Further into the garden I embarked upon an ambitious tree-planting project. Alder, white hawthorn, maple and old English oak were planted to border a winding gravel path leading up to the back fence where I had erected a summerhouse. The spaces between the trees were given over to lawn and plantations of bulbs of all manner of spring and summer flowerings. Behind the stone-built double garage I dug a vegetable plot, which was bordered by a stone slab patio, complete with a masonry barbecue. Around the entire perimeter of the huge garden and drive I had painstakingly erected a seven-foot wooden fence. My intention was to create a private garden paradise. I imagined that when Toby Jug was eventually able to roam the garden he would have a whale of a time. He was a lucky cat because all of this was his to share and enjoy.
On evenings in late spring I loved to wander through the garden of fruit trees in blossom simply to gaze at their delicate flowers filled with coloured pollen dust and to feel at peace with life and the universe. Listening to the calming sound of their leaves as they stirred in the breeze was, for me, an insight into the splendour of creation. As the evening became night I liked to linger in the garden, especially when the sky was clear.
Later in the year, when Toby Jug was a mature cat, he loved to share my night-time excursions and surprised me by wanting to play games with me. He would disappear and then suddenly reappear from out of the darkness, charging at me, and then crouch in the grass before he reached me, inviting a chase. When I made a mock dash towards him, he would race away to leap up the garden fence and station himself on the top in his lord-of-the-manor pose. It was interesting to see how his cat nature emerged so strongly at nightfall. I was intrigued that he seemed to want me to play with him as if I was also a cat. But this was still in the future because for the present Toby Jug had a lot to learn about the garden and about the feast of wonderful experiences it had in store for him.
Whenever the weather permitted being outdoors at night, I was astounded at the countless stars I could see above me. The sight of this timeless universe always filled me with such wonder that it put my life and Toby Jug’s into a very brief and insignificant perspective. At Owl Cottage, for the first time since childhood, I actually saw some shooting stars. The sight of them was a thrilling spectacle. I remembered to make a wish whenever I saw one.
Together Toby Jug and I could see all of this from the cottage garden, our window on the cosmos. To be here in this cottage garden and to experience all this was like a dream come true for the city boy who hated the enclosed boredom of school and played truant to wander through the woods and along the river banks (and was soundly beaten for it). Now I could indulge a keen delight in the freedom to enjoy nature as I wished. The prospect of sharing these wonders with Toby Jug gave my enjoyment of these simple pleasures a heightened perspective.
The daily happenings in the surroundings of the cottage had a prime quality about them which I stored in my mind. These included images of pipistrelle bats erupting from the eaves of the cottage and winging their dizzy flight-paths across the garden in the softening light of dusk. Or in the autumn twilight, a tawny owl calling from a nearby woodland copse whilst in the garden an adult female hedgehog, followed by two young ones, scoured the lawn, hunting for snails and slugs. I was always amazed at how rapidly hedgehogs could move.
When I bought the cottage I was intrigued by its name, Owl Cottage. It was only when I came to strip away the thick canopy of overgrown ivy and Virginia creeper that choked the stone walls at the back of the cottage that the reason became apparent. On the end walls of each of the three gables there were stone-sculptured owls of Victorian design. One of them was a fat brown owl of benevolent countenance, while the one on the highest gable was a tall thin owl with a look of the hunter. The third owl was the smallest of the three and bore the finely chiselled melancholic expression of the proverbial wise owl. I became very fond of this feature and made certain that the concrete around their bases was in a good state of repair to ensure that they would not be blown down in a storm.
All of this – the old stone cottage, the cottage garden with its trees, flowers and the shrubs – Toby Jug inherited in his role as the house cat. It was his garden as well as mine. Cats love a garden because it reminds them of their natural habitat: a place where they can pretend to be a wild animal again but with the option to lead a domestic life of civilized comfort when they wish.
I was fortunate to have a home where I felt at one with the wild Northumberland landscape. Owl Cottage amply fulfilled most of the conditions I had in mind when I was first searching for a rural property. Firstly, I had to be able to see trees from all of the windows and open doors. I have always loved to be near trees and to sense their living presence. In pagan times it was believed that each tree was governed by a spirit, something I don’t find that hard to believe. When I’m gardening or sitting out in the garden, either in the early morning or late evening, I am always aware of each tree as a living presence. And as in the lyrics of the song from the musical Paint Your Wagon, I find it only natural that I should talk to them.
Another condition I had when I bought the property was that it had to be old and in this respect Owl Cottage suited admirably since it dated from the late eighteenth century. However, there must have been dwellings on the site before that because the road that passed outside the front of the cottage had been built over an aged horse-and-cart track linking the port of Amble to the many rural hamlets inland. There is a tale recounted from local folklore that Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson travelled on horseback along this track from his ship moored at Amble to meet up with his beloved Lady Hamilton at Linden Hall where she stayed as a guest of the Blackett family, who were important landed gentry. It is a romantic notion to think that the heroic admiral rode past my cottage door for his not-so-secret assignations. The local history of the area abounds in such tales, which serve to promote the aura of mystery that, traditionally, characterizes the Northumberland of bygone days.
One of the many selling points of the inside of Owl Cottage was the bathroom. It was an extension built out from the roof with a splendid wide-tiled windowsill spanning the whole width of the wall. Plenty of space here for toiletries and perhaps a houseplant or two, I thought when first viewing the property. Although I didn’t know it at the time, plenty of space too for a certain cat to lounge in comfort. I also guessed that I would have a panoramic view of the sky when lying in the bathtub. But the best was yet to come. When I opened the window there was a breathtaking view of the Coquet Valley stretched out below. Over the tops of the huge trees, that would hide the river in summer, I was able to see far beyond to the hazy outline of the Cheviot Hills.
Further exploration of the cottage revealed a cramped attic bedroom which had an oval window facing east from which on a clear day I could just make out the blue outline of the North Sea about ten miles away. To my city-weary soul it was a sheer delight to consider the prospect of living in a place of such outstanding natural beauty. I set about buying it straightaway. When the deeds of the cottage arrived I was intrigued to read that it was forbidden to butcher a beast on the premises and that using the grounds for duelling would not be tolerated. Interestingly, though, I had noticed that some of the stones of the outside walls of the cottage were deeply scored as if they had been used to sharpen swords. Yet another romantic notion from the past!
Once it was mine, everything I discovered about the cottage enchanted me even though it required a lot of attention and much hard work and money to refurbish. Everything I did to improve it was a labour of love. The mysterious circumstance in which Toby Jug came into my life, I decided, was a good omen. It marked the end of the early years of professional striving and the solitude that usually goes with living in rented city flats. It also gave me a pet to care for and love. In return Toby Jug loved me with all the devotion of his being and filled an emotionally sterile gap in my life. An act of fate had brought us together and his struggle for survival helped me to evaluate what was of most importance in my o
wn life.
The college where I worked was housed in a medieval castle owned by the Duke of Northumberland. The castle was situated in the town of Alnwick, often described as the Windsor of the North, whose feudal walls were surrounded by trees and fields that extended all the way to the farmsteads around my cottage. The quintessential rural landscape in which I found myself living was both a balm to my jaded spirit and a boost to my freshly awakened senses. It made for an improved and healthier quality of life. Even the air was sweet and full of the fresh aroma of flowers and woodland herbs. When the wind blew easterly the tang of the sea could be scented in the garden. Toby Jug’s first experience of the outdoors reawakened me to the sights and scents of the natural surroundings as I witnessed his rapturous response to the garden.
When I first took Toby Jug out into the garden, I rested his jug on a flat stone on the wall fronting the rose garden and sat close by to watch his reactions. The effect upon him was beyond my expectation and showed something of the tough personality he possessed. Instead of cowering in the bottom of his jug, as I anticipated, he stood on his hind legs with forepaws pressed against the side of his jug and gaped at what was for him a whole new world. His small eyes bulged with excitement, his tiny head pivoted all around trying to encompass these new sights and his firm little tail wagged feverishly with the inevitable result that he suddenly fell and rolled over on his cotton-wool bed. Scrambling up on all fours he began to dash around his jug, frequently bumping his head in his eagerness to see everything. Finally realizing that I was at hand, he rushed to the side of the jug where he could catch my attention and whined piteously. He was obviously desperate to be let out. So despite my fears, I lifted him out of his jug and plonked him on the grass.
The experience momentarily paralysed him with excitement as he became aware of the smells of the garden at first hand. With eyes half-closed and nostrils quivering he looked to be in a state of pure ecstasy. Then, as he realized the immensity of space around and above him, his body began to tremble and shake all over. This situation lasted for several minutes before, at last, summoning up all his courage, he moved forward with exaggerated caution and deliberation. Moving only a few steps at a time and then halting to sniff the air, he proceeded as if he was stalking some huge and dangerous prey. After a while his movements ceased altogether and he lay down totally exhausted by his efforts. I guessed that the experience was proving too much for him. Tenderly scooping up the tired kitten, I laid him back in his jug whereupon he curled himself around as cats do and fell fast asleep. Toby Jug had made his first venture into the great wide world. He was no doubt now dreaming about his adventures, judging from the way his sleeping body gave occasional tremors, punctuated by squeaks, as if he was reliving the whole episode over and over again.
I decided to give him time to digest his encounter with the garden. There was a problem in that, for his own safety, I couldn’t leave him out of his jug unless I could remain present. However, if I left him in the jug for security then he would not be able to see things clearly because of the distortion caused by the curvature of the glass and this would only increase his distress. Eventually, I remembered an old birdcage in the garage, left behind by the previous occupants of the cottage. I wondered if this might be the answer. With some difficulty I retrieved it from where it hung beneath a dusty beam. After cleaning it out I tried him inside. It seemed to solve the problem admirably, at least for the time-being. Far from objecting to this indignity, Toby Jug seemed very much at home in his cage and explored it with great curiosity.
The next day was sunny and mild so I thought I would try him in the cage on an upstairs window sill with the window open. From this position he was able to see the entire garden. He became very excited and agitated by the small songbirds whizzing between the trees. After a few days I felt confident that he could cope with the garden at first hand and with his usual affable approach to life he really began to enjoy the experience safe within the confines of the cage, which I moved around periodically on the patio so that he could have a different view of his world. This was also a secure way of familiarizing him with the garden in preparation for the time when he could wander at will.
Meanwhile, I was free to do some minor gardening jobs. As long as Toby could see me he was content but if he lost sight of me he would panic and cry out until we were reunited. Needless to say, on many occasions I got very little gardening done.
Fresh, sunny, spring days and chilly nights eventually gave way to mostly wet summer days and not so chilly nights. Toby Jug grew in size and gained in health. At long last I was able to dispense not only with his protective cage but also with the jug. It was clear that Toby would always be small in comparison with other cats but, considering what he was like when I rescued him, the change was gargantuan.
There remained, however, the problem of safety. How freely was I prepared to allow Toby to wander now that he had graduated from the protective environments of both the jug and the birdcage? I concluded that there would have to be limits imposed until he was mature enough to care for himself outdoors. The solution lay in buying him a harness.
One day I took Toby Jug with me to a local pet shop. The shopkeeper offered various harnesses for cats and rabbits which were far too large for Toby’s small frame. The man, in his late sixties, was anxious to please and seemed both challenged and amused by the problem of getting a harness to fit Toby Jug. After desperately searching his mind, with a great deal of head-scratching, he recalled having specially adapted a fabric harness for his daughter’s guinea pig which she had always insisted on taking with her when they went caravanning in the summer holidays. This sounded more hopeful. The only problem with this solution was that his daughter was now in her twenties and the guinea pig long gone. He was hopeful that she might have kept the harness for sentimental reasons because she had been inconsolable when her guinea pig had died and she was an inveterate hoarder. He promised to check with his wife and daughter that night and made a note to remind himself. I thanked him and promised to call the next day.
In fact, several days passed before I had time to call at the shop again although I wasn’t really expecting anything to come of it. Meanwhile, Toby had to be confined to barracks. When I called again I took Toby Jug with me and the shopkeeper’s eyes lit up when he saw us. He gleefully produced a small, brown, worn harness which he held aloft in triumph. It would be a perfect fit for the little cat he said, grinning from ear to ear, and so it proved. He was very pleased to have solved the problem and refused to accept any payment. I was delighted with the harness and Toby seemed very comfortable wearing it. Thanking him profusely I nonetheless bought a week’s supply of cat food from the shopkeeper which I anticipated Toby Jug might eat someday when he grew out of his present addiction to canned baby food. I suppose I was spoiling him rotten but then I thought he deserved it and it pleased me to do so.
When I got home I again tried the harness on Toby Jug and it fitted perfectly, just as it had done in the shop, although Toby wasn’t too sure about wearing it now that the novelty had worn off. Next, I measured out a length of twine which allowed Toby to range freely on his own. Attaching this to his harness and securing the other end to the leg of an iron garden chair, I set him free. He didn’t move much at first and kept looking up at me to see what was required of him but eventually his attention was taken by some flying insects and he became engrossed. Now I could happily leave him for a while and get on with my jobs. This arrangement proved to be satisfactory as long as I remembered from time to time to change the place where I had tethered him.
For the most part Toby Jug was content to lie in the shade of a bush and watch the world of the garden go by, especially birds and butterflies. Occasionally, he would rouse himself to pounce on a fly which he then ate, quite a change from baby food. He seemed to appreciate the sights, sounds and the mysterious scents around him. I think it all unnerved him at times and he needed space to adapt. He always acted relieved when I untethered him and brou
ght him back inside the cottage where he would start playing about more confidently in his familiar surroundings. Toby Jug was at heart a lap cat and at this stage content to be a house cat – a ‘homebird’ as the saying goes.
I recall one day buying some liquorice from the village shop and noting that Mrs Brown gave it to me in a white paper bag reminiscent of those used in the old-fashioned sweet shops of my schooldays. I was working at my desk and it so happened that just as I finished the last bit of liquorice Toby, who was then about twelve weeks old, was trying to clamber up my sweater. On a sudden impulse, more for amusement than anything else, I popped him into the sweet bag. Far from struggling to get out, he snuggled down and rested quite happily, with the paper bag wrapped around him and his diminutive, grizzled face peeping out of the top of the packet.
My enduring images of him at that early stage of his life are best described by words such as tiny, little, small, diminutive and so on. But for all that he had a strong body and a personality brimming with energy and curiosity as well as a huge capacity for affection. In addition, he had developed a deep-rooted attachment to me. To Toby Jug I was family and to me he was more than a cat. To me animals have unique personalities in the same way as people do. I have known budgerigars, cats, dogs and horses, each with their very own characteristics and personal ways of behaving which rendered them special, just like people. The cats in my life have all played an important part, helping me to understand the phenomena of animal behaviour and to realize that each of them is entitled to a life of their own. At a dinner party one evening I remember how I astonished a senior medical research scientist by asking him if he had ever considered, with regard to the cats and dogs he used in his vivisection experiments, that their lives were as important to them as his own life was to him.
Paw Prints in the Moonlight Page 5