by Helen Brown
‘Jonah’s talking to me now,’ she said down the line. ‘Oh my heavens! I’ve never heard so much complaining! Nothing’s good enough for this one. Your cat’s too big for his boots. You need to treat him less like a king and more like a cat.’
After we’d hung up, the girls and I agreed the psychic was talking sense. At bedtime Jonah was demoted to a leopard-skin cushion in the laundry. He accepted the indignity of being shut away. In fact, he had an active night life barrelling through his outdoor run to exchange insults with possums.
While keeping Jonah safely removed from our soft furnishings through the hours of darkness limited some of his excesses, part-time exile had no noticeable effect.
‘He’s doing what??!!’ growled Philip when he phoned from his Stanford apartment which, judging by his emailed photos, was enviably stainless and smell-free.
‘It’s nothing,’ I lied. ‘We’ll have it sorted by the time you get home.’
Which was like saying the war would be over by Christmas.
Rejection
Rehoming a cat. Or husband
The night Philip was due to return from Stanford, Jonah paced the house – impeccable as always at intuiting something special was about to happen. When he wasn’t stalking around on his chocolate-coloured stilts, he was perching on the living room window ledge scanning the darkened street below. Maybe someday a scientist will find out how animals know when one of their humans is coming home. Is it to do with the power of love, an ability to tune into subtle energies – or a combination of both?
He emitted a series of urgent meows. I joined him at the window and together we watched a set of taxi headlights glow like a cat’s eyes and grow larger. Before the taxi had even stopped, Jonah bustled to Shirley’s front door and stretched his length up toward the handle.
Lydia bundled him into her arms and opened the door and we all ran down the path to welcome Philip. Jonah was overwhelmed with joy. His purring was thunderous as he buried his face in Philip’s hand, revelling in having his ears flattened, his chin stroked and his nose rubbed all at the same time.
I felt sure everything would be fine now our Alpha Male was home. The star was back in Jonah’s sky and he could comfortably revert to being secondary male in the household. Nevertheless, to be on the safe side, he slept in the laundry that night.
We started next morning with the old routine our cat loved so much. Jonah, fishing rod between his teeth, burst through the bedroom door while Philip went out to make tea. He quickly made himself comfortable on Philip’s pillow and waited for the games to begin.
But it was Saturday and Philip didn’t have to hurry off to work. Besides, he was jet lagged. Philip wasn’t interested in being relegated to a chair to have his tea and toast while Jonah had pride of place. He moved Jonah gently aside and climbed back into bed next to me.
Jonah emitted the nasal ‘hrrrrumphing’ noise he made when he was put out, and dropped to the floor.
‘Don’t worry about him,’ I said. ‘He’ll soon get used to you being home again.’
Fixing Philip with a steely glare, Jonah raised his tail and backed up menacingly against the bedroom curtains. I watched helpless as his tail trembled delicately in the motion I’d come to dread.
‘Oh no!’ I cried. ‘Stop him! He’s going to . . .’
It was too late. Staring Philip straight in the face, the cat unleashed himself.
Philip’s one of the calmest people I know. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with him. He almost never loses his cool.
‘That’s it! ’ he yelled, leaping out of bed and chasing Jonah out of the room. ‘That cat will have to go! ’
Stomping down the hall after them, I saw Jonah’s tail flash through the laundry cupboard into the safety of his outdoor run.
‘Go!? What do you mean?’ I asked, my voice trembling.
Breathing heavily, Philip ran his hand over his scalp. ‘We can’t spend the next ten years like this,’ he said, turning away from me, his voice etched with ice. ‘He’ll have to find another home.’
The air turned suddenly cold, as if a fridge door had been opened.
‘But what if we can’t find him one?’ I asked.
‘Then he’ll have to go to a farm.’
Farm? The word echoed across the years from my childhood. That’s what grown-ups said happened to pets who’d disappeared. It took years for me to realise they weren’t talking about romping over grassy fields in the company of cows and geese.
‘Just look at the damage he’s caused,’ Philip continued. ‘He’s destroyed the new stair carpet; we’ve had to get the curtains cleaned umpteen times. There’s that smell in Lydia’s room . . . He’s got to go.’
An unfamiliar shiver ran through my veins. For the first time in twenty years I felt a chill toward Philip. How could a man who’d opened his heart to my two older children and raised them as his own, who’d been such a great husband and father, be so heartless?
Jonah wasn’t perfect, but neither were we. For all his faults and dysfunctional behaviour, he belonged with us.
The instant Philip left for work I grabbed the phone and punched in Vivienne’s number. We’d tried every form of therapy – conventional and otherwise. Our house was vandalised. My piano was mummified in cling wrap and my marriage was teetering on the edge of an emotional Grand Canyon. As Vivienne answered, I had a sudden flash of inspiration.
‘Is there such a thing as nappies for cats?’ I asked.
After what I took for amused silence, Vivienne said she didn’t think so. She wasn’t surprised when I told her about Philip’s ultimatum.
‘You’ve tried almost everything,’ she said. ‘I know it’s hard. Spraying’s the number one reason cats are put down.’
A boulder settled in my chest as I watched Jonah roll nonchalantly in a patch of sun on the family room rug. He seemed to know his fur blended beautifully with its pattern of soft greens and browns. Stretching his pipe cleaner body in a graceful curve, he blinked at me and yawned. I adored our madly affectionate, funny, crazy cat. We all did – well, most of us, anyway. I could never take him to a vet to be ‘put down’.
As well as all her other work, Vivienne was involved in the rehoming of cats. Her website’s heart-tugging photographs of abandoned kittens and strays always worked their magic. She and I discussed the sort of household Jonah might be comfortable in. Certainly not a family of noisy young kids, and he’d drive a little old lady insane. A farm, even if one genuinely existed, would result in physical and emotional collapse.
‘Tell you what,’ said Vivienne with a mischievous giggle. ‘I could always put a photo of Philip on my website and see if I can find him a new home.’
When I told the girls about Philip’s decree their mouths dropped. Katharine gathered him in her arms and buried her face in his fur.
‘He can’t go,’ she said. ‘We love him.’
Oblivious to the drama he was the centre of, Jonah purred raucously. I wished I could envelop our daughters and cat in some magical maternal apron and promise everything would be okay. But so much was out of my control.
The girls swore to work even harder monitoring his litter tray, keeping him away from his most frequently visited corners and sniffing out the faintest hints of smells.
After they’d left for classes, I decided to clear my head with a brisk walk. Bare winter trees clawed the sky. Grey rags of clouds hung over the buildings. Almost on automatic pilot, I boarded a tram and rattled across the river to the pet shop.
Letting Jonah into our lives now seemed like a blunder made when I was too weak and vulnerable to have any idea what we were letting ourselves in for. If we’d wanted a cat, we should’ve researched and stayed well clear of the pet shop. We should have been sensible and gone to a shelter and rescued a mixed-breed moggy that’d have been grateful for a home. We’d been fools to fall for Jonah’s good looks and kittenish charms.
Peering through the pet shop window I could see a new batch of kittens was in. Th
ey were all identical to how Jonah had been – blue-eyed, sleek, cappuccino circus artists leaping about on elastic legs. Irresistible. One of the kittens danced across the cage while another crouched low and quivered, waiting for the moment to pounce on his sibling. A small group of people gathered to admire the spectacle.
A young couple, bundled up against the cold, stood beside me. They were captivated, just the way we’d been.
‘Let’s ask if we can take that one home tonight!’ said the young woman, her face ablaze with infatuation as she pointed at the kitten who was flying through the air about to land flamboyantly on his friend.
I turned to the couple, so in love they believed the only thing that could enhance their happiness was a kitten.
‘Don’t do it,’ I told them. ‘Get a puppy, or have a baby. Anything’s going to be easier than one of those kittens.’
They looked astonished. They must’ve thought I was a fruitcake. Burying my head in my pashmina, I hurried on to the vet’s. There was only one jumbo-sized bottle of cat urine neutraliser left on the shelf. We weren’t the only ones with a problem.
I knew when I got home Jonah would be at the window. Then he’d be at the door and meowing under my feet. My nose would be on high alert for fresh layers of ammonia in the air. I’d be scouring the house for spots on the window ledge or against the stair railings.
When I opened the gate I saw his silhouette against the lead lights. His noble head, the elegant tapering limbs, the sublimely long tail – how could a beautiful creature inflict such misery? His eyes flashed when he saw me, and his mouth opened in a pink diamond shape as he emitted an accusatory yowl. I couldn’t face him. Not just now. After heaving the jumbo bottle of neutraliser up the path and dumping it on the verandah, I strode across the road to the sanctuary of Spoonful.
Household tension was at an all-time high that evening. I was vaguely aware that Lydia was sporting the unflattering beanie (note to self: find appropriate moment to tactfully let her know that a hat with a brim would suit her face shape better).
When Philip arrived home from work, the topic of eviction was carefully avoided. The girls and I presented Jonah’s day in the most exemplary light. He hadn’t peed anywhere. In fact, we lied, he seemed to be settling down. He’d eaten a housefly and slept for several hours without stalking or yowling at anyone. Glossing over the more disturbing aspects of my conversation with Vivienne, I explained the morning’s misdemeanour was just a nervous reaction to the return of Jonah’s most favourite person on earth. It wouldn’t happen again.
After dinner, the girls and I kept Jonah shut out of the living room while the four of us settled in front of the television in case he reverted to more unacceptable behaviour. As we watched the day’s news unravel, I tried to ignore Lydia’s maroon beanie and the persistent meows on the other side of the door. A pair of paws appeared under the door. The pleading meows gave way to thumps. The girls and I exchanged glances. Philip’s face was grim and immobile. Lydia stood up and opened the door. Jonah ran forward. Snared dashingly between his teeth was a purple glove, its fingers waving happily at us. With head and tail lowered he trotted toward Philip and laid the glove respectfully at his feet.
‘See?’ Lydia said to Philip. ‘He’s saying sorry.’
Jonah jumped on to Philip’s lap and licked his hand. My husband lowered his gaze. For a moment I thought he was going to shoo Jonah back out the door. Philip hesitated, almost as if this was a first-time encounter, then raised a hand and ran it over the cat’s silky spine. Jonah yawned and curled himself on Philip’s knee. A flame of affection flickered in Philip’s eye. A smile rippled on his lips. Maybe the battle wasn’t lost.
Next morning, using my newly developed nasal radar I homed in on Lydia’s altar. A dark stain trickled down its side toward the floor.
It couldn’t go on.
Cleansed
When drugs aren’t all bad
Vivienne’s voice was warm and sympathetic over the phone.
‘If he was my cat I’d put him on a medication like Prozac,’ she said.
‘But . . .’ I began, hearing Mum’s voice booming from her plastic urn: ‘Prozac! For a CAT??!!’
‘Look, I’m sorry. I know we’ve discussed it before and you’re against it, but Jonah’s problems can’t be cured behaviourally. He’s got into a pattern you won’t be able to break.’
I felt a total failure. If pets reflect the personalities of their owners, what kind of lunatics were we?
‘It’s not your fault,’ Vivienne continued. ‘Orientals are nearly always high-maintenance.’
I drew a quivery breath. Our bag of options was empty. ‘Will he have to stay on it for the rest of his life?’ I asked.
‘Not necessarily. After a few months it might change his brain chemistry and he’ll start behaving normally again.’
Months?!
When I talked to the vet, she said not to feel guilty about having a chemically altered cat. She had a pair of Orientals at home and she’d had to put them on it every now and then.
Back home, I guiltily placed half a yellow pill in a dish of Jonah’s favourite tuna. When I returned several hours later, the tuna had gone. All that remained was half a pill gleaming in the bowl.
I ground the other half of the tablet into a powder and spooned it through his next meal – which he refused to touch. In desperation, I pummelled the medication to a pulp, added it to an eye dropper fill with milk and tried to squirt it down Jonah’s throat. He put his head back and sprayed it all back at me.
Vivienne paid an emergency visit and taught me how to hold Jonah firmly, prise his jaw open and drop the pill into the back of his throat as quickly and neatly as possible. She made it look easy, but when I tried it next day Jonah wriggled and squirmed like a seal before spitting the pill on the floor. Then he pretended to swallow it, after which he let it drop discreetly on to a cushion. After a gladiatorial battle, I finally won, stroking the pill gently down his gullet the way Vivienne had shown me. As Jonah skulked away, his tail lowered, I felt terrible.
Over the following days, Jonah became a quieter, more amiable cat. The spraying stopped almost immediately. I started trusting him enough to let him back into rooms he’d been banned from during daylight hours (though not enough to unravel the piano’s cling wrap protection). He spent most of the day in the living room, dozing in the sun on top of the alpaca rug. While he still ran to greet people at the door and jumped at sudden noises, he was altogether calmer and easier to live with. We were happier. He was more content in himself.
The person I’d expected to voice the most disapproval of the new drug regime was Lydia. I thought she’d urge me to seek some other psychic or maybe an animal shaman. But she’d been working in a psychiatric ward lately. Medication, she said, could change lives.
Hoping we were on the brink of a new, odour-free life I embarked on a full-scale house clean. With her impeccable nose, Katharine helped me discover tiny spots on the skirting boards and stair rails that I’d missed before.
We were ready for a new phase.
Sainthood
If your daughter wants to cling to an altar, don’t fight it
Lydia sailed through end-of-year university exams in October. I assumed she’d keep her care-giving work going through summer before embarking on her final year of Psychology in March. It was a great plan. I was perplexed when her response to my cheerleading was lukewarm.
Philip, Katharine, Jonah and I were watching Big Bang Theory one evening when Lydia hovered at the door to say goodnight. Television was too crass for her. I respected that. She was going upstairs to commune with higher energies. As she turned to go, I noticed she was still wearing the same maroon beanie – the one I’d knitted with leftover wool ages ago.
‘You don’t have to wear that hat night and day do you?’ I asked.
‘Not really,’ she said, slowly pulling off her beanie. ‘Though it does get rather cold.’
The noise of the television faded to a murmu
r. The living room walls turned grey. Philip’s hand froze on Jonah’s back. Our mouths dropped open in unison. My beautiful, feminine daughter was completely bald. Her face seemed unaccountably small without its usual frame of hair.
She’d been looking so pretty lately. We’d been buying good shampoo. I’d lent her my hair dryer and heard its reassuring roar every morning.
‘Your hair!’ I finally choked.
I wondered if she was making a statement – or if it was something more worrying.
‘Cool!’ chirped Katharine, the eternal mood smoother. ‘Did it hurt?’
Lydia shook the pale boiled egg that was her head. The old volcano of anxiety rumbled in my gut.
Whatever the cause or her intentions, I knew overreaction would be futile. Any explosion on my part would push her further in whatever direction it was she was toying with.
‘Wow!’ said Katharine, patting her sister’s scalp. ‘How did you do it?’
‘I borrowed an electric razor.’
‘Did someone help you?’ Kath asked.
‘No. Did it myself.’
‘Whose electric razor?’ I asked stupidly.
‘Just a friend’s,’ Lydia replied blankly, clearly indicating further questioning wasn’t welcome. I imagined curtains of her glossy golden hair dropping to the floor of Just A Friend’s flat.
‘Lots of boys have electric razors, don’t they, Lyds?’ Katharine cajoled.
‘Was it Ned’s razor?’ I asked, almost hopeful she was seeing him again.
‘No, he’s getting married.’
Just as I began conjuring up the possibility that she’d shaved her head in reaction to his upcoming nuptials, Lydia read my mind. She told me not to worry. She was relieved, in fact happy, that he’d found someone else.
The last time I’d seen the full shape of her head had been when she was a baby after she’d shed the first dark fluff she’d been born with. Her head was pretty then, rounded and curved in gracefully over the back of her neck, ears daintily tucked in at the sides. But even then, I’d waited eagerly for her hair to grow.