The head teacher was so taken with Toby that she prevailed upon me to allow her to carry him around the school to show the children. With a careful glance or two in my direction to reassure himself that I was following, Toby Jug, exhibitionist that he was, basked in the attention he attracted in the classrooms he visited. Never again would I need to worry about my little cat’s capacity to adapt to other people. He enjoyed the whole experience hugely and responded beautifully, like a real star, to the children’s affectionate curiosity. Before leaving the school the head told me that she intended to use the story of Toby Jug’s rescue at the school assembly next morning to help the children appreciate how special animals are and how we need to care for them. It was a rare and happy experience for all concerned, especially Toby Jug, and it served to remind me that there are many other people in this world who love cats and share my feelings about them.
After I had completed my work at the school, as a special treat I took Toby Jug along the beach and bought us both a fish from a travelling fish-and-chip van which was parked in the lee of the castle near the bay. Toby Jug, sensible cat, ate only the juicy white cod flesh and not the batter, which I had to remove for him. After we had finished eating, and because it was such a warm sunny day, I let him off the lead to relieve himself and nose around while I kept a sharp lookout for stray dogs. Toby sniffed and roamed about where I was sitting on the beach. He apparently found the seaside smells quite delicious and investigated thoroughly a number of seaweed clumps that lay about the sand. He probably found it a welcome change to nosing around in his garden, but he didn’t go far away. I don’t think it would ever have entered his head to leave my side or to lose sight of me, not even for a delectable and most tempting scent. We both enjoyed our time out on the island. It was another perfect day.
While Toby Jug and I ventured far afield on my professional travels, it was at home that we spent most of our time together. He would always be at my side in the garden and often accompany me on short walks by the river bank and in the woods. During that first year of his life the things that I saw as just ordinary experiences of country life were for him new adventures, which were sometimes overwhelming and rather scary.
I can recall several such incidents which give a flavour of Toby’s early life outside. For instance, on one hot summer’s afternoon of sunshine, Toby was foraging in the long grass near where I was weeding a garden border. Suddenly, a sparrowhawk flew in low over the beech hedge and zoomed across the lawn on a flight-path that took it directly towards Toby Jug, who was hunting grasshoppers. In the instant that Toby Jug raised his head and saw the hawk coming straight for him he fled as fast as his legs could carry him to my side, jumped on my shoulder and conveyed his terror by biting the lobe of my ear. The result was that we both ended up in a state of shock whilst the sparrowhawk blithely went on its way, hedgehopping as it hunted for small birds and not the least bit interested in Toby Jug or the shock that I had suffered. For the rest of the day, when outside, Toby Jug was on constant alert and inordinately watchful of the airspace above him. Whenever and wherever I moved that day, he shadowed me closely.
On another occasion we were together in the garden enjoying the fresh air on what could be poetically described as a ‘beauteous evening’. It was one of those delightfully calm summer evenings that are such a welcome change from our normal breezy and bracing climate in this part of the world. I was savouring the tranquil stillness of the trees and the scents from the flower beds whilst sipping a glass of claret. I noticed that Toby had climbed into the higher branches of the crab-apple tree and was busily investigating the insect-buzzing and small bird-fluttering among the leaves of the topmost branches. I gazed with pleasure at the sky as it became suffused with the delicate shades of colour that the Scottish describe as gloaming. Gradually, the sunset gave way to twilight and twilight was the time when the pipistrelle bats emerged from the eaves of the cottage to begin their insect-hunting aerobatics. The apple tree in which Toby Jug was perched was full of insects and when the bats came out they immediately began a strafing attack that Toby mistakenly believed was directed solely at him.
Cats are normally good climbers when going up trees but, like children, often find coming down a slower process of reversing and clinging on to the branches whilst at the same time glancing from time to time apprehensively over their shoulders. At least, that was the way Toby usually, and rather cautiously, descended from a tree-climbing expedition. Now though, with a squadron of bats hurtling around him, he reverted to what best can be described as ‘flying squirrel tactics’. In alarmed desperation, Toby launched himself into a series of acrobatic swings from one branch to another that brought him perilously close to falling but also brought him swiftly to earth. Whereupon he headed straight for me and repeated his standing jump to my shoulder, his head whirling from side to side in fearful anticipation of an imminent attack from the skies. This time, thankfully, he didn’t bite my ear but he did cause me to spill some of my wine. The bats continued their evening aerial display unperturbed as Toby refused to leave my shoulder until we were safely indoors.
This action of jumping on to my shoulder whenever something scared him soon became established as a habitual response to many other situations such as greeting me when I’d not seen him for a while, when he just felt particularly affectionate or when he wanted me to carry him. On reflection it was an athletic feat of gold-medal proportions for such a little cat and quite extraordinarily his own invention since no other cat of mine before had ever behaved in such a way. It could be quite disconcerting though when he didn’t get his take-off just right and landed short of his target. Then he would have to crawl his way up over my jacket or sweater, which did my clothes no good at all! This behaviour worried me a little because Toby was an exuberant socializer. He loved company and would move from person to person for strokes and compliments and I feared that one day he might jump on some unsuspecting guest’s shoulder and terrify them. But my fears proved to be unfounded. He reserved his shoulder leaps solely for me.
As Toby grew stronger I began to take him with me whenever I took short walks in the evening, especially now that he had his new harness. Usually, we followed the path through the fields that bordered a wide subsidiary stream of the River Coquet. Because a large expanse of the river bank had been fenced off to preserve private fishing rights, it was normally free from dogs and had become a favourite walk of ours. If Toby did see a dog coming he would run and jump on my shoulder even before I could haul him up by his harness. As usual on our walks, I had my stick ready to fend off any persistent barkers. They were few and far between.
Late one summer evening everything on our walk looked strangely different, perhaps due to it having been an exceptionally hot day. Ghostly white veils were rising from the damp fields and they skirted the trees and the holly hedges in swirling wreaths. Toby Jug, as was customary on our walks, was impatient to be ahead of me and since it was quite late and there was no one about, I unfastened his lead so that he could do some independent roaming. I often couldn’t see him due to the ground mist which at times came up to my knees but I knew from experience that he would not stray far from my side so I wasn’t unduly concerned. We had just passed the remains of an ancient ruin called Black Friars Mill when Toby Jug made a flying leap from the fog-covered ground to land, scrambling for balance, on a crumbling stone wall. He crouched there on full alert with his body straining forwards like a pointer dog as he stared into the mist. In the half-light he looked like a diminutive Black Friar ghost returned to haunt the place! From his appearance it was obvious that something had startled him. I followed the direction of his rigid gaze and there, emerging from the gloom like phantoms, were three dark forms which proved to be nothing more frightening than a vixen hurried along by her two romping cubs. I kept very still and the trio passed within three feet of us. A wondrous sight to behold but Toby Jug was not impressed. Casting a rueful glance in my direction he gave his back a quick wash just to show that he
hadn’t really been scared, and then we carried on with our spooky walk.
By late summer, when Toby Jug was about six months old, I felt reassured that he was here to stay and would not suddenly be smitten by some terminal condition caused by his hazardous start in life. However, I was still not free from parental anxiety. I was uneasy about the possibility that he might catch cat flu or pick up something lethal through contact with another cat. Then there was the worry that, as he matured into a full-grown tom cat, he would go off seeking to mate with female cats. I had heard stories of male cats disappearing for weeks on end in search of a female cat on heat. All of these potential problems had but one solution and that was a visit to the vet.
If Toby was concerned at all by traumatic memories of the tragic loss of his mother and brother and his own near demise on his introductory visit to Mackenzie the Vet, he didn’t show it. I took him into the clinic and sat him on the same wooden table from which I’d snatched him away that terrible winter’s night not a year ago, literally from the jaws of death.
‘So you succeeded in rearing the wee thing,’ Mac exclaimed, all smiles as he recounted the tale to his young female assistant. ‘Well he seems strong enough for us to neuter him now,’ he said amiably, as Toby began to display the first signs of alarm at the feel of Mac’s rough, searching hands.
‘I’ll give him his injections too. Aye, he’s turned into a bonny wee thing all right; all power to you,’ he grudgingly conceded as he whisked Toby away. ‘You can call back for him in a couple of hours’ time, aye?’
Suddenly I was alone, not knowing what to do with myself. Would Toby Jug die under the anaesthetic? Why hadn’t I left him intact to enjoy his life instead of putting him through this? These were the questions that kept coming and going through my mind while I waited, fearful of the awful things that might happen to him.
I spent almost two hours in a tea shop in Alnwick agonizing about it all. After two hours and one minute I was back at the vet’s surgery. Mac was there examining a huge but gentle Labrador as I entered the surgery area. After a moment he glanced my way and to my immense relief said, ‘You’ll be wanting your wee cat now.’
With that remark he disappeared. He clearly hadn’t heard my hoarsely voiced question, ‘Is he all right?’
Shortly afterwards, Mac returned with Toby Jug, looking slightly flustered and pained by what had happened to him but none the worse for all that. Toby celebrated our reunion with his habitual fulsomeness and ended up in his usual position on my left shoulder. I revelled in this public display of our bonding and indulged happily in the look of astonishment on Mac’s face. I took the vaccination and other certificates he handed me and headed out to my car with Toby Jug clinging on to my shoulder like a koala bear.
Happily reunited we headed homewards with me whistling happily and Toby Jug still perched on my shoulder as we drove along. His claws dug in as he hung on over every bump in the road but I didn’t mind a bit. I was so happy to have him back with me, alive and well. Before we left the vet’s surgery Mac’s young assistant had handed me a tablet which, she explained, contained an antibiotic to prevent any infection after Toby Jug’s operation. I told her that Toby would not take a tablet of any kind and that I had tried unsuccessfully on several occasions to administer some proprietary health tablets for cats.
‘Oh nonsense,’ she exclaimed. ‘Look I’ll show you how to do it.’ And with that remark she took hold of Toby Jug’s head and to his astonishment quickly prised open his mouth and popped the tablet in. ‘There you see, as easy as that,’ she said. Toby snapped his mouth shut and stared pop-eyed at me in amazement.
After we had been on the road for quite some time, I heard a ‘Pitttth’ sound from Toby. What remained of the said tablet was spat out and landed in my lap. He had kept the offending tablet in his mouth and waited until he was well away before spitting it out. So much for the expertise of callow young vets. I chuckled as Toby Jug, obviously feeling pleased with himself, purred loudly in my ear all the way home.
On arriving home Toby seemed to be suffering no ill-effects after his operation and ate a specially prepared meal of chicken livers with his usual gusto. However, when I went to file the veterinary certificates I noticed something strange. Under the column headed ‘Breed of Animal’ there was written in bold handwriting: ‘Cat: Black & White Long Haired Maine Coon’. I looked down at Toby Jug happily eating away and thought, ‘What on earth is a Maine Coon?’
I looked at him with new eyes. Here I was thinking of him in the most affectionate terms as an ordinary ‘moggie’, but perhaps he was really a special breed of cat or some kind of hybrid. More than slightly bemused, I resolved to try to sort out Toby Jug’s past history as soon as possible. The thought of telephoning Mac to ask him for information did cross my mind but I neither wanted to appear ignorant nor did I want to give him any satisfaction if he was playing some kind of joke on me. The local library in Alnwick couldn’t help me at all but then on an impulse I telephoned the area RSPCA and a kindly woman’s voice informed me that a Maine Coon was an American breed but apart from that she couldn’t tell me any more. All the more intrigued, I determined to pursue the matter further. For the next five days I was going to be in Oxford to speak at a conference so I thought that I would take some time out to do more research there about the Maine Coon breed.
Assuring him that I would soon return, I left Toby Jug in the loving care of my mother and set off for Oxford on one of my rare trips away. It was the first time Toby and I had been separated overnight. A short distance from St Catherine’s College, where I was staying, I discovered what I was searching for in Blackwell’s bookshop at William Baker House on Broad Street. There, in the Natural History Section, I found, among the various cat books and reference authorities, a photograph of a cat almost identical to Toby Jug. It was described as a ‘Black and White Maine Coon’. So Mac was right he hadn’t been kidding me.
Scanning the information which followed I found a very comprehensive description of semi-long-haired breeds of cat starting with the Maine Coon. There before me lay the full historical details of my little cat’s ancestry and an interesting one it was, too. It appeared that the Maine Coon was so called because the breed originated in the American state of Maine. The explanation of the name Coon was that it derived from a mistaken belief by the inhabitants of Maine who thought that, because of the cat’s similarity in looks and mannerisms, the animal was the result of crossbreeding between cats and racoons. According to scientific evidence, this is not genetically possible.
As I read on it became clear that cats, such as the Norwegian Forest cat and the Persian Longhair, were taken on board sailing ships to kill rats and as a result they were introduced to North America by seafarers from Europe. The ship cats most likely interbred with the local short-haired cats to eventually produce, by a process of natural selection, the Maine Coon. This breed became very popular and appeared at cat shows in the USA as early as 1895. I was fascinated by all of this and it made me ponder just how a breed of cat from over 3,000 miles away in the United States could have turned up in a semi-wild cat’s litter just over a mile-and-a-half from my cottage in Northumberland. But then I suppose sea traffic goes both ways and cats are inveterate and promiscuous breeders. Whatever his background might be, it was clear that Toby Jug was an identifiable living descendant of the American Maine Coon breed.
I was further intrigued when I read the description of the particular temperament associated with the Maine Coon breed. The picture the book portrayed was a ‘spitting image’ profile of my Toby Jug. I read that Maine Coon cats are friendly, good-humoured and uncomplicated cats that are highly adaptable. They are inquisitive and tend to retain a kittenish attitude to life even when fully grown and mature but they are easily bored and therefore need constant variety and stimulation; they love to romp and play and become easily attached to people, more especially to one or two persons who are primarily involved in their care and upbringing. This, in a nutshell, was To
by Jug as I knew him.
Reflecting at leisure on what I’d learned, I recalled the night of the rescue and the appearance of Toby’s mother. She had a long body with a lengthy, fluffed-out tail that was darker in colour than her body, which was a light silver-grey. I remembered thinking what a beautiful cat she must have been as I watched her on the vet’s table that awful night. Consulting again the Encyclopaedia of Cats, the book by Esther Verhoef which I’d bought that morning, I leafed through the photographs. On page 34 I saw once more the image of my Toby with the description ‘Black and White Maine Coon’. As I flicked further through the pages I came at once upon the familiar face of the cat I had freed from the gin-trap and had last seen in her death throes. The simple inscription below the coloured photographic plate read ‘Silver Black Tabby Maine Coon’. Toby Jug’s mother, from my memory of her, had looked very similar. And so I thought if Toby Jug is really a descendant of the Maine Coon breed then it followed that either or both of his parents must have been Maine Coon. I resolved that on my return from Oxford I would make some local enquiries.
Back in Northumberland, I was delighted to be re-united with Toby Jug who ran and leapt on to my shoulder the moment he saw me. Obviously we had missed each other but it must have been worse for him because he wouldn’t have been able to understand that I’d be coming back for him. He had been well cared for by my mother but, of necessity, he had been locked indoors in one of the old stables on her land for most of the day. This was a precaution we had worked out before I left to prevent him wandering off in search of me and his home. My mother said that he hadn’t eaten much and seemed to be suffering from homesickness in spite of all the attention she had lavished on him. We were glad to be together again and we soon resumed our happy life at the cottage.
Paw Prints in the Moonlight Page 7
