by Helen Brown
I was pleased to discover the cot had a detachable mesh roof that could be zipped into place – presumably to keep out insects. Even that didn’t work. Jonah was almost as happy to sleep on top of the cot as to play in it. The cot, as far as he was concerned, was his.
I started hiding the cot in various rooms, but he always found out where it was and scratched and yowled to be let in.
Jonah sensed a power shift in the household – one that wasn’t in his favour. The tension revolved around the red portacot.
Then one day it happened. Jonah woke from his afternoon nap on Katharine’s bed and ambled downstairs into his worst nightmare. The portable cot – his playpen – was inhabited by a strange alien form. The intruder was virtually hairless, a plump blob resembling a pink jellybean. Jonah shuddered in revulsion. Not only had the jellybean taken over his playpen and fallen fast asleep in it, every human in the household, as well as Rob and Chantelle – who’d brought baby Annie over for a visit – were ‘oooooing’ and ‘aaaahhhing’ over the jellybean in tones he hadn’t heard since he was a kitten.
Watching Jonah shrink back into his fur, I could tell he was assessing the situation. He could hardly believe his ears when he heard people saying, ‘Isn’t she beautiful ?’ and ‘Oh, she’s so cute!’
Beautiful and cute were his words. Through disbelieving slits, he examined his humans. They’d gone berserk. Had they forgotten he was the only one who deserved to be ooooed and aaaahed over?
For the first time in his life, Jonah had a rival. The solution was obvious. One swift assault and the jellybean would be dethroned. Quivering on his haunches, he prepared for attack. With parental instincts on high alert, Rob and Chantelle tensed, ready to lunge forward to protect their baby.
‘No, Jonah!’ I cried, grabbing him and putting him away in the laundry.
We carried on admiring the new baby, counting her fingers and stroking her head, when the air was split by a terrible sound. Slow and mournful, it was like an air raid siren. Jonah was crying.
‘He’s got to get used to Annie,’ Rob said, unable to bear the sound anymore. ‘Let’s see how he goes.’
Releasing Jonah from prison, I placed him on the platform on top of his scratching post, where he always felt safe and in control. To keep him amused, I passed him a couple of florist ribbons. But he wasn’t interested. Instead, adopting his usual lordly position, he crouched down, eyes superglued on the baby.
Conversation reverted to booties and baby food while Jonah gave himself a full body spa. Paws, pads, wedges between the pads of his paws. Front of the ears, back of the ears, the crevice behind the back of the ears. Not a centimetre was overlooked. Hind leg on high, the cat was giving a good impression of pretending not to care – but his brain was working overtime.
Lydia was passing biscuits around when a shadow flew past her, knocking the plate out of her hand. A bird? A plane. No, it was super-Jonah with orange florist ribbon snared between his teeth and trailing behind him like a banner.
‘Man!’ Lydia cried as the biscuits toppled on to the carpet. That was the closest she got to swearing these days. The rest of us watched open-mouthed as Jonah landed clumsily on top of the biscuits, half a metre or so from the portable cot.
‘That’s it, Jonah!’ I snapped. ‘Back in the laundry for you.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Lydia. ‘I think he’s got a plan.’
Sighing impatiently, I sat back. With the florist ribbon still in his mouth, Jonah crept cautiously toward Annie asleep in her cot. His ears pricked forward as he moved closer and examined her through the mesh. Raising a paw he tenderly patted the mesh near her head. Then, to my amazement, he stepped back and performed an elegant bow. Head lowered, he placed the orange ribbon in a straight line along the carpet beside the cot and backed away.
‘See? It’s a gift,’ whispered Lydia. ‘He’s giving Annie a present.’
Our cat and our daughter. Two beings who always took the other way. And never ceased to surprise me with their complexity and willingness to love.
Even though Jonah did his best to appreciate Annie, his obsession with the portable cot remained fierce. No matter which room I hid it in, he sniffed it out and would cry, begging admission. If the door opened even half a crack he’d push his way in and throw himself at the cot, jumping inside it or (if the roof was zipped up) on top of it. He rubbed himself against the sides of it and patted the stainless steel legs, admiring them as if they were works of art.
Just as Jonah was managing to adjust to the idea of playing undercat to a baby (while she was visiting the house, at least) another unsettling event glistened on the horizon.
One morning Jonah trotted into the Marquis de Sade room to find Philip packing a suitcase. Jonah loathed suitcases. To him they symbolised abandonment. Even the sight of an overnight bag resulted in manic sprinting up and down the hall, refusal to let anyone out of his sight and, of course, persistent meowing that reverberated off the eardrum until it became one discordant note. Jonah’s ears pricked like a pair of dark chocolate Toblerones when he saw the dark green suitcase. It was enormous, the largest we possessed and still cobwebby from its time in the attic. Philip was leaving for a six-week study course at Stanford University in the US.
The world’s tidiest packer, Philip patted layers of neatly folded shirts and underpants into the suitcase. Watching him slide gleaming shoes into actual shoe bags, I marvelled again how we’d ever got together, let alone stayed married. He cried out when Jonah hurled himself into the suitcase on top of his clothes. Coiled like a shell, Jonah dug his claws in and stared up at Philip beseechingly.
‘Sorry, Fur Man,’ he said, lifting him out. ‘You can’t come with me.’
The instant his paws touched the carpet Jonah jumped back into the suitcase again, and again, and again . . . Exasperated, Philip shut Jonah out of the room. A nose and two paws squeezed themselves under the door.
A taxi glided to a halt outside the house. Philip zipped the bag shut and trudged down the hall. Jonah threw himself at the suitcase, trying to glue himself to it. Philip lifted Jonah, kissed his furry forehead and told him not to worry, he’d be home soon. As Philip held Jonah up to his face, the cat stretched a long front leg toward him and pressed his paw in Philip’s chest. It was as if Jonah was leaving an imprint on Philip’s heart.
After we’d managed to wedge ourselves and the suitcase through the front door, Philip and I stood at the roadside and kissed goodbye. We glanced guiltily up at the living room window. No sign of Jonah.
‘He’s not even missing you,’ I said.
‘Yes, he is,’ said Philip, pointing at an upstairs window from which a lonely feline stared down at us.
Jonah suffered the extrovert’s curse. He needed people. When they weren’t around to dazzle with his exuberant personality, he crumbled. He thrived on admiration, fishing rod and ribbon games, languorous hours draped over human laps, and the sport of being chased whenever he went on illegal rampages around the neighbourhood. Separation anxiety, Vivienne called it.
I could relate to some of his insecurity. Earlier in our marriage, I’d have kicked up a fuss if Philip had absented himself for six whole weeks. In the broader canvas of life, however, a month and a half’s a mere speck of paint. It’s not that many airings of The Daily Show (my latest addiction) or six episodes of My Life on the D-List (though Kathy Griffin’s schedule was proving capricious) and, oh I don’t know, a couple of hundred cups of coffee. The weeks would fly while he was away having a wonderful time learning stuff and meeting people (though hopefully not glamorous women with second-wifehood ambitions).
Bonuses abounded for me, too. Without mentioning the obvious brownie points, the girls and I would have early dinners every night. We’d slurp takeaway noodles in front of How I Met Your Mother (until Lydia excused herself to go upstairs and meditate).
I’d also be able to devote more time to my scheme to enthuse Lydia about the shallow vanities of Generation-Y womanhood. Not that it was having
much effect. On the rare occasions Katharine and I managed to coax her along to a rom-com at the movies, she’d sigh her way through it. The ‘hot’ male stars left her cold. She wasn’t interested in manicures. If I bought trashy magazines targeted at women in their twenties, they’d quickly appear in the recycle bin.
While Philip was away, I’d sleep without earplugs, stay in my dressing gown all day if I felt like it and do crosswords in bed without having to explain it was for my brain cells.
Besides, it was Katharine’s last year at school. Even though my publishers were keen for me to get started on another book, I’d decided to put everything on hold for a final stint at full-on mothering.
A diligent student, Katharine was determined to excel in the International Baccalaureate. She deserved all the support she could get, especially during the notorious build-up to end-of-year exams. I wanted to be there for her, not just as a full-time servant.
Several times a week, I’d get urgent texts from Katharine asking if I could bring forgotten books or her lunch to school. After school, she’d be welcomed home with hot chocolate and Jonah wrapping himself around her neck and telling her (in cat language) she was doing just fine.
Things started to go wrong early on the morning after Philip’s departure when he began his usual thumping at our bedroom door. I climbed out of bed to open it. Fishing rod jingling between his teeth, Jonah leapt joyfully on to the bed – but there was no Philip. Not even a warm pillow symbolising Philip’s temporary absence while he made tea and toast in the kitchen. Staring at the cold, unwrinkled pillow, Jonah was confused. Crestfallen, he dropped the fishing rod on to the covers and stared mournfully toward the window.
‘It’s okay, boy,’ I said. ‘I’ll play with you.’
Jonah’s eyes narrowed in disdain. In fishing rod sport, I was lowest of the low. I didn’t swing the stick violently or high enough. My reactions were too slow and I made catches too easy. He sprang off the bed, disappeared out the door and returned with a length of pink florist’s ribbon, which he laid over my hand. So I was in the pink ribbon league, I thought, flicking the ribbon to try and make the game exciting for him. But clearly my lack of technique frustrated him. I just didn’t play like a man. He was soon bored, and skulked away moaning. Not since Maria abandoned the Von Trapp children to return to the nunnery had there been such a theatrical demonstration of dejection.
A couple of days later, while wielding an unreasonably hefty pair of weights in the Marquis de Sade room with Peter the personal trainer, a nasty, acidic odour seared the back of my nostrils. Peter said he couldn’t smell anything.
After he left I checked the wardrobes and central heating vent in case something had died. The smell, pungent and sharp, seemed to be emanating from somewhere near the windows, but I couldn’t see any obvious cause. Maybe Peter was right and it was my imagination. I suspected he was too polite to be reliable.
When he returned on Thursday, the smell was worse. I asked again if he noticed anything. Peter’s denial was even more vehement. He swore he couldn’t smell A Single Thing . . . so there had to be a pong!
After he’d gone, I closed my eyes and searched the room. It’s surprising how effective nasal navigation can be once your eyes are shut. The smell was definitely stronger near the window, near the curtain . . . no, in fact on the curtain! When I opened my eyes, the top part of the curtain hung in innocently pristine folds. Clambering down on my knees, I lifted the fabric that touched the floor. The pong became so aggressive, I recoiled. Holding the curtain as far away as possible, I inspected a large incriminating yellow stain. It smelt like something the devil might choose as room spray.
Inspecting the shape of the stain, it reminded me of something – the streaks on the laundry wall! When I’d asked the painters to give the stains a second coat and the marks never went away, I’d assumed they’d forgotten to do the job. They were such amiable blokes I hadn’t wanted to nag. It hadn’t occurred to me that maybe they had blotted out the old stains, and a malevolent force had replaced them with new ones.
The stains weren’t modern art, but something I’d thought no civilised cat would stoop to.
The curtains were sent to the cleaners and hung up again. The stains reappeared. The curtains went back to the cleaners and Jonah was officially banned from the workout room, which he found hurtful because he loved rolling around on the mat for tummy rubs and doing yoga stretches in front of Peter twice a week.
Our pet exacted revenge. He targeted the areas that would cause maximum stress – Lydia’s bed, Katharine’s shelf of beloved books, her violin and under my desk. And then, horror of horrors – the portable cot!
The girls and I became like cats, crawling the house sniffing corners for evidence. Katharine turned out to have a particularly acute sense of smell. We bought an ultra violet light, hospital-strength disinfectant and a bewildering array of biodegradable cleaners.
We also bought special cleaning fluid from the vet’s. Its scent was sweet, almost as nauseating as the one it was designed to neutralise. My heart sank when I noticed it was available in jumbo size. I wondered who needed to buy it in such bulk. Did they have a thousand cats? Or was their problem ongoing and . . . unsolvable?
‘Spraying,’ Vivienne announced when I called her about Jonah’s new problem.
‘Cleo never did it,’ I said. ‘Well, only once.’
‘Yes but she was female. Spraying is what male cats do. It’s why people prefer female cats, and why Jonah was probably the last of his litter to be left in the pet shop.’
‘The shop assistant said it was conjunctivitis,’ I reminded her.
‘As I said before, it’s more than likely someone bought him when he was little, couldn’t handle his behaviour and returned him to the shop,’ Vivienne reminded me. ‘He’s probably inbred as well. Have you heard of puppy farms?’
‘You mean when backyard breeders raise dogs in slum conditions and keep the females pregnant all the time?’ I asked.
‘Yes; the same thing happens with kittens. They’re bred indiscriminately, sometimes siblings joined with each other, and sold on to pet shops. That’ll be one of the reasons your pet shop didn’t sell Jonah with papers.’
A sprayer and inbred? Vivienne’s words were harsh, but I trusted her. She was devoted to cats as a species and understood them at levels I couldn’t fathom.
‘Will he grow out of it?’ I asked.
‘Not necessarily,’ she replied.
My heart sank. I asked why he’d started doing it now.
‘I think several things have triggered it,’ Vivienne replied. ‘Jonah’s world’s been turned upside down. From what you’ve said, he’s jealous of the new baby and he’s missing Philip. It’s quite possible he’s feeling overwhelmed by the responsibility of becoming the household’s Alpha Male.’
Alpha Male? What responsibility does an Alpha Male have these days apart from lying around waiting to be fed?
Vivienne emailed a page and a half of advice, with information about the three main causes of inappropriate spraying. They were: 1. Medical reasons; 2. Litter-tray related; 3. Anxiety /stress. While Vivienne was pretty sure Jonah’s problem was due to this, she thought it would be worth a vet’s check to be sure there was nothing physically wrong with him. The litter tray had to be kept impeccably clean and well away from his food bowls. Whatever the cause, she said, scolding and punishing wasn’t going to work.
The vet’s window was filled with photos of missing cats. The receptionist said they were usually found run over and killed. For all our doubts and failures, our struggle to keep Jonah indoors was vindicated.
Jonah stood regally on the vet’s table, tail aloft and awaiting adulation. King of the World, the vet called him, which he rather liked – until she started prodding and probing. Jonah rolled his lips back and emitted a loud hiss. He then crumpled like a hopeless sissy, moaning and howling so loudly I felt ashamed.
The vet took him ‘next door’ to conduct further tests. She returned
with a somewhat deflated version of the cat we knew and loved. Unable to find anything wrong with his insides, she repeated Vivienne’s advice and sold us a magic spray bottle. When plugged into an electric socket it emitted calming pheromones that remind cats how safe and happy they felt when they were kittens. Almost all her feline patients had responded to it, she said.
Hopeful that our troubles might be over, I hurried home. After plugging the bottle into an electric socket in a corner where Jonah had performed several misdemeanours I called the girls downstairs to admire the new miracle cure. We watched mortified as he backed up against the electric plug and gave the vet’s bottle a thorough showering.
The girls and I did everything Vivienne, the internet and the vet suggested – from the orthodox to the wacky. We bought (even) more toys, gave Jonah Rescue Remedy, placed crystals under his cushion and took him for evening outings on his lead down the street. Nothing worked. We tried a different vet, and then another. The third vet recommended medication. Cat Prozac. No way. I drew the line at putting Jonah on drugs.
It was difficult not to take his behaviour personally, especially the day I discovered he’d desecrated Dad’s piano. Tears welling, I cleaned what I could and trussed the family heirloom in layers of cling wrap.
I hesitated before inviting anyone over the front doorstep. Yet most of the time Jonah was charming and lovable as ever. Sometimes I felt like one of those wives who endures abuse from her handsome husband, knowing that after he’s given her a black eye he’s going to dazzle her with charm and chocolates the next day.
Lydia found the phone number of a cat psychic in Queensland. Seeing I was paying for it, I didn’t feel too guilty lifting the receiver in my study to listen in. The cat psychic’s tone was rustic and cheerful. I imagined her in a condo by the sea tuning into feline frequencies.