Paw Prints in the Moonlight

by Denis O'Connor

  She said that she had watched the gang throwing lighted fireworks into the doorways of some of the other cottages and then she and Andy, her husband, had seen a black cat with white paws running along the path. The youths had chased it up the tree. They were trying to frighten it down when I came along.

  ‘Is it yours?’ she asked just as Andy arrived with the ladder.

  ‘I think so,’ was all I could say.

  I thought guiltily that Toby had probably been running towards the cottage in answer to my calls and whistles and been waylaid by that gang.

  ‘It’ll not come down you know!’ she said. ‘Not with all this going on.’ She indicated with a nod of her head the sky over the treetops which was being illuminated at intervals by the flare, whoosh and bang of rockets. ‘I’ve seen cats stay up trees for days on end,’ she ended sourly as Andy and I manoeuvred the ladder over the wall and up against the tree trunk.

  Andy steadied the ladder and Jenny watched from a safe distance with her arms folded and her head shaking doubtfully. I braced myself and began climbing up towards the crown of the massive oak that was shrouded in deep shadow. I have never been particularly good at heights – in plain terms they frighten me – and I have had to fight this fear on numerous occasions in my life. Now was such an occasion.

  ‘Careful you don’t fall!’ Jenny called, which only made me feel worse.

  As I balanced precariously on the ladder it began settling into the soft earth of the garden and I felt in imminent danger of crashing down into the street below. Eventually, and with increasing trepidation, I reached the top of the ladder and took hold of a thick branch for security. Straining to see in the semi-darkness of the tree foliage I could make out nothing in the form of a cat or anything else. From below, Andy and Jenny kept up a constant stream of questions as to whether I could see anything. Then I heard Andy tell Jenny to go and get a torch. That’s a splendid idea I thought; why hadn’t I thought of that? At that instant Toby Jug gave a loud-pitched piteous whine and appeared on a branch above my head, annoyingly just beyond my reach.

  I called repeatedly to encourage him to come down further but he lay along the branch, apparently fearful of moving any lower. He simply stared at me and it looked as if he was not going to come down of his own accord. Levering myself yet higher by standing with one foot on the top rung of the ladder, I made a desperate lunge and at last managed to clutch Toby by the scruff of his neck. I hauled him towards me. He instantly fastened his claws deeply into my sweater and clung on for dear life. I would have fallen several times if it hadn’t been for Andy steadying the ladder. Clinging desperately to each rung as I descended, feeling scared but triumphant, I at last reached the bottom. Almost at the same time Jenny arrived breathless with the torch. Thanking them both profusely for their kind help I scurried back to the cottage, holding a shocked and trembling Toby Jug.

  Back in the safety of the cottage I began to relax with what I thought was a well-deserved glass of cognac, but Toby Jug was still scared. He wouldn’t drink his milk, he wouldn’t eat his meat – he simply wanted to huddle close into my side. He couldn’t stop trembling. I stroked and soothed him as best I could but the sound of loud bangs from rockets and other fireworks even permeated the thick walls of the cottage and Toby would go into shock again. It took two days for him to regain even a semblance of his old self and then he stayed by the immediate surroundings of the cottage, slipping out only for calls of nature and hurrying back to the safety of his home.

  That night I sat there thinking how awful it is that irresponsible youngsters can sometimes terrorize neighbourhoods in the way I had just seen. Not only was I concerned about my cat, who’d been frightened out of his mind by a gang using fireworks, but I also felt both saddened and outraged by the events that night, including the vandalizing of Jenny and Andy’s cottage. She told me later that the police failed to respond to her call.

  Toby Jug never seemed to recover from his terror of fireworks after his experience that night. Even a motorcycle backfiring could send him into a spasm of fear. I have heard that some dogs and horses have been similarly affected.

  As the autumnal days set in and the trees began to display their foliage of lemon, golden brown and orange hues, Toby Jug began to recover his cheeky, cheerful personality although he didn’t wander as freely as he once did. Not for a while anyway. One particularly fine morning I sat out in the garden with my morning mug of tea, taking in the air and reflecting that autumn is my favourite season because it is a time for contemplation. All the rush and push of spring and the hurly-burly of summer give way to a calm harvesting of nature’s bounty. There is an excitement about autumn as previous efforts to grow reach completion and there is a pause before the change over to winter. I watched the early morning sun slanting through the trees turning the dew drenched grass to a silvered carpet of light. The house martins were getting ready for the long journey south. Above my patio area, wing-strengthening exercises of takeoffs and landing were being performed in earnest whilst swarms of multicoloured butterflies were driving Toby Jug to distraction.

  Later that morning I set off along some local woodland paths, thickly carpeted in cinnamon-coloured leaves, towards a small lake where I knew there’d be lots of large fir cones at this time of year. When burned in an open fire the cones give off a delicate aroma of pine which is extremely pleasing and fills the cottage for days with their natural scents. I also expected to gather some blackberries and had brought along a small bucket for that purpose.

  After a somewhat nervous start to the walk because of his recent experience, Toby Jug soon began to respond to all the woodland smells and sounds by running here and there, sniffing and mock-pouncing on piles of fallen leaves. On nearing the lake, which is set in a hollow surrounded by trees, I was surprised by a sudden heavy ‘clap clap’ beating of wings as the wild ducks who lived there took off in abrupt alarm. The clatter made by the ducks did nothing to help Toby Jug’s nerves and he froze in momentary panic. The ducks didn’t usually do that and I wondered why they were so afraid now. I had often visited the lake to feed the ducks scraps and even when they were nesting eggs they were never disturbed by my presence. What had changed?

  That morning the lake was resplendent in a myriad of autumn tints and hues at once both familiar and refreshingly new to me. The area had always been a place of peaceful beauty which had an aesthetic of calm all of its own. Looking around, I saw it had become the focus of a meaner spirit. Notices everywhere were nailed to some of the magnificent old trees, They said: ‘KEEP OUT’; ‘PRIVATE PROPERTY’; ‘TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED’; ‘PRIVATE SHOOTING’.

  I also noticed with disgust the used shotgun cartridges scattered about on mounds and in newly dug shooting trenches. It was with a feeling of extreme disquiet that I realized why the ducks had fled at our approach and why I would never come back here again. I turned for home, with my hopes of a happy afternoon spent gathering fir cones and blackberries in communion with nature dashed. I was sick to my stomach at the way some people so abuse our natural treasures which I believe belong to everyone to admire and preserve. I muttered bitterly to myself all the way back with Toby Jug running alongside to keep up with my angry pace and giving me quizzical sidelong looks as he tuned into my changed mood. I subsequently learned that the lake and adjoining wood had been acquired by a property developer who leased it out to shooting parties. Sometime later I heard with relish that the ducks had abandoned the lake and were nesting up river instead.

  During the half-term college break, I turned my attention to various jobs that needed attention around the cottage. I decided it was time to dig up the potatoes I had grown in my vegetable garden. I could give some of these, along with other vegetables, to St Michael’s Church for their imminent harvest festival service. Happening upon a dry spell of weather during the week’s break, I started digging up my crop. It was a golden autumn day, full of sunshine and warm breezes, just as I imagined an Indian summer should be. Toby Jug was as
usual dogging my footsteps, wanting to be involved in everything I did. He felt obliged to give an investigatory sniff at everything I unearthed but would at times wander off in boredom to chase late summer butterflies, only to return and stare fixedly at the spot where I was digging. I would then drop the potatoes into a large bucket of water to clean them.

  As the day wore on it grew warmer and I began to sweat profusely. Leaning on my spade for a brief rest I decided to shed my T-shirt. When I turned round, to my astonishment, I saw that Toby Jug had climbed into the bucket and was sitting on the potatoes, up to his neck in water. I was flabbergasted. Never had I witnessed anything like it before. I thought that cats and water did not mix but the heat had perhaps become too much for him and he had obviously decided to take a bath.

  As I stared at him incredulously he leapt out of the bucket, shook himself rather like a wet dog and then settled near my feet. All genetics aside, as a Maine Coon Toby Jug really did have characteristics which were remarkably similar to the racoon, including being an decent swimmer when the need arose. Then I remembered how he had jumped into the stream at the Ingram Valley and nearly drowned in an attempt to join Fynn, but the force of the current had been more than he could manage. As the afternoon wore on I noticed him several times climbing into the bucket of water to cool off. He also started rooting in the bucket with his paws for potatoes which he then played with on the grass. I was still learning more about this cat every day.

  Later that week I bought some fibreglass material to insulate the roof of the cottage. On a cold morning, when the sunny weather of the previous weekend was but a distant memory and nature was blowing up a wet storm, I opened up the attic and began the tedious and tricky job of laying the rolls of insulation material. I had been told that it would reduce my heating costs significantly by trapping more of the heat inside.

  Toby Jug, as usual, was interested in what was going on and insisted on climbing the ladder into the attic area. I hadn’t thought cats could climb ladders. I left him to prowl around while I was laying the obnoxious material which kept prickling the skin of my hands and knees and which Toby Jug, after just one encounter, studiously avoided.

  Suddenly, a crisis developed when Toby Jug disturbed a pipistrelle bat in hibernation somewhere amongst the eaves. Realizing that he was about to catch it I made a desperate lunge and grabbed his tail before he could move in for the kill, or more likely to play with it as Toby Jug was not the killer type. Sadly, the end result for the bat would have been the same so I pulled Toby away from the corner of the attic and as I did so he dug in his claws and dragged out a wrapped bundle tied in old fashioned farmer’s twine. It was covered in cobwebs and dust from the roof and I doubted whether it had seen the light of day for a long time. I pulled Toby Jug back to me by his tail and severely chastised him. Giving him an admonitory smack on the rump I sent him unceremoniously down the ladder. The bat had escaped unharmed due to my quick headlong tackle which meant, however, that now my whole body was covered in prickly fibreglass strands.

  Feeling itchy all over and very uncomfortable I climbed down from the loft to change my clothes before attempting to finish the job. On my way to the bathroom I saw Toby Jug sitting on the staircase windowsill with his back deliberately turned to me to show that he was in a huff. Later, having completed laying the insulation in double quick time to protect my skin from further ravages, I remembered the bundle which Toby Jug had inadvertently found. Finding it again I carried it downstairs and unwrapped it on the kitchen table. To my great surprise it contained a primitive percussion shotgun belonging, I imagined, to the era of black powder and lead shot. It was a handsomely made weapon, with a reddish walnut stock and a ramrod aligned under the barrel. Where the stock met the barrel there was a silver mounting built into the wood with the name ‘Braithwaite’ inscribed on it. I was interested in this gun as a relic of the ways in which the inhabitants of my cottage in the early nineteenth century had lived and I decided to try to find out more about my find, or more precisely, Toby Jug’s find.

  Subsequent research at the City Library in Newcastle identified the gun as having been manufactured between 1770 and 1815. Further investigation in Alnwick’s library revealed that, around the time of the 1830s, the area where my cottage is located was ruled over by a local squire who leased the land from the Duke of Northumberland. The land was in turn leased to tenant farmers who employed labourers to work their fields and care for the livestock. The farm labourers and their families would be housed in what were called ‘tied’ cottages as part of the employment contract. Whilst I hate the idea of hunting and shooting for sport, I can understand how these poverty stricken farm labourers would need to kill wild game birds and animals in order to feed their families and there is no shame on them for that. If caught, the penalties imposed by the autocratic landowners, who were often also the local magistrates, could be extremely severe and in some cases the poachers paid severely for their misdemeanours. Whoever lived in what was now Owl Cottage had probably secreted away his shotgun to avoid prosecution and the subsequent loss of his livelihood and home.

  In the last century the area in which I live must have been teeming with wildlife ripe for poaching, as even now the place abounds with living creatures. The River Coquet remains a prime fishing water which is strictly supervised by the Anglers’ Association with an appointed bailiff. From the ancient stone bridge in Felton, just 200 yards down from my cottage, it is possible to catch a glimpse of salmon, sea trout and more often brown trout as they leisurely wend their way upstream. While in the fields and woods adjacent to the river, there is an abundance of hares and rabbits, always prime targets for the local, as well as the itinerant, poacher.

  Both at nightfall and in the early dawn I have often caught a glimpse of wild roe deer as they move along the wooded parts of the river banks. Once, during a walk in the early summer with Toby Jug on a harnessed lead, I met a fisherman who pointed me towards a hollow among the fir trees where a hind had hidden her fawn. Toby was immensely interested in the fawn and it was lovely to see the two animals as they touched noses without any fear of each other. The creature couldn’t have been more than a couple of days old and it looked up at me with large amber eyes, for all the world just like Bambi in the Walt Disney film. I continued my walk and when I returned I looked for the fawn again but it had gone, although Toby kept sniffing around the ground where it had been as if he could find out through his nose exactly what had taken place.

  After Toby had discovered the gun, I sought him out. He was sitting at the kitchen window watching the bird-table and chittering with rage at the blue caps and chaffinches who were noisily flying to and fro. He was clearly upset because I had smacked him when he was only playing and he obviously didn’t understand the reason why. I rarely had to discipline Toby in any way and, although I had really only tapped him lightly, I had upset his feelings and he wouldn’t look my way. I sought to redeem myself somewhat in his eyes by opening a small tin of red salmon for his tea as a gesture of friendship and as a reward for finding the gun, even if it was by accident. Toby Jug accepted my peace offering and friendly relations were restored.

  As for the gun, I hung it from the oak beam embedded above the stone lintel of the fireplace and regarded it as a charmed survivor of the area’s past. And there it stayed. I wouldn’t have dared fire it even if I knew how since it would probably have blown my head off, but it was a fitting reminder of olden times. Whenever I looked at it I was reminded of the people who lived a very different kind of life from mine between these stone walls and who warmed themselves from the very same fireplace in front of which Toby Jug and I passed away many happy hours.

  Some days after this incident, Toby Jug disappeared, although the two events were not related. He wasn’t there when I returned home from the college and he didn’t appear at all that evening. Unable to eat my tea or relax, I searched everywhere including the most unlikely places a cat would go. As the evening wore on without any sight of him my wo
rry grew to a deep seated fear that tore at my mind. I imagined the worst that could have happened to him and my fantasies became even more fevered as the time ticked away.

  Eventually I left the cottage to yet again make a search by torchlight of the fields and copses surrounding the cottage. I knocked on neighbour’s doors to ask them if they had seen him, prevailed upon them to open outhouses and garages in vain searches and at last arrived at the bar of the Northumberland Arms in a state of physical and emotional exhaustion. None of the assembled drinkers had any news of a missing black-and-white cat but some had woeful stories of pet animals that had gone missing without trace and had never been seen again. A feeling of sickening dread overwhelmed me and the landlord, sensing my despair, offered a complimentary glass of whiskey. The bar talk returned to more mundane events, albeit more hushed, and I was left in a solitary state at one end of the bar to dwell on my fears.

  Suddenly my ears pricked up at a mention from the far end of the bar that the Percy Hunt had been active in the area during the morning. It appeared that several foxes had been caught by the hounds which had coursed through the local farmlands. Faces tautened and eyes lowered at my avid questions as to whether foxhounds ever savaged cats.

  ‘I’ve seen hounds on the scent in a full run take anything in their path. Once they savaged a sheep dog that got in their way and it had to be put down,’ said Les an ex-gamekeeper and local savant.