Iris watched me carefully as I brought her over to the car in the pet carrier box. I placed her beside Iris for the journey and we stopped off at a pet store on the way home to get a few supplies. While P-J went into the shop I opened up one end of the box so our little kitten could meet Iris properly. They just looked at each other for a while. I encouraged Iris to stroke her and she giggled as her fingers touched the soft fuzzy fur. When we got home and they were both free to move it was as though they were already old friends as we watched them settle on the sofa. They sat side by side, the kitten’s tiny body tucked in against Iris.
‘Job done!’ P-J said with a huge grin and patted me on the back as we walked to the kitchen. ‘Well done, you did it.’
I couldn’t believe it. Job done, he was right. It was immediate; they just clicked and there was no need to do anything else. I could stop searching.
The kitten was everything the breeder had described and more. We named her Thula, pronounced ‘Toola’, after one of Iris’s favourite African lullabies, meaning peace in Zulu. Thula was at Iris’s side from the moment she saw her and slept in her arms during her first night like a guardian angel. A true Maine Coon: affectionate, loving and intelligent. I watched them on the sofa, the kitten attentively looking at the iPad screen with Iris: gazing at everything and purring non-stop. When Iris was looking at her books she would delicately feel Thula’s ears and her long whiskers. Iris would occasionally hold her tail right at the tip while she was thinking, casually twiddling with the fur as if it were her own. Thula never moved, liking the attention and she settled into life at home just as quickly as she bonded with Iris, although she was very different around us adults. She was a typical hyperactive kitten: naughty, incredibly inquisitive and a comedian. P-J took great delight in showing me how she would come to his whistle; but when I tried, not so much. Thula reminded me of Meoska in those times but she was different. Something intriguing about her, which always astounded me, was her level of interest in anything we did. Watching me cooking, cleaning and editing my photos, it was as if she was studying me. I had no idea what motivated that behaviour in such a young animal. Was she trying to learn, to fit in?
Our morning routine changed as a result of Thula’s presence. Iris, once slow to stir and difficult to get going before 9 a.m., now seemed to have springs in her feet. She woke up with a wide smile with her new friend beside her and I heard her say ‘More cat’ as she followed her to the stairs. Thula’s constant presence and gentle nature almost immediately had a remarkable effect upon Iris. I began hearing Iris giving instructions to Thula. ‘Sit, cat,’ she would say when Thula was trying to play on her iPad. She said it with such authority that the kitten obediently sat down with her striped legs neatly together. Unlike most children of Iris’s age, she didn’t maul, stroke or pick up the kitten constantly. Their relationship was based upon companionship. Thula watched with great interest as Iris played, joining in whenever she could. Iris stood at her table playing with play-dough and Thula sat beside her, mimicking Iris’s movements. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing: this tiny kitten was implementing the basics of play therapy. The more I thought about it, the more I could see what a perfect companion a cat was for a child on the spectrum. They understood one another in a way that we would always struggle to. There was an undeniable bond forming between them, a powerful connection that we had been searching for all this time, and to finally see it was enchanting.
There was something about Thula’s eyes that was bewitching and I wondered if that was why Iris didn’t seem to mind holding eye contact with her or looking into her face. Sometimes her eyes looked greenish yellow, at other times blue, and they were circled with black in a beautiful eyeliner effect that swept out to the sides. Alongside her long whiskers she had extra long eyebrow whiskers to match. These whiskers, like her tail, seemed to have their own character and were so full of life; when she was interested in something they would move forward as if they were trying to grab the item.
If Iris woke during the night, Thula was there to settle her. It was as though she instinctively knew what to do. She would bring Iris a small toy in her mouth and drop it beside her. Iris would play for a while with the toy in her hands and the movement in her fingers seemed to release any tension. Thula would then snuggle up beside her and purr while Iris gently settled and fell back to sleep. I would watch them through the doorway; if I had gone in, Iris would have asked to go downstairs by raising her arms to be lifted and then guided me to the staircase with her own weight, rather like steering a motorbike by leaning into the corners. But with Thula there she was happy to stay in bed and be calmed down, not needing to move about the house. Then when Iris got distressed during the day Thula didn’t seem frightened, but instead stayed by Iris and distracted her from her difficulties.
My past experience with animals had taught me not to assume anything and to give them opportunities as they may well surprise you. With this in mind I needed to put certain things in place in order to keep Thula safe if we were going to take her out more in the car and even try her in a basket on the bikes, so I bought a harness. It would be a way for us to attach a lead comfortably and it would also give Iris something to hold on to. From the moment I put it on Thula it was as though she knew its purpose. She sat in front of Iris letting her inspect the various attachments and Thula saw it as a sign that she was now working and she wore it with pride. The lead wasn’t so simple. Every time I tried to attach it and get her to walk with me she just stopped, a perplexed look on her face. But with Iris on the other end it was a different story. Thula walked happily around outside in the frozen garden. It was the first time Thula’s paws had touched blades of grass and she walked along tentatively but never tried to stray away from her friend. I quickly understood that Thula’s willingness to go above and beyond linked specifically to Iris.
With P-J and me she was as cheeky as they come. ‘Thula, come back!’ P-J shouted and a flash of Thula’s tabby body flew past with what looked like a loaf of bread hanging from her mouth.
‘Was that …?’
‘Yes. Our breakfast. She’s nicked the bread.’
Thula was busy booting pieces of bread all over the laundry floor, so there was no rescuing the situation from there. Thula had many such eccentricities. For example, she loved cheese. Just the smell of it would entice her from any situation. She also played fetch with objects, bringing them back to us for us to throw again and again, and she would hang out in a basket by the kitchen door so she could pat us as we went past with her giant paws. It wasn’t long before she couldn’t fit into the basket; she would try to squeeze in but eventually she gave up. It was no good: her body was growing at a phenomenal rate. She was already the size of a fully grown English farm cat and she was still a kitten.
The weather had been terrible, so when it wasn’t possible to go for walks or be on the bikes we all went for a drive in the car with Thula curled up on Iris’s knee and purring loudly. She became part of everything and moulded herself into every situation, helping whenever she could.
My vision of taking a cat out on the bikes started like any other adventure. Planning was, of course, essential. I found a comfortable basket box that was specially designed for small dogs and to be attached to the handle bars; I knew that Thula was going to grow a lot more over the next couple of years, so the bigger the better. There was an internal lead and at first I got Thula used to just sitting in the box inside the house. Then I carried her around the garden in it, and the final stage was attaching it to the bike. But she adored riding on the bike. From the very first outing she was relaxed and enjoyed seeing all the wildlife along the canal and staying close to Iris. Right away I could see this was going to be a permanent arrangement. She never tried to get out and was always keen to get in the car when she saw the bikes. From then on Thula was a biker cat, accompanying us on every bike ride and being a friend to Iris when she needed extra support.
When Iris looked like she needed help I would rid
e up alongside her and position Thula’s basket right up against Iris’s seat. Thula would stretch up as far as she could to reach Iris and kiss her cheek. The long whiskers tickled and got Iris’s attention, pulling her away from her worries. Iris then placed her arm round Thula’s body and we would just let them be for a while as she stroked Thula’s head, delicately running her fingers along the symmetrical black markings in between her ears. Sometimes Iris would rub the long black tufts at the tips of her ears between her thumb and forefinger while Thula stayed still, watching the natural world around her with bright wide eyes.
As we rode along the canal towpath Thula’s presence always left a trail of smiles, chatter and laughter as people saw a cat sitting so confidently with her paws over the edge of the basket, leaning forward into the wind with an eager look upon her face. Thula made them smile because she acted differently from what was expected of a cat, bringing something special to their day. I wished everyone could be as accepting and joyful in regard to differences that they encounter in their lives. Thula and Iris were sending out a strong message – that different is brilliant.
One day, cutting one of our bike rides short due to high winds, we returned to the house and I carefully peeled off Iris’s snowsuit while she sat patiently on the stairs. Her cape was now a permanent fixture and I had it ready as usual. As I put the suit to one side I expected to see Iris desperately trying to get her top off, as that had been the case for the last year. But she was still sitting there looking at me, calm and happy. She looked at the cape and I gently placed it over her head with her other clothes still on. She then walked off to find Thula. P-J and I looked at each other and silently decided not to make a big deal out of it in case she thought better of it and wanted the whole lot off. But later that evening, with her clothes still on and Thula sleeping by her side, I thought about Iris’s clothes issue. We had never discovered what had lain behind her sudden dislike of clothing. I felt that it had started as a sensory problem and then turned into her way of life. She felt free and happier minus her tops, more comfortable and confident. Was she now feeling that way due to Thula’s presence and could therefore be more flexible? Whatever it was, it was a welcome relief that made life so much easier.
Storms had hit the south of England terribly that winter, with dreadful news of flooding and damage. We had been safe from the worst of it but the wind was blowing strongly and Iris had been uneasy all morning. The vocabulary explosion and all the highs that had come with it recently were inevitably counterbalanced with some lows. Iris had been working very hard on her speech, completely self-motivated using the iPad and her books. She was improving fast, but at times she looked phased-out and saddened by the pure effort of it all. It hurt me to see her feel this, and I thought again how unfair it was that she had to work so hard for something that came naturally to others. She paced around the house repeating words over and over: letters of the alphabet and a stream of animal names. It was amazing to hear so many words but there was a compulsive and rather uncontrolled manner in the way she was talking. I could tell she was anxious and wanted to go outside, so we ventured into the garden. The movement in the trees and grasses made her jump with excitement but it wasn’t long before their rhythm generated a blanket of calm that swept through her as she watched the motion. Iris retraced her steps from previous happy days, revisiting her favourite trees and last of all her favourite tree stump, which rested in the centre. She stood perfectly still with her eyes shut, placing her hands together with her palms gently touching the soaked wood. I did not know if she was drawing strength and peace from her old friend or if she was comforting him, but there had been calm to be found in the storm and we walked back to the house together.
But despite this I was still concerned about Iris. The strain of concentrating so hard on her speech was beginning to show. Hearing her repeating animal names over and over had shown me the cost of making progress. She had obviously gained some relief and enjoyment from being able to say them, but then she couldn’t control it and a new frustration would mount from that feeling of being out of control, as if she knew she needed to stop and rest but couldn’t. Habits from the past, like picking her lips, started to creep back in, so I made sure we did as many of her occupational therapy exercises, the sensory play and the ones with the therapy ball, to relieve the tension.
I was thrilled Iris was making progress, but the effort of it all and the toll it took on her was noticed by everybody, and that included her faithful friend. One day Thula picked up a square piece of bubble wrap in her mouth and jumped up on to the sofa beside Iris and dropped it in her lap. Iris who was withdrawn and looking exhausted, smiled and said, ‘Hi, cat.’ She picked the bubble wrap up and started playing, then offered it back to Thula. Unusually Thula didn’t want it to be thrown or dangled. She nudged it back to Iris and lay down purring loudly; she was prompting Iris to play with it and to feel the bumpy texture between her fingers. I watched from the doorway, amazed at what I was seeing. I had just been hunting for something to take Iris’s mind off running through her words, a distraction from her current goal. How was Thula doing this? I understood she must be reading Iris’s body language but to have the intelligence to find a sensory toy, not for herself but for Iris to play with to pull her out of this darker space was incredible.
I was seeing a change in Iris’s behaviour towards the cat. Iris was more tactile and affectionate, massaging Thula’s black paws and letting her fingers seep into her silky coat. And while she was on the iPad one hand was playing a game and the other was stroking her faithful cat who rested beside her. I felt certain that this has had an effect on calming her senses.
One evening P-J and I were preparing supper while our dynamic duo were playing with bubbles in the sink, using the painting table as a solid platform to stand on. Thula was by Iris’s side, splatters of bubbles ran down the window, and there were squeals of excitement as yet more were blown off her hand against the pane of glass. It had been a while since I had seen Iris be this comfortable touching water with her hands. For months she had avoided it and used utensils to play with it. There had been times when even just one drop of water on her skin could cause turmoil; she would run at me crying, wiping her body all over my clothes to get it off her skin, and I could see it was painful for her. But gradually, as she interacted with Thula, stroked her fur and followed her lead with water and sand play, we started to see many changes. Turning to me with a huge smile and arms outstretched I received the most wonderful hug, a rare and beautiful show of affection. Then to our surprise she turned to P-J and did the same, and after that it was Thula’s turn. I started to giggle and another hug came my way. Iris was pivoting on her painting table from one member of the family to the next and we couldn’t believe our luck; her hugs were given so rarely and it was incredibly moving as I watched her open her arms and launch herself towards P-J.
We were seeing improvements in every aspect of our lives. The relationships between Iris and her grandparents had changed dramatically. It was as though her ability to show how she felt towards them had lain dormant. She used to dislike being hugged, kissed or even talked to at times, but that was changing. She laughed if my father caught her as she passed him, and he could tickle her and give her a hug and a kiss. When my brother picked her up and put her on his shoulders she didn’t seem to mind at all and enjoyed riding around the garden. Before she would generally ignore these family members and it was difficult because I knew how much she loved them. Now, while my father relaxed in the garden, she was confident enough to go over to him, even grabbing his hand to lead him up to the top garden gate to go off on adventures into the neighbouring school field. She started to use her words around them: playing a game with her grandfather he started counting as he lifted up his feet and she would continue counting out loud beyond twenty. He was astonished and delighted in hearing her voice.
One Friday lunchtime my mother, Iris and I were all lying on the bed giggling. My mother and I held the blanket over
us like a tent while Iris wriggled with excitement underneath and then leapt out. As she bounced around I realized how far we had travelled over the last year. Watching her tuck her body close to her granny and want a hug filled me with joy. After a lovely afternoon I got Iris into the car and my mother came over to the car door and kissed Iris goodbye. All of a sudden Iris waved and said ‘bye’ and then blew a kiss – perfection! I am not sure how it happened or when exactly, but something had stirred – like her speech the pathways were clearing and she was showing us how much emotion was locked away. The love for them had always been there; like the words in her head she just had great difficulty expressing it. Autism can be immensely cruel at times, hurting the people that care the most, but with patience and understanding you can be rewarded with the most incredible highs. The bonds that had retreated had come back stronger than ever before. I was so pleased that my parents had never given up. Our weekly lunches and their regular visits to us at home had always continued, so Iris knew they were there for her when she was ready.
The new bonds Iris was forming with Thula were different to those with her first feline friend. Shiraz had been the mother figure, helping me like a faithful nanny over the Christmas holidays, whereas Thula was young and needed guidance, and this in itself altered Iris’s behaviour. She trusted Iris completely and with that came responsibility on Iris’s part to treat her with respect and love. One evening Iris was sorting through her paintbrushes. One by one a neat pile formed on the stool beside P-J, then she selected three of the smallest brushes and handed them to Thula. A little unsure how to deal with them at first, Thula began to play and Iris jumped for joy that her friend was sharing her passion. Every time Iris went to her painting table Thula would be there, sitting patiently in the left-hand corner of the table, watching and waiting, riveted, as the paintings developed. Occasionally the temptation to play would be too great and Iris would remind her to ‘sit, cat’ and she did. On days when the weather allowed it we moved the painting kit outside and there she was, waiting in position: Iris’s faithful friend, confidante and artist’s assistant. At first letting Thula out in the garden was a worry: would she wander off and go on her own adventures? But as soon as I put her red harness on she knew her responsibility lay firmly at home with Iris and she stayed by Iris’s side.
Iris Grace Page 16