Paw Prints in the Moonlight

by Denis O'Connor

  The presents were a great success but the highlight of the day for Toby Jug was the Christmas lunch. He disgraced himself by demanding so many helpings of turkey, followed by a sizeable dish of fresh cream, that afterwards he could only just make it as far as the sitting room. He was quite incapable, as well as unwilling, to move from his place by the fire for the rest of the day. He surreptitiously opened only one eye as I left the cottage for an evening visit to church, but remained lying there stretched out in absolute contentment, the epitome of a relaxed cat. As I left the room, teasing him about his overfed state (to which he literally didn’t even blink an eye), an age-old saying came to mind, ‘A greedy man’s wagon is never full’.

  Toby Jug’s first Christmas and New Year were truly memorable for all sorts of reasons but especially for the friendliness and joy he brought into my life. I had never known a cat like him. On the one hand he was as extroverted and friendly as a little dog but on the other hand he professed the independence and introverted self-containment of the proverbial cat. The unique way in which he had been reared by me had a lot to do with his personality, I’m sure, but there was also his Maine Coon inheritance. This was also an influential factor. Every living thing has singular qualities which make it different from others, even creatures of the same species and breed. Toby Jug, because of the conditions of his early environment, was most definitely a one-off.

  As well the domestic life he had with me in the cottage and which he appeared to enjoy to the full, Toby Jug responded to the primitive call of the wild. Increasingly, he displayed the innermost urge to wander at will in the fields and woods near our home for longer periods of time. He was assuredly my pet cat but he was also his own cat. I had worried at times that because I had been so instrumental in his upbringing he might become something of a neurotic house cat, afraid of his own natural instincts and terrified to leave the safety of the cottage. I was very relieved to observe that, while his close attachment to me was indisputable, Toby Jug had enough of a wild streak to give him his natural rights and dignity as an animal.

  In this respect I didn’t scold him when just after New Year he brought me a present of a mouse which he’d killed and, some days later, a weasel; I praised him for the clever cat he was. To my knowledge he never did kill a bird. I believe that he knew that somehow I wouldn’t be happy with him if he did that. I had told him so and perhaps he understood me and respected my wishes but I sensed he didn’t like birds at all, especially big birds. His hunt adventure and near death in the jaws of the foxhounds had taught him to be cannier in his wanderings. For all that, though, Toby Jug had a life and a mind of his own.

  Sometimes when I was returning home whilst it was still daylight, I would stop the car on a hill, in a parking bay by the roadside, overlooking the countryside adjacent to the cottage. Then I would take out the binoculars I carried with me in the car and scan the fields and hedgerows for Toby Jug. He was quite distinctive with his white vest and white paws and I could literally see him a mile away.

  On one particular occasion I spotted him investigating every ditch and tree stump along his way, happily unaware of the fact that I was watching his every move. I was proud to see him doing his own thing. Another time, in late October, I caught sight of him stalking rabbits in the stubble of a hayfield. All at once he stopped sniffing the grass in front of him and looked directly at me, his face so intent in my eyeglasses that it startled me. It was as if he could see me. But then I rationalized it by telling myself that it was probably something in the foreground which had caught his eye.

  However, there are stories about cats that suggest they may have psychic powers and maybe, just maybe, Toby Jug sensed that I was there. Uncanny as it might seem, on the day when I thought he’d become aware of me watching him through binoculars, he was there to greet me at the gate when I drove in. What this meant was that even if he’d taken his own shortcuts, he must have covered about a mile on foot whilst I drove in a round about way four miles along the twisting road. Cats are incredible creatures and there were many times that Toby Jug impressed me with just how incredible a cat he was.

  Of course, I continued to worry about him. One incident which startled me happened when I was taking my habitual evening stroll through the garden, waiting to see the bats. Toby Jug was somewhere close about when a car braked hard and screeched to a stop in the roadway fronting the cottage and then hastily roared off. Almost at once a long-haired tortoiseshell cat streaked up my drive and suddenly dropped in her tracks. I hurried over to find a lovely cat in her death throes. Obviously, she had been hit by the car I had just heard. There wasn’t anything I could do for her as she was bleeding badly from the mouth and had most certainly been ruptured inside. I knelt by her and tried to comfort her by gently stroking her head and within a short time she convulsed and died.

  Just after this happened there came a sound from nearby which was so eerie it made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck and sent a cold shudder right through me. It was Toby Jug, a short distance away, staring at the dead cat and emitting a deep hollow sound which I’d never heard before nor since and which I can best describe as a cat howl. It was unearthly to hear and so blood-chilling that it filled me with fear. I went to him and gathered him up in my arms. His body was trembling. Pacifying him at length, I shut him in the cottage. I then gathered up the dead cat and laid it in a prominent place by the roadside, hoping its owner would find the body and at least know what had happened to it. The dead cat wore a collar but no address tag so I just had to leave it there.

  In the morning I looked out for it but the body and the plastic bag on which I’d placed it had gone. Toby Jug was most upset that night and insisted on sleeping near me on the bed even though he’d become accustomed to sleeping in his new igloo in the bedroom. I concluded from these strange happenings that, although I know a lot about cats, there are still a lot of things that cats know that I do not.

  Literature about the Maine Coon emphasises that this breed is remarkably intelligent. From my own experience with cats I can support this statement. I found Toby Jug to be extraordinarily clever, which was all the more surprising in view of his traumatic start in life. He proved to be the brightest of all the cats I have known. Not wishing to demean those other clever animals in any way, Toby Jug was superior. A great deal of what made Toby Jug so exceptional was that, although I knew him well in so many ways, there were things about him that remained a mystery to me. This is what made our relationship fascinating. I had, in him, a piece of pure and profound cat nature.

  Shortly after the turn of the year the weather changed for the worst in the Coquet Valley, as so often happens in these parts of Northumberland. A significant date was looming in my mind which at one time I hadn’t dared even think about, let alone hope for. It was the date of the anniversary of finding Toby Jug. On 21 January, it would be one complete year from the time when I had set out in the snow to rescue his mother and found her kittens. I determined to make it a special occasion.

  As I was driving back from work, it started to snow and by the time I reached the cottage it was falling heavily enough to lay a thick white carpet on the road. The weather closed in exactly as it had done the previous year. It snowed as if it would never stop. Roads were becoming blocked, while bushes, trees, fells and hills all around became lost in the snowscape.

  Toby Jug was waiting for me under the protective umbrella of the giant fir tree and came bounding to greet me as I alighted from the car. He leapt on to my shoulder and began the welcome home routine that I now knew so well and looked forward to so much (even though the left shoulder of all my jackets were beginning to have a somewhat worn look).

  That evening, as a celebration, I cooked us both a tasty meal of fresh cod in a white creamy sauce. I had a glass of claret and Toby had a saucer of evaporated milk just for old time’s sake. Afterwards, I built up the huge fire grate with some of the logs I’d cut in summer until there was enough heat from their blaze to chase away any of the co
ld memories left in my mind of that tragic night the previous year. For a while Toby Jug lay on my knees, all warm and fluffy, as he snuggled into my old sweater, which he had made a tattered remnant of its former glory. I looked him over as I stroked him. He had grown into a really fine-looking cat. He had a sturdy body and a healthy coat of silken fur. Moreover, he had a strong character and a loveable personality. Above all, Toby Jug was a real companion and I thought of him only in the dearest terms.

  Casting my mind back to the beginning I considered it remarkable that one year ago tonight he had lain in an open barn, dying of starvation and hypothermia. Had it merely been chance or was it some other agent of serendipity that had lured me away from a cosy fireside to encounter a tragic drama that was to change my life for the better? When I thought deeply about it I couldn’t decide who had been really rescued, Toby Jug or me. From a philosophical viewpoint I reckon it was mutual.

  Later that evening I went to the back door from where I’d heard Toby Jug’s mother screaming in pain on that night which seemed such a long time ago. There was no screaming this night, only deep powdery snowdrifts all around. For the moment the air was clear and the stars were out with a bright half-moon dominating the sky. The countryside was like an enchanting new country. Although I knew it well, that night it seemed wonderfully unfamiliar. The stars were brilliant against the black blanket of the sky, their light appearing to reflect on the snow and ice.

  Toby Jug came to the door to see what I was doing. He looked out and decided to go for a prowl. At first he wasn’t sure about this deep white stuff but I saw that he was analysing this experience of snow as yet another of nature’s challenges. Possibly it was something that could be turned into a plaything like leaves blowing in the wind or the wavering tall grasses that were fun to charge. It was as if he couldn’t quite work out why he kept slipping through the powdery surfaces. I chuckled at the sight of the puzzled expression on his face as he tried to work out how a seemingly solid surface could suddenly give way. He didn’t like to see me laughing at him and he whined with the frustration of it all. As he became accustomed to the snow he romped through it with abandon. I watched him overcome his caution at this new experience and he scooted exuberantly here and there. Even though I was growing cold and starting to shiver I stayed to watch his antics, unable to tear myself away from the sight of him enjoying himself.

  Then I vividly recalled his mother and the paw tracks of her desperate flight in the moonlight to rejoin her kittens – paw tracks in the snow which I had followed and which led me to the sick kitten that was now a healthy, full-grown cat. Moving to my warm refuge in the sitting room, I watched him through the window making his own paw tracks in the moonlight. No parent could have been prouder. It was a singularly happy ending to the year for both of us.

  Soon, Toby was once again lying by the fire.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘if it stays fair tomorrow we’ll have some more fun in the snow.’

  Toby looked doubtful, wondering how I could think of something as silly as that. Then we both settled down to an evening of reflection, gently toasting ourselves by the blazing log fire. I sipped a glass of brandy. Toby curled himself into a ball and purred loudly. I wondered if he remembered what happened a year ago. I certainly did.

  When morning came, the sky was blue and it didn’t look as if it would snow again. The freezing air made the snow crisp underfoot and, as Toby and I scrunched our way across the garden, on impulse and for the boyish pleasure of it, I decided to build a snowman. Later, I was joined by an inquisitive Toby Jug who watched me at work from what he considered a safe distance. To please him further, I made a snowcat for him.

  SAYING GOODBYE

  Toby Jug lived with me for a further eleven years, during which time we shared a lot of life together and I was impressed time and again by his remarkable character and personality. He was by nature an extremely loving cat with an attractively affable attitude to life. We continued to have many wonderful adventures together after this traumatic, eventful, but wonderful first year.

  The manner of his dying is for me an especially sad topic to write about. I think we all tend to imagine the future in terms of our awareness of the present, with all its assurances and comforts – we expect the good times to last forever. Toby Jug matured over the years into a fine cat but within a short time his life was ended with a suddenness that was impossible to understand. Not for him the gentle descent into old age and the eventual death in his sleep after a full and happy life. He was stricken with an agonizing spell of acute suffering in which I was powerless to help him. I would have done anything imaginable to save his life but it was not to be. He died just two days after his twelfth birthday, having been ill for several weeks. I’m afraid that veterinary science was not as well developed in the 1970s as it is now and there was nothing that could be done for his condition.

  It happened like this. One day he whined in pain as he ate his food and seemed sickly all evening. I examined him as carefully as I could and scrutinized his mouth and teeth thoroughly. I could find nothing of significance. The following day he did his rounds of the garden as usual in the morning but he seemed to want only to lie around on the floor panting all day. During my lunch break I came home to check him out. There didn’t seem to be any improvement but nor did he appear to be really ill either. Just a shade off-colour, as my grandmother would have said.

  When I fed him that evening he was able to eat his food but something was wrong. He whined all the while he was chewing. I decided he must have an abscess or something else wrong with his teeth. Mac’s veterinary surgery had by now been sold off and his surgery demolished to make way for a block of flats so I had to search in the phone book for a suitable vet.

  Eventually, I found an address and carried Toby Jug in my arms into the car where he lay on my lap as I drove to this new veterinary surgery in the village of Stobswood. It was so unlike him just to lie and snuggle into my lap in the car that I began to feel more than worried: I began to feel afraid. There was a crowd in the surgery, some of the people had small animals, but there were no other cats. There were, however, some noisy dogs who seemed prone to bark incessantly. Toby Jug clung desperately to me throughout the ordeal of waiting and at long last we were ushered into the consulting room.

  Gently, I laid him on the table in the room and stood back as the vet began to examine him. It seemed to take ages but throughout it all Toby Jug never once whimpered or demurred at the intimacies of the examination. At last the vet addressed me.

  ‘I can’t find anything wrong with his teeth or mouth. His stomach and insides did not cause any distress when I prodded him. He possibly has some kind of infection which is causing him gastric upset and I suggest that you put him on a milky pudding-type diet for a few days and see if there is any improvement. Give him a few days more and if there is no change in his condition then bring him back to see me. He is a small cat, isn’t he?’

  I could not for the life of me understand this latter remark and found it rather insulting.

  Toby Jug got worse. A few days after the visit to the vet he wouldn’t eat at all and he became incontinent. I took him back to the vet and was given tablets which he wouldn’t take. He took to lying in his box all day, seemingly unable to stir abroad, and I tended him as I had done when he was a kitten. I tried to feed him on the baby mixture that I had given him so many years before but all to no avail. He constantly cried out with the agony of whatever it was afflicting him and I found it unbearable to hear him suffering. Once more we made our way to the vet.

  Whilst being examined in the surgery he vomited and whined painfully. I winced at the sounds of his pain, all the more so because I couldn’t do a thing to ease him. The duty vet that particular morning, a young woman, was very gentle with him and I could tell she liked cats because she stroked and spoke to Toby as she examined him. She called for the veterinary nurse and asked for a particular instrument which, when it came, I thought I recognized an ophthalmoscope.
With this instrument she carefully examined Toby Jug’s eyes and then took a blood sample from him which she analysed with the help of a modern-looking machine.

  When she finished her examination she looked sadly at me and my heart fell.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said as she slowly stroked Toby’s back. ‘I realize how much you love your cat but I’m afraid he has a brain tumour and there is nothing I can do for him except put him out of his misery.’

  I felt dead inside as her words sunk in. I looked at Toby Jug and he looked at me. He knew he was dying, I could tell it in his eyes. The vet moved away from the table and opened the door to leave.

  ‘I’ll give you a few minutes privacy to say your goodbyes,’ she said. ‘You’ll be doing the best thing you can for him in the circumstances and he will not feel any pain, I assure you.’

  And with that she closed the door and we were alone, just Toby Jug and me.

  ‘I’m sorry, Toby Jug. There’s nothing more I can do for you, pal,’ I said lamely. ‘I wish I could ask you what you want me to do about this.’

  I whispered more to myself than to him. With the full realization of what was about to happen the tears began unashamedly running down my cheeks. With a heartfelt sigh and wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my jacket, I made my decision and was about to recall the vet to tell her to take Toby Jug away. Suddenly, Toby moved from the prone position in which the vet had left him and, in spite of his condition, began slowly and painfully to move towards where I was standing at the side of the table. To my astonishment he began to climb with great difficulty up my jacket until his front paws reached my left shoulder and there he clung with desperation, despite his weakness. I put my arm around him for support and cried at the message he’d given me. Toby Jug had given me his answer. He wanted to go home to die.