Iris Grace

by Arabella Carter-Johnson

  ‘Blue,’ Iris said as she rubbed the tassels in between her fingers. She watched the frayed tassels twizzle backwards and forwards for a while and then pulled the fabric round her more so the two sides met in the middle.

  ‘Well, that’s working! Well done, Mummy!’ I said, tying it into a loose knot, but as soon as the words came out the cape came off. I decided to take the blue cape back home with us anyway and to give it another try. After a few weeks it was more successful and eventually it turned out to be a real favourite.

  It was December again and I was on another slightly panicked pre-Christmas phone call. Only this time, for a change, it wasn’t me who needed help. My extremely capable mother was in the middle of preparing their Christmas Eve party but also seemed to have inadvertently filled the house with animal guests for the duration of the holidays. Not only had she promised to look after several dogs for a friend, but my brother was bringing his girlfriend’s cat, Shiraz, to stay as Carolina was spending Christmas with her family over in Sweden. The cat, a beautiful Siberian with a kind temperament, was more than used to travelling, but the thought of the mayhem that might ensue was causing my normally calm mother to envisage all sorts of disasters.

  It felt good to be the one offering a solution: ‘Why don’t we have the cat at ours over Christmas?’ I was naturally concerned about how Iris would react, as I didn’t want a repeat of the Willow incident, but in my mind a cat was different, more self-sufficient than a dog, and everything that I had heard about this cat sounded fantastic, a perfect match for Iris. Maybe Iris might actually like this animal. She had developed so much since we had last tried and we were keeping the holidays very low key. P-J and Iris would stay at home for the drinks party to avoid her becoming overloaded and I could take the cat home afterwards. It could be a lovely distraction, taking the pressure off Christmas Day.

  The party itself started as they normally did. When I arrived my mother was busy in the kitchen, the fires were lit and my first job was to light the candles. My father was having the usual debate about where the drinks should be and my brother was calm, managing to deal with our rather frantic father, who settled down enough to pour us all a glass of champagne. Peace was restored before the first guests arrived. We gathered in front of the fire with carols playing in the background and my father gave me a hug, squishing my head up against his colourful bow tie, a trademark that goes back as far as I can remember. As a child I used to love going through his bow tie drawer; there were so many fantastic different designs and colours. Why on earth someone needed so many was beyond all of us.

  Every beam in my parents’ house was decorated with garlands, and there was a beautiful flower arrangement on my father’s desk in the corner and one on the mantelpiece with candles glowing. Their warm golden light transformed the old farmhouse. The house was the epitome of Christmas and the tree over by the French doors made everyone smile: it practically burst out of the space. All the old family decorations were hanging from its branches, including the fragile fairy that had once been my grandmother Iris’s. It was somewhere where everyone felt at home, packed full of character. Every room seemed to be on a different level, such as the kitchen that was through a stable door and down a step. The door frame was painfully low for some but the warmth from the Aga and my mother’s homely cooking would cheer up any bumps from the architecture. I had been looking forward to the party: for me it was a chance to see friends whom I had grown up with, and going out had become so rare that it was a real treat. My parents also invited many of their friends and it had become a tradition, a time for us all to get together and catch up. I did feel a little nervous. This would be the first time I would talk openly about Iris and autism. I wasn’t sure what people would say, how much they knew about her story and if any of them had even been following what had happened over that past year.

  ‘I know we always say this, but this evening is the start of Christmas for all of us. Your parents have done it again! Brilliant party! How’s Iris doing? We’ve been following her, you know. I loved that latest painting. So much energy …’

  As I chatted to the guests, surrounded by people from my past who all now knew about Iris, our challenges and triumphs, I felt relaxed. There was no need to awkwardly explain, to make excuses for her not being there or to anticipate a hasty retreat. Everything was out in the open and people were being so kind. Some were interested to know more about autism and how Iris saw the world, and I explained what I could and then moved on to welcome more guests and hand around canapés. Later, as the party wound down, my thoughts were with my new responsibility, our Siberian house guest.

  My brother took me through to the laundry room to introduce me to her. ‘James, she’s beautiful!’ I cried as I looked inside the pet carrier. ‘Look at that coat and those fluffy paws. She’s got snowshoes on.’

  She was a tabby cat, her eyes bright green with a knowing, intelligent feel to them. She had small ears, a full black-and-white tail, and a thick coat that was longer around her shoulders and back legs. It was as though she was wearing breeches. To my surprise my brother was very protective over his girlfriend’s cat. I listened carefully as he told me about her daily routine, her food and what she liked to do. He even gave me a jacket of his that she liked to sleep on. I drove home after the party with Shiraz in the back and I was looking forward to seeing what Iris would think of our beautiful guest.

  As I turned towards the house after shutting the gates I could see Iris’s face at the window, obviously still very much awake. I had talked to her about the arrival of the cat and made it clear that she was only staying with us for the holidays but that had been many hours ago and I wondered if she had remembered what I had said or if she had even listened to me. Sometimes it was difficult to know what was sinking in. But it turned out she had listened carefully to everything. She was extremely excited as I came through the front door carrying the box and couldn’t wait for me to let the cat out and to meet her.

  Iris was immediately drawn to Shiraz’s luxurious fur, long white whiskers and stripy bushy tail. This was no ordinary cat, she was magnificent, and Iris followed her around the house on Christmas Eve with great interest. ‘C’ ‘A’ ‘T’, ‘CAT’, ‘More cat’ she said as she walked after her. Words never came easily but as soon as this pedigree feline entered the house Iris had no trouble saying what she wanted in regard to the animal, even to the extent of spelling out the word for good measure. Eventually Shiraz turned to her and settled on the carpet, waving her tail into Iris’s lap as she knelt beside her. Iris lay down alongside her body and stroked her tummy, her hand weaving into the soft fur and smiling.

  Over the Christmas holidays Iris tried to firm up her bond with the house guest by offering her water and then even wanting her to join her for a cup of tea with the egg cups that she had especially climbed up on top of the dresser to get – a curious and adorable show of affection and kindness.

  If Iris wasn’t feeling well, Shiraz curled up by her side and immediately Iris forgot about her frustrations, her illness and her lack of sleep. Iris hated being ill; she couldn’t stand not being able to breathe properly and it was hard to explain to her that it wouldn’t last for ever, that it would pass. Luckily she was very rarely unwell but I did dread it. Shiraz, however, seemed to be the best medicine. As I looked at them together, Iris stroking her fur, I couldn’t believe how quickly they had bonded. Our Christmas guest had become like a nanny over just a few short days. She would soon have to go back to London, but she had opened up a door that I had no idea had been unlocked. Maybe my efforts in getting Iris involved with animals in the past had all been premature: she had needed time to develop. Iris hadn’t paid much attention to animals before: it was as though she didn’t see them. Now it was a different story. Shiraz had given her comfort in times of need, calmed her senses when she was overloaded and provided friendship. Timing is everything in life, something I am reminded of every time I pick up my camera: picking the right moment can make the difference
between success and failure. Living with autism can be a game of timing too. My New Year’s resolution was not to try to forget those experiences with Iris that hadn’t gone well in the past – you never know how time can change everything.

  Even before we had taken Shiraz back to London I had made up my mind. I would start searching for an animal once again, but this time we would be more focused about what we were looking for and open our minds to the fact that the traits we desired may come from the most unsuspected source: a cat. Could a cat provide all that I was looking for in an animal for Iris? Shiraz certainly seemed to know what to do. Had I overlooked cats all together due to their reputation of being more aloof and less loyal than dogs? Shiraz had changed my perceptions. Her company was missed after she left. Iris had been prepared for her departure and knew that she was only with us on a visit but she still wandered around the house asking for ‘cat’. This made me more determined than ever to find Iris a cat of her own.

  I had some experience with animals behaving in surprising ways. By giving them opportunities, patience and kindness they can fulfil roles that you wouldn’t expect. This was what had happened with Baggins, the faithful Percheron horse in France. During my recuperation after my accident I heard from a friend about some horses that needed a home: they had been caught up in the sale of a chateau. P-J thought I was a little crazy as at the time we were trying to sell the horses we had, but one of them interested me greatly. It was a breed that we had seen at the local stud called a Percheron. A heavy horse known for its strength and loyalty, now a carriage driving breed, they were once the original warhorse bred for their courage and intelligence as well as their immense power. Her gentle eyes pulled at P-J’s heartstrings too and we ended up buying her along with her carriage. We nicknamed her Baggins and she helped me in so many ways. I had a long recovery ahead of me and at first neither of us were in a state for riding, so I would take her for walks as you would a dog. She followed me around and before I knew it we didn’t really need to fence her in. We would shut the main gate to our farm and she would roam around. Every time the postman arrived there would be a thundering of hooves as she galloped up the hill towards the house to find out who was there; she really was a horse-dog. Many times when I was walking her and tired she would lower her head for me to use her long mane to hold on to. She was the gentlest giant you could ever imagine. So perhaps Iris’s animal friend wasn’t going to be the faithful loyal dog I had always wistfully imagined, following at her heels and riding in her bike basket as my West Highland terrier had done in my childhood. Maybe it would be a cat instead …

  The thought of taking a cat on a bike made me chuckle. Wouldn’t that be something? There were times out on bike rides when having an animal with us might be hugely beneficial, perhaps when Iris had to wait in the car while we sorted out the kit when she would sometimes get frustrated and start to cry. She found these transitions hard to deal with and while we waited at gates for the other to open them or at the bridges over canals she wouldn’t like that we had stopped. These moments worried Iris; they were when her anxieties rose. To have a friend there, a faithful companion, would be so valuable. I started to think of our daily routines too, our difficulties in the car. Iris was fine when the car was moving but as soon as we hit traffic lights she became impatient and worried, she would start to fidget, then to cry and from that point it became harder to settle her. Would a cat happily travel in a car on a regular basis? Could it provide the security Iris needed to settle on longer journeys? Then there were her sleeping habits, which had improved quite dramatically, but when you compared them to others we weren’t exactly in the same league. She would go to bed at practically midnight. When I was a child having my dog at the end of my bed in the evenings helped me sleep, and in the mornings I couldn’t wait to get up and see her; could a cat do the same for Iris?

  I could imagine a cat fulfilling all of these requirements but there was one massive difference between cats and dogs that I couldn’t ignore and that was that therapy dogs are trained to do their duties for a child with special needs and that an adult gives them commands to behave in a certain way in different situations. For example, if the child needs to calm down, the dog is given a signal by its handler and it will put its head on the child’s lap to give them some deep pressure on their body, providing a calming feeling. Many children on the spectrum are ‘runners’, a common issue where the child bolts off with no sense of danger or knowing where they are going. A dog in a harness can be attached to the child by a lead and, if the child tries to run off, the dog is taught to stand firm and stay on the spot, preventing the child from running into danger. If a child is self-harming or engaging in repetitive behaviour that isn’t desirable, the handler can give the dog a signal to intervene to distract them. I knew that cats could be trained with a clicker for treats but that was just to do tricks on the odd occasion. I doubted it would be possible to train a cat to do all that I had imagined, to be there for Iris in the ways that I desired. That needed to come from instinct, a powerful interest and love for Iris, and that wouldn’t be easy to find in a cat. So I focused clearly on what I was looking for, the character traits that would make a good fit: loyalty, an acute interest in humans and their activities, courage and intelligence. A love of water would be useful – but even I could tell I was getting carried away with that one. All that I was looking for was very unlikely but not impossible. I needed to cling to that – ‘not impossible’ – and believe in ‘anything is possible’.

  Raining Cats, acrylic, May 2014

  I had been in touch with various cat-rescue centres and one of them did have an older female cat who sounded like she was what we were looking for. They suggested we take her for a week to see if Iris got on with her but it didn’t work at all. Once again it was as though Iris didn’t even see the animal in front of her and the cat showed no interest in Iris either. In fact, she seemed to really dislike all of us and just wanted to go outside. She wasn’t shy, rather boisterous actually, but she made it clear she wanted to be in any room we weren’t in, and as soon as we went close to her she stalked off, flicking her tail, annoyed at our presence. I tried tempting her with treats and toys but after she hissed at me I could see it was a pointless exercise and that we hadn’t found the right fit. This wasn’t something that I should be forcing or even need to be encouraging; it needed to come from the animal and for it to be their choice.

  ‘OK, maybe this isn’t meant to be. After all, how many times can we do this to Iris?’

  P-J was getting frustrated with my endless searching and felt like we were looking for a needle in a haystack. I did start to wonder if I had become so used to researching that it had become a habit. I was always looking for something that we didn’t have, trying to find something that was just out of reach, that elusive component – maybe it was a coping mechanism, a need to keep my mind busy to block out my concerns about the future.

  I decided to give this idea one last go and use everything at our disposal including asking Iris’s Facebook followers for some help. I described what sort of cat I would like for Iris and asked if they had any suggestions for suitable breeds. A deluge of comments, emails and letters came flooding in. There was a breed that I hadn’t heard of before, a large American cat called a Maine Coon, that was known for its loving, fun and loyal nature, which stood out from the rest. Some of the owners described them as ‘dog-like’ – they were incredibly interested in humans and they loved water. I couldn’t believe what I was reading; it was as if I had unearthed the ‘Baggins’ of the cat world. This was the breed for us, surely the perfect companion for a child.

  As luck would have it there was one breeder not too far away from us and as I spoke to the lady on the phone she described a kitten that sounded promising. She was a lot smaller than the rest but that was probably because she spent all her time with humans instead of her mother. As the breeder heard more about Iris she felt that this kitten would be the right fit as she was so incredibly interacti
ve and loving for such a young kitten. The owner was very different to the other breeders whom I had spoken to. It was almost as if I was the one being vetted. She asked a great deal of questions about us, our home and what Iris was like. I loved how much she cared for her cats and that she took the time to get to know us first. I placed my faith in her judgement as she knew the cats far better than I ever could and we made arrangements to meet the kitten.

  ‘She’s just through here in the kitchen, mind your step. I don’t keep them all in cages like some breeders do; they all live with us.’ I tiptoed through a pride of ginormous cats in her home, which was a converted school. Magnificent felines sprawled across every ledge of the high windows. Some were sitting proudly on the sofas, others on the dresser. With a cat on every surface, the smell was quite overwhelming at first and I was pleased that Iris was waiting in the car with P-J. I had never felt like this around domestic cats before; I was in awe of their beauty. There was something wild about them: the lynx-like ears with long tufts at the tips, large round copper eyes and an almost human look on their faces. Stroking one of the males that stopped me in my tracks as I walked through the kitchen door was like looking into the eyes of Aslan. He had a shaggy mane and large tufted paws. He moved slowly past and then I saw the kitten playing with some newspapers on the kitchen table. When she looked at me I couldn’t help but smile. Her enormous ears and long white whiskers were comical against her tiny tabby body. She was much smaller than the others but as I listened to more information about her and how she had been sleeping on the breeder’s pillow and how she had become quite the sous chef in the kitchen, I fell in love with her and we decided to take her home that day.