Doris Lessing - On Cats

‘Cat, if we had not done that to you you would be dead in a couple of months–do you understand that?’ No, of course not. ‘Cat, because of the amazing cleverness of the human race you are alive and not dead, as you soon would be, in your natural state.’

I brought him up to sleep on my bed, and soon he was crawling up the stairs himself. One night I was awake and reading, and he was asleep, and then he started up, as we may do, out of sleep, out of a dream, and he let out a frightened cry, looking about him, not knowing where he was–perhaps he was back in that prison cage–but then the nightmare faded, and he lay down quietly and looked out into the night beyond the big windows. I stroked, and he did not purr, I stroked, I stroked, and at last he purred. Several times he came awake suddenly out of a nightmare, and then–time passed, he did not, I think, have bad dreams. (That cats do dream, science has confirmed.)

But I was remembering an earlier wrong. When he and his brother were the right age, young cats but not fully grown, they were taken to be ‘neutered’, and brought back home, and put, each one, on a low soft cushion, where they lay stretched out, their tails flowing out behind them, and this cat, my Butchkin, my magnifico, lifted his head and looked at me and never has anything been clearer than that long deep look: You are my friend, and yet you have done this to me. For under his tail was a bloody wound, and his little furry cat balls had gone, leaving an empty sac. Yes of course it had to be done: but it is no use saying that a neutered cat lives longer than a ‘whole’ cat, does not roam the neighbourhood fighting and getting more and more beaten up and battered, because the moment when you agree that a ‘whole’ cat must be cut and diminished to live ball-less…well, it is a bad one, and acknowledgement of the commonsense of the thing does not diminish the basic guilt: This cat is less of a cat than he was and it is my fault. The long long look, reproach, enquiry, ‘ Why , when you are my friend?’

Soon, just as the vet had said he would, he was up and down those stairs, springing lightly on one paw, he was on and off the bed and the sofas, he was managing everything easily, but he was not the same in himself. He had been humiliated, his pride, that most sensitive of a cat’s organs, had been hurt. His dignity was hurt because he hobbled, and surely he must be remembering, as we did, his lordly careless stroll every time he miscalculated and fell on his nose. What had been his advantage, his size, was now against him, for his remaining front leg, that slender limb, was taking all his weight, and the shoulder joint had become swollen and knobbly. The vet said there was water there, under the flesh and if there was something bad hidden deep in the joint, then it would take its time. There was only a ten per cent chance of the cancer returning.

Nearly three years have passed. The cat has had that extra life. He has done well. His coat is glossy, he is a handsome elderly cat, with a sprinkle of grey on one ear. His eyes are bright. He manages his restricted life with that curious assessment of possibilities and risks that you see in people who lack a limb, are disabled: I first watched it in my father, who had lost his leg in the war.

But El Magnifico is lonely. He has been used to a household of cats. His mother’s six kittens filled the whole house with their games before off they went to their homes. One, Charlie, stayed for a time. He was a handsome rakish cat, the tiger, with all a younger brother’s characteristics, and watching him with big, calm, dominating Butchkin was better than a textbook on sibling relationships. Then there was Rufus, who was so ill, and who needed so much attention, but he tried to be the boss cat, and when Butchkin wouldn’t have that the two male cats led parallel lives, ignoring each other. Yet when Rufus got too ill to live, Butchkin missed him, called for him, looked for him everywhere in the house and garden. Cats used to drop in. One, whom we fed for a year or so, because he clearly had a bad home, and preferred ours, was run over and had a serious operation involving two cat doctors and two nurses, because the car had pushed his abdominal organs up into his chest cavity. He was found a good home and lived another five years. One we called The Pirate, because he always came into our house like a raider, he had obviously been badly fed, because he could never pass food without eating it all up, every bit, was always hungry. Butchkin used to sit and watch him eat–and eat. Butchkin has never gone hungry, does not know what it is to think there might not be another meal after this one, and so he eats moderately, may decide to leave a plateful of food altogether, or may eat only half. This enormous cat, this great heavy beast has never been a good eater: it is his genes, his mother was a big bulky cat.

But now no cats drop in and out, climbing up the lilac tree at the back of the house to visit, or to find a mouthful to eat, or a bowl of water. Because these days we have warmer weather, dryer weather, cats are often in search of water, and the bowl I put down on my front steps is visited by cats locked out of their homes during the day, or who are out on their investigations. There are no cats now who treat our home as theirs, there is only this crippled cat in the house and surely that is strange? Why don’t they come in and out as they used to? The cat doctor said our cat’s main problem would be other cats, because he could not defend himself, with only one paw. But he misses them.

He goes out into the garden and sits calling, calling…this is a different tone from the ones he uses with us. It is cajoling, canoodling, intimate. Next door is a young female cat who distresses her owner because she hunts blackbirds and robins. She is far from beautiful, or even pretty. Her fur is rough, of a brownish colour, and she is muscled and compact. She has no grace or charm, but she is a deadly huntress, and her swift movement towards her prey is like a snake’s, smooth and fast. Of course we think she is not good enough for our handsome cat, but he wants her to be his friend, and sits calling, facing her house, then calling again, but she does not come, and so he brings himself clumsily through the cat door and heaves himself up the stairs. She is probably thinking, And why should I bother myself with that old crippled cat?

One afternoon I stood on the balcony and observed this scene. Our cat is in the garden, calling, and next door’s cat comes through the fence, but not looking at him. She walks indifferently past him. He makes small friendly noises, the same he uses to greet us. She walks on and through the fence on the other side. He follows, getting himself with difficulty through a small gap in the fence. She positions herself under the birch tree on the other side of that garden, facing him, but looking past him. He cautiously sits a few paces off. The two cats sit on, in some sort of communion. Then our cat tries his luck, moving carefully a few cat-paces closer. She hastily moves some distance away. He sits balancing himself, on his front leg and his backside. She licks herself a little. There is no coquetry in this honest young cat, she disdains female wiles, quite unlike Grey Cat, whose life is such a long way in the past; she flirted and enticed and seduced humans as well as male cats. Butchkin continues to watch her. He then makes another move, not directly towards her, but off at an angle, and sits again, in fact nearer to her. She does not react. They sit on, she licking herself, or staring around, or putting out a paw to touch a beetle or something near her on the earth. He miaows softly, once, twice. No response from her. Then, after perhaps fifteen minutes, she walks past him, quite close, and sits near him, but with her back to him, looking into the wild part of the garden. He changes position to sit looking after her. He miaows again, inviting, enticing. She deliberately strolls into the wild garden where she becomes invisible, though the grasses wave where she is moving through them. She jumps up on to the fence, where he used to sit watching the squirrels and the birds, but he can’t reach it now. Then she is off on to the great green plain of the reservoir grass, which has been newly cut. He calls after her, and then comes in, slowly up the stairs…they are getting hard for him, our flights and flights of stairs.