. They're not tormented by guilt or regret, or psychologically paralyzed by trying to "create memories" or resurrect the supposed perfections of childhood Christmases.

Christmas and every other day, a cat lives in the blessed, eternal now. As the wise, cat-loving Ray Bradbury writes in Dandelion Wine- . "You're in the present, you're trapped in a young now or an old now, but there is no other now to be seen." We humans see all those other nows, those Christmases of the past, those idealized, impossibly perfect Christmases, those Christmases that never were. We compare and contrast, we regret and worry. We stay up nights, fitfully fretting about the Christmases to come—the obligations, the expectations, all those lists. Our cats don't. They simply live in each day, each moment. Each day, Christmas or not, is a splendid new gift to be pounced upon, savored, relished. Welcome Christmas with a swelling heart and swelling purr, not with dread and obsession. Relish Christmas as it was meant to be, in reverence, in humility, in gratitude, in bliss.

God Rest Ye Merry, Kitty Cats

(sung to the tune of "god rest ye Merry Gentlemen")

Laurie Loughlin

God rest ye merry, kitty cats,

Let nothing you dismay.

Remember, lots of yummy food

Is served on Christmas Day,

To save us all from hungry tummies,

Hip, hip, hip hooray!

Oooh, tidings of catnip and joy,

Catnip and joy.

Oooh, tidings of catnip and joy.

Buster the Feline Retriever

James Herriot

Christmas will never go by without my remembering a certain little cat. I first saw her when I was called to see one of Mrs.

Ainsworth's dogs, and I looked in some surprise at the furry black creature sitting before the fire. "I didn't know you had a cat," I said. The lady smiled. "We haven't, this is Debbie."

"Debbie?"

"Yes, at least that's what we call her. She's a stray. Gomes here two or three times a week and we give her some food. I don't know where she lives but I believe she spends a lot of her time around one of the farms along the road."

"Do you ever get the feeling that she wants to stay with you?"

"No." Mrs. Ainsworth shook her head. "She's a timid little thing. Just creeps in, has some food, then flits away. There's something so appealing about her but she doesn't seem to want to let me or anybody into her life."

I looked again at the little cat. "But she isn't just having food today."

"That's right. It's a funny thing but every now and again she slips through here into the lounge and sits by the fire for a few minutes. It's as though she was giving herself a treat."

"Yes… I see what you mean." There was no doubt there was something unusual in the attitude of the little animal. She was sitting bolt upright on the thick rug which lay before the fireplace in which the coals glowed and flamed. She made no effort to curl up or wash herself or do anything other than gaze quietly ahead. And there was something in the dusty black of her coat, the half-wild scrawny look of her, that gave me a clue. This was a special event in her life, a rare and wonderful thing; she was lapping up a comfort undreamed of in her daily existence.

As I watched she turned, crept soundlessly from the room and was gone.

"That's always the way with Debbie," Mrs. Ainsworth laughed. "She never stays more than ten minutes or so, then she's off."

She was a plumpish, pleasant-faced woman in her forties and the kind of client veterinary surgeons dream of: well off, generous, and the owner of three cosseted basset hounds. And it only needed the habitually mournful expressions of one of the dogs to deepen a little and I was round there posthaste. Today one of the bassets had raised its paw and scratched its ear a couple of times and that was enough to send its mistress scurrying to the phone in great alarm.

So my visits to the Ainsworth home were frequent but undemanding, and I had ample opportunity to look out for the little cat which had intrigued me. On one occasion I spotted her nibbling daintily from a saucer at the kitchen door. As I watched she turned and almost floated on light footsteps into the hall, then through the lounge door.

The three bassets were already in residence, draped snoring on the fireside rug, but they seemed to be used to Debbie because two of them sniffed her in a bored manner and the third merely cocked a sleepy eye at her before flopping back on the rich pile.

Debbie sat among them in her usual posture: upright, intent, gazing absorbedly into the glowing coals. This time I tried to make friends with her. I approached her carefully but she leaned away as I stretched out my hand. However, by patient wheedling and soft talk I managed to touch her and gently stroked her cheek with one finger. There was a moment when she responded by putting her head on one side and rubbing back against my hand but soon she was ready to leave. Once outside the house she darted quickly along the road, then through a gap in a hedge, and the last I saw was the little black figure flitting over the rain-swept grass of a field.

"I wonder where she goes," I murmured half to myself.

Mrs. Ainsworth appeared at my elbow. "That's something we've never been able to find out."

It must have been nearly three months before I heard from Mrs. Ainsworth, and in fact I had begun to wonder at the bassets' long symptomless run when she came on the phone.

It was Christmas morning and she was apologetic.

"Mr. Herriot, I'm so sorry to bother you today of all days. I should think you want a rest at Christmas like anybody else." But her natural politeness could not hide the distress in her voice.

"Please don't worry about that, " I said. "Which one is it this time?"

"It's not one of the dogs. It's… Debbie."

"Debbie? She's at your house now?"

"Yes… but there's something wrong. Please come quickly."

Driving through the market place I thought again that Darrowby on Christmas Day was like Dickens come to life: the empty square with the snow thick on the cobbles and hanging from the eaves of the fretted lines of roofs; the shops closed and the coloured lights of the Christmas trees winking at the windows of the clustering houses, warmly inviting against the cold white bulk of the fells behind.

Mrs. Ainsworth's home was lavishly decorated with tinsel and holly, rows of drinks stood on the sideboard and the rich aroma of turkey and sage and onion stuffing wafted from the kitchen. But her eyes were full of pain as she led me through to the lounge.

Debbie was there all right, but this time everything was different. She wasn't sitting upright in her usual position; she was stretched quite motionless on her side, and huddled close to her lay a tiny black kitten.

I looked down in bewilderment. "What's happened here?"

"It's the strangest thing," Mrs. Ainsworth replied. "I haven't seen her for several weeks, and then she came in about two hours ago—sort of staggered into the kitchen, and she was carrying the kitten in her mouth. She took it through to the lounge and laid it on the rug and at first I was amused. But I could see all was not well because she sat as she usually does, but for a long time—over an hour—then she lay down like this and she hasn't moved."