Cats In Clover

by Lea Tassie

  ***

  Rusty, Ben's ex-boss, had invited us to his house to celebrate the New Year. When his wife, Jean, opened the door, the first thing she said was, "Well, have you sold the farm?"

  "No," I said, "not yet. And it's two years since you bet we wouldn't last a year."

  "Has it been that long? I was sure you'd be back in civilization long before now."

  Rusty poured drinks and Jean dropped a fifty dollar bill in my lap. "What will you buy with your winnings?"

  "If we could ever find the right name for the farm, I'd get a sign made for the gate," Ben said.

  "What about 'Sutton's Sanctuary'?" Rusty handed Ben a beer.

  "Too many esses," Ben said. "Too long. Anyway, we thought we might name it after George or Henry."

  "How about George's View?" Jean said.

  Ben said, "Sounds too much like Georgia View. With hundreds of miles of coastline bordering the Georgia Strait, can you imagine how many places are called 'Georgia View'?"

  "I'd suggest Cat House," Jean said, "But I don't suppose that stands a chance."

  When midnight came, we still hadn't thought of a name, but by that time it didn't seem to matter. We toasted the New Year and each other and made resolutions.

  Rusty said he would play more golf, Jean that she'd lose fifteen pounds. Ben decided he'd experiment with making dandelion or pear wine.

  "I'm not going to make any more bets about you staying on the farm, either," Jean said. "What's your resolution, Holly?"

  I couldn't admit that I didn't have one. My sudden lack of direction was inexplicable, even to me. "I'm going to get a Siamese kitten."

  "Hey," Ben said, "we don't need any more cats!"

  "I'm willing to wait until you've incorporated it in the budget." I knew I'd have to wait longer than that. George and Henry didn't bite or claw each other, but a kitten might, in wild playing, get a taste of Henry's blood or saliva and pick up his HIV infection. But there was no harm in preparing Ben and his budgets for a kitten sometime in the future. I hoped, in one way, that it would be a very long time in the future. As Jerry had said, Henry could live for years yet.

  Ben eyed me, the corners of his mouth turning up in spite of his attempt to control them. "My budgets are a little more flexible than they used to be. Maybe it's because my station in life has sunk so low that all I can manage is being a houseboy in a royal household."

  "You're a what?" Rusty asked.

  XXII - Midnight Rambles

  I liked being awake after midnight when everything was quiet and still and the rest of the world slept – provided I could go back to sleep when I felt like it. I loved watching the cats glide through patches of moonlight in the yard and disappear into the shadows, intent on mysterious errands. I fantasized doing the same, but knew my clumsy human feet could never match their silent grace.

  Sometimes Nicky joined them, but often he merely blinked from his perch at the foot of the bed, yawned and went back to sleep. Like Ben, he thought the dark hours were meant for sleep.

  Whether I was in the mood for romantic musing or not, I was awake and out of bed at least once during the small hours because Henry wanted to go outside. He refused to use the cat door as adamantly as he refused the litter box. Perhaps he thought both were George's private property.

  Henry looked robust but the FIV was lurking, making him susceptible to other infections. We didn't like to leave him outside for long, so one of us always got up to let him out and waited until he came in again. On rainy nights his trips took fifteen minutes or so. This was about the right time for a cigarette, a glass of milk, and quiet contemplation of the movie we'd watched after dinner, the next day's tasks, or why I thought cats were wonderful. On dry nights, he didn't want to come in at all and I trotted around the yard looking for him in the dark, hoping I wouldn't step on a twig, a pebble or a slug.

  I didn't mind getting up to let him out; it was the way he announced he was ready that irritated me. He'd get all forty-eight claws on the stereo speaker and rake it. He didn't do any real damage, but the loud ripping sound was guaranteed to wake me instantly and have me racing to find out what part of the house the cats were destroying this time.

  Worse, he also did it when he wanted permission to eat his dry food. This was maddening because it seemed so illogical. I'd never known a cat that didn't believe he had the right to eat any food – his or ours – whenever he felt like it. And Henry had no doubts about his rights. But there it was – when he headed for the dry food, I had to pat him on the head and say, "It's okay, Henry, you can eat that," before he'd touch a mouthful.

  One warm night during the first week of March, Henry roused me, in his usual fashion, at midnight. By the time I'd reached the back door to let him out, I was awake enough to realise he wasn't following me. He was sitting in front of his dry food dish, looking at me expectantly.

  "You're a big nuisance." I patted him and told him he was allowed to eat. He began crunching.

  Ben awoke as I got into bed. "What are you doing up?"

  "Henry wanted permission to eat his dry food. I'm going to kill that cat one of these days."

  "If this was ancient Egypt you'd be put to death for even saying that," Ben said sleepily.

  "This is not ancient Egypt."

  He continued, with increasing enthusiasm. "They thought cats were gods and worshipped them. If you killed one, even by accident, you were stoned to death."

  "Persist in your history lessons at midnight," I replied sweetly, "and you will be, too."

  "I'll tell you about it tomorrow," he promised and went back to sleep.

  I spread the sleeping bag on the couch. If I went back to bed, Henry would only come and dig me out, because another of his rights was to sit on my chest where he could knead until he was in a trance and stare out the living room window – his idea of heaven. I liked to lie there and look at the stars myself. And it was a bonus to escape Ben's snoring.

  I settled on the couch and waited for Henry to join me, hoping I'd be asleep before he and George started arguing over which of them owned my hip.

  I was drifting off to dreamland when Henry clawed the stereo speaker again.

  "Now what?"

  He wanted out.

  After letting him out, I got a glass of milk, an ashtray and my cigarettes and prepared to stay awake for fifteen minutes. On cue, he came back in and we repaired to the couch and sleep.

  At four a.m. Henry scratched the speaker cover again. I didn't want to get up so I let him scratch. After a minute, the speaker cover fell off with a thud, narrowly missing him. He gazed at it in amazement, decided he didn't want anything after all and curled up on my chest again.

  At six a.m. the cat door crashed open, waking me, and George galloped in. I closed my eyes again and was almost asleep when a familiar sound brought me upright on the couch, eyes wide open. George was throwing up – into the speaker cover.

  I climbed out of the sleeping bag and cleaned up the mess as well as I could, considering I didn't have my glasses on and it wasn't daylight yet.

  Back in the bag, I shut my eyes and wondered why I'd ever thought cats were marvellous. At six-thirty, Henry scratched the other speaker cover.

  "What do you want?" I moaned.

  Both he and George stared at me in hurt astonishment. How could I lie there lazing the day away? Didn't I realize it was time for breakfast?

  Next day Ben decided he'd do the graveyard shift. "If I don't hear him, just poke me and I'll get up."

  This didn't seem very efficient. After all, if I was awake enough to poke Ben, I was awake enough to look after Henry. Why should both of us be awake? However, I agreed to give it a try.

  That night Henry scratched the wallpaper beside the bed and, before I could get out from under the covers, Ben sat up and said firmly, "I'll go."

  He stomped into the kitchen and turned all the lights on. I hid my head under the pillow. Light bothers my eyes if I'm just waking up and I've always assumed there must be some cat ge
nes in my make-up. Whether my eyes shine in the dark the way cats' eyes do, no one has ever said.

  Henry stayed out for a long time. The Houseboy roamed from back door to deck door to front door, opening them and calling, shutting them, turning inside and outside lights on and off. He opened the dishwasher and clattered a few dishes into the cupboard.

  He stomped back into the bedroom.

  "Do you know that cat's been outside for twenty-eight minutes?" he demanded.

  "Mfff."

  "What does he do out there?"

  "Mfff."

  "This is ridiculous! He's got to learn to come back in when he's supposed to."

  I wanted to tell him that looking after Henry was not the same as looking after the son Ben raised so well, but even in my half-asleep state, I knew this was not the time.

  Ben went back to the kitchen. I heard the back door open and Henry's cheerful "Prrrt!" as he came in, no doubt with jauntily waving tail.

  "Don't 'prrrt!' me," growled Ben. "Where've you been?"

  "Prrrt!"

  Grumbling, Ben came back to bed. Within five minutes, he was snoring.

  I spread the sleeping bag on the couch. Henry leapt onto my chest, purring, and proceeded to knead.

  "It's okay, sweetie," I said. "You're a big, grown-up cat, not a little kid. You don't need to tell anybody anything. Next time he asks where you've been, say 'Out.' And if he asks what you were doing, say 'Nothing'." Henry kneaded himself into a trance.

  I told Ben I'd rather do night duty than lie awake listening to him do it, but he still didn't think it was fair that I should pull all the graveyard shifts.

  The pattern was repeated next night. Every time Ben asked Henry a question, the answer was "Prrrt!"

  All this chatter meant I was wide awake. Ben came back to bed and said, "Why does Henry stay out so long?"

  "He likes being outside."

  "But he's got a nice warm house to live in and soft places to sleep and all the food he can eat."

  "So do you, but you still like to go outside."

  "That's different; I have things to do."

  "So does Henry. He has to check his territory and explore smells and sounds. Besides, cats are still wild in some ways and he enjoys the freedom of the night." It was hard for me to find the right words when I was half asleep. "I love it, too."

  Ben was silent for a moment. "Okay, I guess I have been assuming the cats think the way I do. They're so darn smart it's hard to remember they're not human."

  "They're not children, either, even if they do look on us as parents when they're inside. Outside, at night, they're adult cats with their own set of instincts and senses, as independent as their wild ancestors were."

  "But the cats do resemble humans in a lot of ways." Ben plumped up his pillow. "You say yourself Henry is a Buddhist."

  "That's just shorthand. What I'm really saying is that he is like a Buddhist."

  "If you're going to quibble about semantics, I'm going to sleep."

  The next night, when Henry returned, he'd had an adventure and told the Houseboy all about it in a series of meows and trills.

  Ben came back to bed. "What was he talking about?"

  "How would I know?"

  "Well, you're a Cat Person. You should know."

  I rolled over, faked a snore and promised myself that I really would get up and do door duty for Henry from then on. Those complicated questions that Ben came up with in the middle of the night were too hard on a brain that had been in neutral since dinner time.