Some of My Friends Have Tails

by Sara Henderson

  Somehow it lived through the flight, never moving the entire time. The only evidence of life was a slight movement of the rib cage, and the occasional opening of one eye in response to very gentle one-finger stroking by the ever-attentive girls, who spent the whole trip staring at it. When we arrived at Bullo, the kitten had top priority. Charlie had to unload the plane himself, as Mum and girls set up living quarters for this tiny creature. Charlie understood these priorities, and unloaded the plane without a word while the grand project proceeded. A cardboard box was set up on its side in a quiet spot, safe from all the dogs, who were allowed one sniff apiece, and told in very stern voices, not to touch. They all quietly sat down and watched the installation of the new animal into the menagerie.

  The children searched for soft bedding, and after I reclaimed the only decent linen I possessed, the box was lined with clean soft dusting rags. Then everyone, dogs included, held their breath as I carefully transferred the lifeless piece of tatty fur into its new home.

  Food was the urgent priority. I made up a formula of milk, baby porridge and a few drops of baby vitamins—not the bottle-at-a-time dose the little kitten had somehow miraculously survived. This was administered by eye-dropper for long hours and days. I would have to say the kitten owed its life to the children’s ever-constant vigil. Even school was temporarily suspended for feeding times, which seemed to come every ten minutes on the children’s schedule. After the first week, kitten and box were moved into the schoolroom to cut down the never-ending requests to go and check the patient.

  How the kitten survived the first week is still a mystery to me. But at week’s end it was still breathing, was slightly less of a skeleton, the movement of its rib cage was a little more evident and it could breathe without the terrible rattling sound. The kitten looked more comfortable and was sleeping in a curled-up position with its tiny head resting on its paws. It obviously moved about the box as it would be in a different position when we checked it each morning, but as yet we had not seen it standing. I really don’t think it had the strength to stand; it moved, I’m sure, by dragging itself the small distance it moved daily.

  It was halfway through the second week that big changes started to happen. We were working quietly in school when the girls let out an almighty yell and pointed at the box. The kitten was standing, shakily, very unsure, and swaying dangerously. So much effort was going into this first manoeuvre: the head was down, the eyes staring at the ground, legs spread at the most extreme angles; it looked like a shed without support struts in a high wind. Eventually, despite the encouragement of the girls’ combined squeals, over it went with a thump. The rest of the school day was suspended as willing hands repeatedly helped the scrawny little kitten to stand.

  From then on it never looked back; the change was miraculous. At the end of the second week the kitten was declared out of danger and given a good chance of surviving, and was named Pye-wacket.

  Maybe it was the whole bottle of vitamins and the constant twenty-four-hour feeding regime of the first weeks. Whatever, the kitten grew into the biggest cat I had ever seen. After he had all his shots at the vet’s and was desexed, he grew even bigger, and was more than half the size of the Labradors, Shad and Honey. Pye-wacket grew up believing he was a dog. He had never seen another cat, and was surrounded by four dogs, so he assumed he was one of those, and spent his entire life trying to be like them.

  When anyone approached the homestead gate, the dogs rushed out and stood in a row on the lawn and barked. Pye-wacket tried for many years to achieve this; he was up to the running and would join in when the dogs assumed their lines of defence, but try as he might, he couldn’t bark. On a few occasions he did manage a terrible-sounding yowl, which caused all the dogs to stop barking and stare at him in disgust, so he never tried again. He would run out, take up his position in the barking line, and swish his tail madly.

  You could find him lying in the sun with all the dogs every morning, getting his dose of vitamin D. And at feeding time he lined up with them all for his plate to be put in front of him. There was no doubt in Pye-wacket’s mind, he was a dog.

  He was a very playful kitten, and remained a very playful fully grown cat. Danielle was just a toddler at the time; Pye-wacket would hide behind the door, and when she passed, he would jump out and sink his teeth into the back of her nappy and latch his claws into the sides. Danielle would come squealing into the kitchen with Pye-wacket being dragged behind her, enjoying the ride immensely. There was a problem getting Danielle out of nappies because of this strange habit. It was a morning thing; it seemed to be his way of saying good morning to Danielle, and once the initial morning greeting was over, it was safe to let her wear lighter playsuits. But I was worrying needlessly; when the nappy stage was finished, Pye-wacket just jumped in front of her in a crazy spread-eagled fashion to greet her at the beginning of the day and then they both raced into the kitchen to have breakfast.

  Every now and then when he felt particularly playful, he would somehow manage to get his teeth and claws into the thin material of a playsuit without scratching Danielle, and she would tow him into the kitchen once more, squealing with delight, but it never could equal the nappy period. Later, when she wore a dress, they would spend hours playing hide and seek, with Pye-wacket hiding, and lunging out to embed teeth and claws into the back of Danielle’s dress, then being towed around the house. They both had a wonderful childhood. As Pye-wacket grew, his personality expanded. He was afraid of nothing and no-one; he would hunt and kill snakes, and Uncle Dick came back from checking the windmill on Number Two Bore one day to report that he’d seen ‘that cat’ swimming across the river on his way home.

  Charles was not fond of cats; he liked dogs, but he only just tolerated cats. If they came near him he would push them away. But his attitude towards Pye-wacket was different; he treated him like a dog.

  Pye-wacket had singled me out as his person, and when he returned from his hunting trips, I would be the first person he would look for to greet, and often to get a good meal. But whatever time of day it was, he would seek me out. The cutest game he played with Charles was if he returned home at night and Charles and I were sitting in bed reading; he would come to the door and yowl to be let in. Charles would begrudgingly open the door and Pye-wacket would march past him in an imperious manner. He would then jump up on the foot of the bed, walk up my legs and body, and finally sit on my chest, look down into my face and yowl the closest sound to ‘Hullo’ that you could hear. If he was hungry he would jump down from the bed and wait at the door; if he did not want to be fed, he would curl up next to me and sleep for a few hours before he went out to check on the girls and the rest of his territory.

  But he never went to sleep or left without going through another of his funny little rituals with Charles. He would start at Charlie’s feet and balancing on his ankles, then slowly walk up his legs and body, as he did with me. But with Charles it was super-slow, and he wouldn’t start until Charles first acknowledged his presence. If Charles was deep in his book, Pye-wacket would dig in his claws very slightly, until Charles protested and paid attention to him. Then he would walk slowly up his legs and body with Charles calling to me to ‘remove that cat’ and ‘look at that cat’, and many other remarks about ‘that cat’. So they played this marvellous game that both thoroughly enjoyed, although Charles voiced disapproval the entire time and would never admit he enjoyed the whole ritual. He seemed pleased that Pye-wacket singled him out for this funny little performance. Sometimes Charles would overact and declare Pye-wacket had dug his claws in too deeply and I should remove him at once. Pye-wacket would pause and give Charles such a look as to convey his opinion quite clearly, then look at me as if to say, ‘He is exaggerating; I hardly touched him!’

  So the little game would continue. When Pye-wacket reached Charlie’s chest he paused, waiting for the same remark Charlie always made: ‘Sara, remove that cat!’

  Pye-wacket, taking his time, would stare at Charlie f
or a few seconds, then turn around and swish his tail right under Charlie’s nose; after a few rapid flicks back and forth, he would leap gracefully to the floor and walk regally out the door, or withdraw to my side of the bed, curl up and go to sleep. He never missed this routine when he returned home after an absence.

  Pye-wacket was so strong, he could beg standing his full height on his hind legs, and could walk right across the kitchen on his hind legs. He would stand on two legs and gently take a piece of meat out of your hand with his paws, without as much as a waver: a long way from that first time when it took every ounce of his strength and concentration just to stand on all fours for a few seconds.

  Pye-wacket was an impressive-looking cat, with whiter-than-white chest, stomach and paws and a white tip on the end of his tail for balance. The rest of him was a vivid orange-and-white marmalade pattern; he was extremely striking, and knew it.

  He didn’t live to old age, though; he went out in the prime of his life, still a top athlete. His ability as a hunter was his downfall in the wild Outback, when he took on one snake too many and it got the better of him.

  He had been gone for well over two weeks, which was not normal for him, and I was beginning to worry about him, but hoping all the time he would come cheerfully bounding in to annoy Charles, in bed reading once more. But this was not to be. The girls found him on the airstrip only a hundred yards from home. We buried him under the bottle tree, just outside my bedroom window.

  Pye-wacket was a wonderful animal, who probably had many more than the reputed nine lives a cat is supposed to have. His biggest victory was surely those first weeks of life, when he must have used up most of the nine. But once he got over that hurdle, he lived life to the full, enjoying every moment, and he gave so much fun and entertainment to his whole human family. Even Charlie shed a tear at his passing and many a time at night if he heard a sound at the door, would sleepily ask if it was ‘that cat’ wanting to come in. He is remembered to this day as ‘the best cat’, and will always have a place in my heart; and maybe, somewhere up there, he’s again flicking his tail under Charlie’s nose.

  11

  * * *

  HOTTENTOT

  We acquired Pye-wacket by accident as we seemed to with all the cats we have ever had. Our dogs were a mixture: some were very definite and deliberate purchases, but others were unplanned acquisitions for various reasons, usually because they were about to be put down, were found injured or lost, or just didn’t have a home or someone to care for them. But it was not only dogs this applied to, it extended to all dimensions of the animal and bird world.

  My first dog when we returned to Bullo from America, in 1970, was a Rhodesian Ridgeback. The people on the farm next to us in Maryland had had one; she would romp through the fields with Prince and was a truly beautiful dog.

  Not long after we arrived back at the station, Charles flew into Kununurra, and while he was picking up the grocery order found out that the shop owner was a breeder of Rhodesian Ridgebacks. Charles knew the children and I missed Prince terribly; he also knew there were no Chesapeake Retrievers in Australia. So he arrived home one day with the groceries and an eight-week-old Rhodesian Ridgeback puppy for me, and not long after that, with one black and one golden Labrador puppy for each of the two older girls. Marlee called her black Lab Shad, and Bonnie’s golden Lab was Honey. I read up on Rhodesian Ridgebacks in the dog encyclopedia and found out that one of their ancestors was the native dog of the Hottentot tribe, so that was what I called my puppy, Hottentot. And he was every bit as unusual as his name. The three puppies grew up together and were constant friends. Hottentot and Honey fussed over Shad after her nearly fatal episode with a crocodile, and all three watched out for each other at all times. They were the regular three musketeers.

  Although they were always together, they all developed very distinct personalities. Shad was a brilliant hunter, she could track anything; she was a smart dog and would learn tricks very fast. Honey was very beautiful and so completely and hopelessly dumb that it was hard to imagine; she was very skilled at shaking hands, only with one paw though, and that was the extreme extent of her ability. Hottentot … well, Hottentot was Hottentot.

  He knew he was King of the Castle; the two Labs fussed around him all day, and his human family told him regularly he was wonderful; he even had Charlie under his spell. So Hottentot didn’t see any necessity to extend himself in any way. It was enough that he was there.

  He grew to a very big, beautiful dog and it didn’t take him long to realise that Charlie was King of the Castle in human terms, so Hottentot started to mimic Charlie whenever or however possible. This pleased Charlie no end, but sometimes when it got a bit too close to home he would good-heartedly complain. This usually was when we went walking. Hottentot would happily bound along beside us with a sprightly spring to his step. Periodically, though, Charles would become winded and have to stop and lean up against a tree. His breath would come in an asthmatic wheezing, whistling sound until it returned to normal. It didn’t take Hottentot long to imitate this regular occurrence. On one outing, Charlie stopped to regain his breath; he had his back to the tree, leaning his full weight on the conveniently leaning trunk, his eyes closed, hands on hips, breathing deeply with a wheezing inhale and a whistling exhale. When Hottentot assumed a sitting position next to him, even Charlie had to stop and laugh as the big dog started a very good imitation of Charlie wheezing. Reminiscent of the Pye-wacket remarks, now it was, ‘Tell that dog to stop!’

  Hottentot knew he was ‘that dog’, and he would look at me when the phrase was uttered, awaiting instructions; I would shake my head with a suitably stern expression, trying desperately not to smile, and Hottentot would jump up and walk ahead with a confident swagger.

  So our walks would be peppered with statements like, ‘That dog is doing it again, Sara’, or ‘Sara, tell that dog he can’t come with us if he keeps doing that!’ But I think Charles was flattered that yet again one of my pets had singled out his character to imitate, because there was always a chuckle in his voice when he said, ‘Sara, tell that dog …’

  Another amusing habit that Hottentot acquired without prompting or training was that whenever Charles left the dinner table, after dinner, to go to bed to read, Hottentot would climb into his chair and sit with us for the rest of the meal. One night he just climbed into the chair to everyone’s amazement, and of course when he was showered with praise for being such a smart dog, he continued to sit in Charlie’s chair whenever possible.

  Sometimes Charles would leave the table to answer the phone. When he returned to find Hottentot holding court in his place, he would say, ‘Sara, tell that dog to get out of my chair!’ Hottentot would look at me, waiting for my response. Of course, we all knew what that would be, but Charles and Hottentot seemed to enjoy the exchange tremendously.

  Hottentot would reluctantly vacate the position of power and curl up on the floor on the other side of my chair waiting for Charlie to leave once more. Sometimes this would be repeated three times a night. Some nights Charles would not be in a good mood and Hottentot could sense this immediately by the expression on Charlie’s face as he crossed the room. On these occasions, Hottentot was out of the chair long before Charles even reached the table. When he did miss the warning signs, just a touch of my hand on his side was enough and he would be out of the chair in a flash.

  But on nights when Charles went to bed early, he was in his element and would sit in the chair for long periods, even managing to achieve Charlie’s superior expression of bored arrogance, a look he often assumed when presiding over dinner.

  Hottentot was a major hero twice in his life … well, Charles would usually only sanction once. The trouble with the second time was that Hottentot saved the day by protecting the girls and me, and indeed Charlie, against danger, and of course in Charlie’s eyes this was his job, so he didn’t look too kindly on a dog taking it over. So he wouldn’t readily give Hottentot credit, except when the children and I
were around and forced him to admit to Tot’s bravery.

  The time when in Charlie’s eyes Hottentot was a major hero was when he upstaged Gus Trippe’s super-trained ribbon-winning obedience dog.

  Gus and Charlie had a long business/friend relationship that began when they were around eight years old and started their own lawn-mowing business. Gus was visiting with his wife and dog, and relating the dog’s latest ribbon winnings, much to Charlie’s chagrin. This determined competitiveness between them even extended to their pets.

  The German Shepherd dog, feeling a little lost in a strange place, had wandered into the office looking for a familiar face. Charlie seized the opportunity, being thoroughly sick of hearing of the dog’s conquests, and promptly said that dogs were not allowed in the homestead. Which of course was not so at all. Gus, not to tarnish the dog’s reputation, immediately ordered it outside. Horror upon horrors, it ignored him! Charles made cutting remarks about ribbon-winning obedience dogs which resulted in Gus shouting louder; still no response from the dog, and more remarks from Charlie. The competition became serious and was getting tenser by the moment.

  Gus handed over the controls to his wife who apparently had done the obedience course with the dog, and knew all the magic instructions. On cue, she jumped out of her chair, and in a ‘sergeant major on parade’ voice, index finger rigidly pointing in the direction of the door, boomed, ‘Colt … out!’ The command was a smidgin short of breaking the sound-barrier, but didn’t move the dog. After a few more sound-barrier attempts with the same result, all peppered by Charlie’s continual sarcastic remarks, the dog was forcibly dragged from the room under instructions from Gus.

  Silence was the only acceptable way to respond, after such a verbal build-up of the dog’s accomplishments, and such a miserable performance. The poor dog had probably only wanted to stay close to his owner, where he thought he would be safe, rather than outside, where the odds were three dogs to one against him. Unfortunately, he wasn’t aware of all the laurels that had been heaped on his outstanding obedience qualities. He stayed pressed up against the outside door where he had been dragged, longing to get back inside, which didn’t add in any way to the brave, strong, obedient image that had been built of him.