by Lea Tassie
***
Early in December, Ben's brother in Moose Jaw called. David said their mother, who had just turned seventy-seven, had suffered a heart attack and was in hospital. Ben booked a flight out of Victoria and devoted the rest of the morning to giving me a great long list of things I was supposed to do around the farm while he was gone.
"Ben, I do know enough to feed and water the chickens every day! I've done it often enough."
Undeterred, he said, "Put a jacket on. I want to show you where I keep the wild bird feed." He'd put up half a dozen bird feeders in October. "I have to show you how to prime the pump in case the power goes off, too."
I crawled into the pump house and switched on the forty-watt bulb. Ben gave me instructions from the doorway. The procedure seemed easy enough except for the spiders and beetle-like bugs that kept me cringing and yelping.
"I wish Tom had taken time to enlarge this place," I said, inching my way out backwards.
"I'll get to it next spring," Ben promised. "Let's check the pool."
In October he'd drained enough water so that the level was beneath the outlet pipes in case the temperature dropped below freezing. The surface of the water was now more than two feet down from the lip of the pool.
Ben rolled back the cover. Everything seemed to be in order, but he added a little more salt chlorine. "You never know, it might get really cold while I'm away."
"Surely not in December. I know it will freeze in January, but this is too early." It would be all right with me if frost cracked the cement and pipes, forcing Ben to get rid of the pool rather than spend thousands of dollars on it, but it seemed mean to say so.
"Better safe than sorry." He turned on the switch to close the pool cover. Nothing happened. "Don't tell me that thing is on the fritz again!"
He and Cal spent most of the afternoon struggling with the motor. When they came in for coffee, Ben said, "We can't fix it. You'll have to phone that repairman again."
"Better get him here soon," Cal said to me. "It's dangerous to leave the pool open when the water's so low. If one of Dyckman's cows gets in there, we'll never get her out."
"I'll put Nicky on twenty-four hour guard duty."
Ben glared at me. "It's not funny. You keep an eye out for those cows."
Ben had been right about the weather. Three days after he left, the mercury dropped below freezing and I was happy to have Nicky cuddling next to me on the bed every night.
When Ben phoned, I said, "How's your Mom?"
"Better. Dave and I think she should go into a nursing home but she's determined to go back to her apartment."
Typical Edith. I hadn't spent much time in her company but it was obvious from the first that she was fiercely independent and outspoken. "Being in her own home is really important to her."
"I know. We're going to see about getting home help for her. How's the weather?"
"Cold."
Ben said, "Leave the light on in the pump house. That will generate enough heat to keep the pump working. And put a heater in the hen house."
"There's only five degrees of frost. That's not cold. On our farm up north, chickens survived forty below zero without any artificial heat."
"That can't possibly be right. Your memory must be faulty. You watch the hens and if they look cold, put a heater out there. Are they laying as many eggs?"
Next he'd be asking me to knit sweaters for the hens. "No, they're not. I've phoned our customers and told them eggs will be rationed until spring." When I said the pool motor hadn't been repaired because the expert was sunning in Acapulco, he swore and promised to be home within the week.
That night I woke to Nicky whining beside me. I shushed him, then heard an odd high-pitched squeaking that sounded to my sleepy ears like starlings fighting on the roof. As the squeaking continued, I woke up enough to remember that birds sleep at night. But what else could it be squeaking on the roof? I crawled out of bed and, with Nicky at my heels, went upstairs to see if I could hear anything more. When I glanced out the east bedroom window, cold, bright moonlight revealed a big dog thrashing around in the pool, the water level too low for him to scramble out. His whimpering was now frantic and getting louder.
I slung on dressing gown, mitts and rubber boots and, leaving Nicky inside, went to the rescue. Another dog paced nervously on the pool apron. I coaxed the first one to the side of the pool and, with a lot of heaving and swearing – and nearly falling in myself – hauled him out by the scruff of the neck. I wondered what they'd been chasing so blindly that the leader had fallen into the water before he realized it was there.
The wet dog shook himself all over me, then fled with its companion down across the meadow and into the bush. Shivering, I cursed them and turned to go into the house. The rustling of leaves in the blackberry vines beside the pool told me another animal was in hiding.
A smug little Siamese-tabby face emerged, followed by a sleek, elegant body and a black tail.
"George, did you lure those dogs into the pool?"
He flicked his tail and pranced toward the house. I could have sworn he was smiling.
Next day I phoned a pool repairman in Vancouver. It would cost more in travel time, but I didn't trust George and his devious, furry little mind. Now that he'd progressed to prey ten times his size, he might just try luring something even bigger into the pool. None of us, not even cows and deer, needed any more surprises.
XII - St. Francis
When Ben came home from Moose Jaw, the first thing he did was check the chickens, probably to make sure I hadn't starved them. Then he came in, noted the temperature had risen to five degrees Centigrade and refused to translate that to Fahrenheit so I could decide if I needed an extra sweater when I went outside. The pool motor repairman arrived, did his magic, and suggested we install a hydraulic system, at a cost that had both of us scowling.
"I still think we should fill the pool and plant spring flowers," I said.
"You mean I should plant flowers," Ben said. "Easy for you to say; you and your black thumb wouldn't be involved."
"I could water them. Anyway, it would be less nerve-wracking than worrying about the pool and we could sell the flowers to the supermarket in Mora Bay. Or from our own roadside kiosk. You said you were going to build one this winter anyway, for next year's vegetables."
"But think how much fun we had swimming last summer."
"You had fun swimming. All I ever did was sit beside it. Besides, hauling a wet dog out of the water on a freezing cold night was just about the last straw for me. Plus the worry about cows or deer falling in."
"The cover will prevent that." Ben loved the pool; it was only the hole it caused in his blasted budget that he didn't like. Somehow I had to convince him that the pool simply wasn't worth what it cost, especially with the ocean less than a quarter mile away.
We were still arguing about it on a bleak, freezing night in January, an icy wind stabbing in off the Strait of Georgia, when we heard a faint mewing at the back door.
Cowering inside the big wood shed beside the back step was a scruffy, long-haired gray cat with large golden eyes and a beautiful face. When we said hello, it ran awkwardly away on three legs, its right front leg held up as though something was wrong with it.
"I'll put some food out," Ben said. "The poor little thing's been hurt and she's probably starving to death."
"Feed a stray cat, you'll have it for life."
"I think we've had this conversation before. But I'm not going to turn away a starving cat on a night like this. George will never let her stay, anyway."
Half an hour later Ben came back in. "I put out a big bowl of kibbles and made a bed for her with a cardboard box and old towels. It's inside the wood shed, so she'll be out of the wind. If she stays, she's going to be my cat."
"How do you know it's a 'she'?"
"A male couldn't be that pretty."
"I hope George didn't hear you say that. Perhaps we should advertise to see if anyone's lost a cat."
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"She's obviously been living wild for a long time. I think somebody dumped her." Ben looked fierce. "I'd like to catch whoever did it."
"Then we'll keep her, if George will allow it. And she can be your cat."
There was no doubt George was my cat; Ben was second choice even in emergencies and a lowly houseboy the rest of the time. I felt honored to be butler, cook and surrogate mother to royalty but it took a lot of time. George was less demanding than he had been, but if I'd been away for a day he sat on my lap or my shoulders when I was writing and on my head when I slept, like a leech with claws. At such times I sometimes wondered what it would be like to have the luxury of sitting on the toilet all by myself.
Next day the gray cat came for more food. "She's quite handsome," the Houseboy said. "Well, she could be, if somebody brushed her and she gained some weight."
"I hope George is now secure enough in his position as head cat to let her stay." I thought she was beautiful, too, but I didn't want to get my hopes up and then suffer the disappointment of having George evict her.
Later Ben rushed into my studio. "Do you know what I just saw? George was sitting beside the gray cat and licking her wounded leg."
"Good! He's trying to help her heal."
"I didn't know animals did things like that." Ben paced to the other window, looking both amazed and pleased. "Then he's not just tolerating her because she's female. That settles it. We're going to adopt her."
"Do you think she'll earn her keep?" I asked, deadpan.
He looked at me as though I'd spoken in Sanskrit. "What do you mean, earn her keep? Who cares about that?"
Ben's conversion didn't surprise me but I wondered about George's newfound tolerance. He'd never give up his position as king, though his score wasn't perfect since Mr. Mighty still put him on the run. Had he really mellowed enough to share his kingdom or did his furry little head harbor some devious plan for the gray cat?
Nicky, though he now weighed forty pounds and looked bigger because of his thick fur, had learned to respect cats. He watched the gray cat with a bright-eyed curiosity but kept a safe distance from her.
In daylight she proved to be even prettier than we'd thought. Dark gray with white feet, chest and belly, she had a white blaze on her nose and a fluffy tail. Her fur was shorter than a Persian's, but longer than George's tabby coat, and hopelessly tangled with burrs and bits of dried leaves. Her yellow, slanted eyes gazed at us with both terror and longing. She looked like pictures I'd seen of Norwegian Forest cats, big, stocky, sedate felines by reputation, and I thought she might be a good antidote to George's vociferous, quicksilver nature.
Ben assumed responsibility for looking after the new cat and named her 'Henrietta' though half the time he called her 'Miss Mew' because she had such a gentle little voice.
"The ritual of naming is a secret mother cats transmit to kittens along with milk," I said. "As soon as you've named them, they know they've got you."
"I wish she'd come inside," the Houseboy said. "She must be so cold sleeping out there. I want to get a look at that wounded leg of hers, too."
However, it took Henrietta some time to decide she wanted to become Princess. She progressed from bolting her food and bolting from us, to savoring her food but keeping a safe distance. Eventually, Ben was allowed to pet her. One warm day in late February we left the back door open and she walked in, investigated, and condescended to stay for a couple of hours.
Ben was overjoyed. He rushed off to Mora Bay in Bouncing Blue Betsy and came back loaded down with catnip, cat toys, a double decker cat bunk and soft cat-sized blankets. I refrained, with difficulty, from asking if he'd budgeted for being a new father.
Outdoors, George accepted Henrietta's presence and even played with her. But if we paid too much attention to her, he'd have a fit of jealousy and I was afraid he'd chase her away permanently. I needn't have worried. Henrietta had discovered heaven: a warm house, a source of food and two willing slaves.
The next time Henrietta came in, she sat and studied Ben in his armchair for a few minutes, then leapt up and sat in his lap. He was thrilled.
"Aren't you a gorgeous girl?" he crooned. "You're my beautiful lady, aren't you?" He went on to tell her what a clever cat she was for cuddling up to him to show her gratitude for food and shelter.
"Gratitude?" I queried, astonished that living with George for almost a year hadn't taught him the true nature of the feline race.
"Henrietta is different," he said.
I held my tongue.
Next day Henrietta walked past Ben, climbed on my lap, kneaded my thighs, curled into a ball and went to sleep. I was happy; the kneading meant she was content.
"What's with her?" Ben demanded. "You've hardly paid her any attention. I'm the one who feeds her and makes her warm beds and talks to her."
"She knows I'm a Cat Person."
He said grumpily, "I suppose I'm going to be Houseboy around here for the rest of my life."
"I thought you were content with your lot."
"I am. But those two could at least show a little gratitude. Nicky does, you know. He wags his tail and licks my hand and follows me everywhere."
"Dogs need a leader to look up to. Cats don't."
Ben glared at George, who was glaring at my lapful of Henrietta. "He doesn't even greet me when I come home."
"Did Roman emperors greet their slaves when they came home from the chariot races? Or show gratitude?"
"I don't have time to sit around debating trifles," Ben said, and retreated to his den.