Whenever you want to know about anything in my village, there is always one sure place you can go. It’s the place where people gather of an evening to relax over a drink and talk, namely the village public house. Felton has two pubs: the Northumberland Arms and the Stag’s Head. Over the course of several nights and a weekend soliciting gossip in the two aforementioned hostelries, I discovered that there was a woman who bred pedigree cats in the nearby village of Shilbottle. In Shilbottle Post Office my attention was directed to a typed note amongst the advertisements with an address in the village where pedigree cats were for sale.
It didn’t take me long to find the cottage which was set back from the road in an extensive garden. I walked up the well-kept drive that was bordered with a wide variety of flowering plants and shrubs. A Victorian-style wrought-iron gate led to an inner paved area and a huge front door. The cottage branched out on both sides of the frontage in keeping with the style of the period. The windows upstairs had old-fashioned wooden shutters which I noticed were closed even on this warm, sunny afternoon. It struck me as rather odd but then possibly there had been a bereavement or loss in the family which necessitated a time for mourning. I did not wish to intrude unnecessarily on private feelings but I was anxious to pursue my quest, so I rang the bell and waited in anticipation. A frail woman of mature age answered the door and, on hearing my inquiry, invited me inside. I introduced myself to her and learned that she was called Sarah Erskins, that she was a widow who lived with her daughter and that she was a specialist breeder of thoroughbred cats.
There were well-groomed cats everywhere in the sitting room into which I was shown. There were Persian Longhairs, Colourpoint and Sealpoint, Siamese, Abyssinian Reds and Balinese Bluepoints, all of which she identified by name for my benefit, but there were no Maine Coons as far as I could tell. Over a cup of tea, standard local hospitality, I asked her if she’d ever had any Maine Coon cats. Her expression became serious and pained at my question and instead of answering she rose and walked over to an old writing desk just like the one my grandmother had. Rummaging about in the draws she withdrew a photograph album. Quickly turning the pages she found what she wanted and placed the album on my knees.
There before me lay an enlarged photograph of a silver cream tabby female Maine Coon. Underneath was inscribed her name: Silver Girl Bonny and there was a certificate pasted on the same page which identified her as being registered with the Governing Council of the Cat Fancy (GCCF). I was both surprised and a little shocked to see that the cat pictured was one and the same she-cat I had rescued on that fateful January night. There could be no mistake. At the sight of her picture I was transported briefly back in time to the wind-swept and tumbledown hayloft where I had found her with her kittens. Suddenly the voice of Mrs Erskins cut through my reverie and I looked up to see tears in her eyes.
‘She was my Bonny,’ she said with feeling. ‘And we lost her! And I haven’t had the heart to seek a replacement for her. How could I?’
With that she sat slowly down on the edge of her armchair and I waited patiently for her to go on.
Holding her cup tightly in both hands, without drinking from it, she stared intently at the carpet as she recounted the story of her loss.
‘We were taking her to the Harrogate show along with Bluebell and Chi-Chi. Bonny was such a pet, I used to let her sit on my lap during most of the drive. I wish now I’d kept her in the show cage with the other two cats,’ she said tearfully and paused. I sipped my tea in silence until she was ready to go on.
‘My daughter was driving and on the spur of the moment she decided to call at the Running Fox in Felton for a newspaper and some sweets for the long journey.’
I nodded to indicate that I knew where she meant.
‘Having parked in front of the shop she opened the rear door of the Land Rover to get her handbag. Then she came around to my side and opened the passenger door to ask what she could get for me. At that exact moment two RAF jets flew low-level over the village. The noise was like a thunderclap and both of us nearly jumped out of our skins. Then I realized that Bonny was gone. She must have been startled when the planes flew over and fled. We never saw her again,’ she sobbed.
‘We searched for hours but there was no sign of her. We never got to the show. In the evening both my son and daughter went looking for her as I was too upset to go. We have heard nothing since even though we’ve put notices around and offered a reward, nothing, nothing at all.’
Her voice tailed off as she sagged back in her chair in despair. Looking at the expression on her face I remembered what it was like to lose a pet cat and never know what had happened to it. Only in this case, I did know and felt duty bound to try to ease this poor woman’s feelings but I hesitated in case I caused her even more grief.
I looked again at the photograph. I had to be sure now that the she-cat I’d rescued and the missing Bonny were the same before I said anything to her. Just then my dilemma was resolved because she looked straight across at me and said, ‘You know something. Tell me,’ as she leaned forward in her chair. ‘Has she been found?’
I spared her the gruesome details as far as I could. But I saw just how shaken she was to hear of Bonny’s death. For several minutes after I’d finished my account she remained silent, staring into the fire, then she said: ‘You say there’s a kitten? A hybrid?’
I nodded, fearful now of what she might want.
‘Tell me about the kitten,’ she said.
I told her briefly about Toby Jug, how he looked and how he was and lastly how much he meant to me. Her face positively beamed as she said, dabbing at her eyes, ‘So there is a happy ending to this after all.’ A noise from the hallway announced that her daughter was home from work and, leaving her to retell the tale, I left. She followed me to the door and, pressing her frail hand on my shoulder, she thanked me for what I’d done for Bonny and her surviving kitten.
I waved from the car as I drove away and reflected on the tremendous depth of feeling a pet animal can generate in a person’s life and then I recalled reading somewhere that the RSPCA had estimated that there were at least five million cat owners in the UK. So many people have a great affection for cats. I knew what Mrs Erskins was feeling because I felt the same way about Toby Jug.
‘Well,’ I sighed to myself. ‘Now I know who his mother was perhaps I can trace his father as well.’
This idea ranged through my mind until I arrived home. The thought kept coming back to me for days afterwards. Eventually, I decided that at some time in the future I would have to investigate this whole matter further but then fate took a hand again.
I cannot honestly say that Toby showed any emotion at the news about his mother but merely yawned in that off-hand way that cats have when they are bored with the conversation. I expect to him it was dim dark history and in no way to be confused with the bliss of his current life. Nevertheless, I did tell him about her as a matter of duty and for her sake. Now that I knew more about Toby’s background and inherited characteristics, I studied him with new eyes and decided that the two words I would add to the descriptions of a Maine Coon cat’s personality would be ‘mischievous’ and ‘perceptive’.
Toby Jug was remarkably brainy for a cat and sometimes quite deceptive with it. He was also quick to tune-in to what people were thinking, as I found out many times, including when I bought him a small red ball to play with whenever I had to leave him alone in the cottage. It was the kind that bounced easily and, if struck even moderately by a playful paw, would shoot across the room in a way that invited a headlong chase. Toby Jug loved this plaything and would sometimes carry it around in his mouth and occasionally bring it to me to be thrown so that he could jump and attempt to catch it. Here again was a link to his Maine Coon breeding since these cats are well-known for retrieving small objects and carrying playthings to their owners.
One day the red ball disappeared and couldn’t be found. Obviously, Toby had carried it out of doors and it had gone astray s
omewhere in the garden. No amount of careful searching unearthed the lost ball. Tired of searching we eventually abandoned the hunt as a lost cause and I made a mental note to buy him another. Some days later I was puzzled to find a number of tomatoes lying around the patio, some of which were in a severely bruised state. When I set about retrieving these I noticed that Toby looked suspiciously guilty and I became quite perplexed at what was going on. Was Toby Jug bringing these tomatoes and if so where was he getting them? It was most bewildering.
The mystery was solved several days later when Alice, the neighbour from the cottage next to mine, knocked on my backdoor and told me, with some embarrassment, that she really liked my little cat but could I stop him from going into her greenhouse and stealing her tomatoes. She explained that she left the greenhouse door partially open for ventilation. Then it dawned on me what had been happening. I started to give her an account of the saga of Toby’s lost little red ball when, to my horror the villain of the piece appeared around the corner of the cottage in full view of both of us, carrying a red tomato in his mouth.
I have always believed that animals, and more especially cats, have a full range of emotional sensitivities which includes a conscience. At the sight of the two of us, Toby Jug skidded to a stop, dropped the tomato and scampered off to hide in the bushes. I assured an indignant Alice that I would remonstrate with Toby Jug (although at the time I wasn’t quite sure how I would do this) and punish him at the earliest opportunity. I also mentioned that I would buy Toby a multitude of small red balls that very afternoon. I suggested that for a few days she might like to close her greenhouse door. I communicated all of this in the most apologetic manner I could summon, stopping short only of getting down on my knees to say sorry. I did offer to buy her some tomatoes from the village shop but this only seemed to add insult to injury since she angrily assured me that her tomatoes were homegrown and far superior to any that were store bought. We parted on reasonably good terms, though, and I resolved to buy the dear lady a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates as a peace offering. This I duly did and friendly diplomatic relations were re-established.
Thankfully nothing more was ever heard of the tomato incident, but I suspect that Alice took steps to prevent Toby’s entry into her greenhouse. After his exposure as the tomato thief Toby was not seen until mid-evening, when hunger pangs overcame his guilty feelings. When he did at last appear for his dinner I confronted him with the stolen tomato and let him off with a light scolding and, from the shamed look he affected, I was sure he understood me only too well. The scolding appeared in no way to diminish his appetite, though, and merely served to confirm for me the inherent resilience of a cat’s nature to shrug off adversity.
Following this incident I made sure that my other neighbours were aware of Toby Jug’s eccentricities and, fearful of angry reprisals against him, I offered compensation for any damage he might in future cause. But in the small community in which we lived Toby Jug had quickly become accepted for the playful character that he was. His friendly, extraverted nature tended to ingratiate him with the neighbours, especially the ladies of the households, some of whom regularly saved titbits of cooked meat and fried bacon for him.
Since that event Toby was given a regular supply of red balls which periodically had to be changed, either because he forgot where he last played with his ball or because the old one had too many bits chewed out of it and he liked me to supply him with a new one. I often found discarded balls in unusual places, like in cupboards, under the bed, in the vegetable rack and once behind a cushion on the sofa, not to mention those discarded in the garden. This made me suspect that there was a conspiracy afoot – something of the order of T.S. Eliot’s ‘Macavity – The Mystery Cat’ (described as ‘the Napoleon of Crime!’) – but I never could catch him at it, which led me to suspect him all the more. Toby Jug, I’m glad to say, was developing into quite a maverick personality.
There was, however, something which perturbed me about the incident recounted above which had nothing to do with tomatoes but everything to do with the way that cats, unlike any other domestic animal, wander as they please. I could not control Toby Jug’s excursions unless I tethered or imprisoned him all the time, which was to my mind unthinkable, especially since we lived in such appealing surroundings. Also I hated the idea of caging any creature. Some pet owners who keep caged birds may care for them in such a way that they have a good life, but my own feelings for Toby Jug prohibited restricting his freedom to roam. With regard to the need to give Toby Jug the freedom to wander at will, I was anxious to know what rights cats had under the law.
I raised this point with a police inspector friend of mine whilst we were having a drink together one night in the Northumberland Arms. The gist of what he told me was that a domestic cat cannot be owned in law by anyone, it is not property as such nor is its owner obliged to be responsible for whatever it does on its wanderings. He also added, with respectful deference to my feelings for Toby Jug, that cats are classed in the same category as vermin such as rabbits, rats and mice. I trusted my friend’s words and did not consult a solicitor on this point because it just seemed to be the way things were. Yet the prospect of Toby Jug’s wayward adventures worried me considerably to the extent that I felt I must do something about it. I was also aware of scare stories about cats being abducted by unscrupulous people to be sold to laboratories for vivisection and other kinds of experiments.
Consequently, I bought Toby Jug a collar, a fine collar of fluorescent yellow plastic (so that I would more easily spot him in the darkness), with a bright silver bell attached. The collar had a strip of elastic built into its length as a safety precaution so that, in the event of it becoming hooked on to something, it would slip off the cat’s head without harming him. Also, I bought a miniature brass cylinder containing a slip of paper with my name, address and telephone number and the words ‘Reward for return of this cat’. I didn’t put Toby’s name on it in case someone stole him. But in this way I sought to protect Toby Jug as my cat by means of ‘Common Law’, since the collar and identity cylinder were certainly my property.
In the last few weeks of the summer term, whilst I was still very busy at the college, I had given Toby Jug the freedom to wander and play as he wished rather than shutting him in the house or tethering him on a lead in the garden. I believed that he was now mature and experienced enough to manage on his own, and he had his brand new collar. He loved the freedom and coped very well with his newfound independence. As far as I knew he stayed close to home and ventured over the fence to other gardens only where he was welcome, except of course for his clandestine visits to Alice’s greenhouse. But as my homecoming time approached he would always be waiting in the drive to welcome me. Until this particular day.
When I returned home on a Friday afternoon I was confronted by the worst fear any pet owner can have. Toby Jug was nowhere to be found.
Generally, he would sprint to my side from wherever he was playing or reposing as soon as he heard the car approaching. If he was not there to greet me immediately I had only to call his name and whistle and he would come running. On this occasion I whistled and called his name many times, but to no avail. This was most unlike him and I began to panic. First I checked the roadway outside the cottage. Had he been run over and left lying at the roadside? Thankfully there was no sign of him there. But then I began to think of other equally dreadful alternatives. Had he got caught by his new collar and strangled himself? Many alarming thoughts and improbable scenarios filled my mind as I searched everywhere I could think of looking.
All the while I could feel myself becoming more and more panic-stricken. He had never done this before and I began to fear the worst. Something terrible must have happened to him. Sad memories of pet cats disappearing without trace flooded my mind. As I rushed here and there in a lather of anxiety, I was stopped in my tracks by a faint whine which seemed to come from above. Glancing up with relief, I spotted Toby Jug high on the conservatory roof
that sloped up to my bedroom window. In the throes of panic I had failed to look for him on the roof.
He turned when I called his name and gave me another whine of recognition but then turned his attention back to the window. He began to make the strangely aggressive chittering sound with his teeth that he sometimes made when watching birds through the kitchen window. He made no attempt to come to me and was obviously engrossed in something or other within the bedroom. Puzzled by this odd behaviour, I decided to investigate the bedroom from inside the cottage; perhaps a bird had flown down the chimney and was fluttering around the room, causing Toby Jug’s displeasure.
As I climbed the stairs I could hear a strange humming noise coming from behind the bedroom door. I flung the door open, only to slam it shut again instantly, aghast at what I had seen. The room had been invaded by a swarm of bees. My bedroom, as I briefly saw it, was black with their presence. They must have come down the chimney and in through the fireplace.
A neighbour, who had noticed the tail end of the swarm clustered around one of my highest chimney pots, kindly offered to summon the help of a friend who kept bees. I was confused and disturbed by this situation and in the circumstances any offer of help was to be welcomed. Meanwhile, I still couldn’t entice Toby Jug down from his vantage point since he seemed obliged to stand guard by the window.
We waited, a little group of neighbours, looking skywards to check on the situation and I listened with a sinking heart to tales of doom about rogue swarms of bees that invaded houses and drove the occupants out, sometimes for days, sometimes for weeks, until a solution could be found. A murmur of expectancy arose from the small crowd as the friend of my neighbour arrived in his van. The curiosity of this peaceful community, normally starved of dire events such as this, was fully aroused and news had spread by word of mouth from one cottage to the next. Soon an appreciable number of onlookers had gathered to witness the excitement.
Paw Prints in the Moonlight Page 8
