Paw Prints in the Moonlight
Page 16
This situation mirrored the time almost twelve years ago when I first took a very ill kitten back to my home to live. Now I was taking Toby Jug to our home to die. The door opened and the vet came in expecting me to leave Toby Jug with her. She was surprised to see him clinging on to my shoulder. I explained how I felt and what I understood Toby Jug to be feeling. She took our decision very well and even offered to give me two prepared syringes containing a powerful painkiller which she advised me to use when it became necessary. Finally, she gave me her prognosis which was that Toby Jug would probably die within the next forty-eight hours.
‘Keep him warm and comfortable and let nature do the rest,’ she advised as I was leaving with Toby Jug and a packet containing the two syringes.
When I arrived back at the cottage I lifted him out of the car and he seemed to brighten at the familiar sights and scents, but I could tell that he was very poorly. I considered somehow killing him myself for his sake, to put him out of his misery, but then hastily rejected the notion. I didn’t know how and if I had known I could never have brought myself to do it. Nor could I bring myself to take him back to the vet to be put down, to be put to sleep as it is euphemistically called. Not my Toby Jug. We had faced lots of crises together and now we would just have to do our best to see this one though to the end.
As it turned out I didn’t need to use the pain killer injections because he no longer cried out with pain. Perhaps his brain’s endorphins had taken over and were relieving him of suffering in these final moments of his life. I certainly hoped so. Two-and-a-half weeks after my initial visit to the vet, Toby Jug died.
It was a day after our last visit that it happened, well within the vet’s prognosis. The night before his death I had placed him in a newly lined box to make him as comfortable as possible and, having washed and cleaned him for the umpteenth time, I suddenly felt so drained of energy and worn out with distress that I was almost in a state of collapse. I had to sleep but I couldn’t leave him alone and it was impractical to take him to bed with me. Instead, I moved his box near to the settee in the living room where we had shared so much living. Stoking the fire to keep out the wintry cold, I lit the candles for both our sakes.
Although I was very tired I took time to talk to him as I bade him goodnight. As I stroked and softly spoke to him, I told him how much I loved him and how wonderful he was. At my words he reared up from his lying position and pushed his forehead and face into my hand and gave me a throaty purr, just the once. I felt so much affection for him that I found it almost impossible to consider that he would ever die. Toby Jug was the super cat who could survive anything. I had believed we would enjoy life together for many more years.
Pulling my winter overcoat over me I lay back on the settee and, with only the flickering light from the coal fire and the candles to illuminate the room, I whispered goodnight to Toby Jug once more. I then fell into the deepest of all sleeps that only exhaustion can bring. It was the last time I saw him alive.
The next morning I found him dead in his box. Rigor mortis had set in, so he must have died shortly after I went to sleep. Even though part of me knew he was dying, the reality of his death shocked me more than anything I had ever experienced. I was totally devastated. I had lost something that I could never regain and which had been such a living treasure to me.
I considered what I had to do as I mechanically sipped my morning brew of tea. He wasn’t there anymore for me but I had to be there for him. I shaved and dressed for work. Recently, I had been appointed to a lectureship at Newcastle University and I had twenty-nine students waiting for me to tutor them that morning. I didn’t know how I was going to do it but there was no one else to take my place. The mourning for Toby Jug would have to go on mental hold. However, his burial would not wait. I couldn’t face the prospect of coming home to the sight of his dead body.
I rushed upstairs and selected my very best sweater, a blue lamb’s-wool one that I had bought myself last Christmas. For purely sentimental reasons, I couldn’t bring myself to give up the tattered ones which he liked so well. Slipping on the pair of Wellingtons I used for gardening, I carried his body outside. In the misty early morning I dug a hole at least four feet deep in the frosted ground under the gnarled old apple tree that he loved to climb. I held his cold stiff body for a long moment, the last time I would ever see him, and consoled myself with the thought that wherever he was he wasn’t here any more. Wrapping him hastily in the sweater, I buried him along with a few of his remaining red balls, his food trays and a cushion on which he liked to lie. I placed his body on the cushion at the bottom of the grave.
After I filled in his grave I made him a solemn promise. Flushed with emotion and through my tears, I promised him that I would some day write and publish the story of his life. I wanted to share with the rest of the world the special memories that I had of him and our life together. I felt that I had to preserve the uniqueness of our experience if only to relieve my own pain and sadness at his loss. He was gone from me now but I would never forget him.
This I promised him in all good faith but I never imagined at the time how difficult it would be to keep that promise. I had kept diary notes and taken photographs but the latter were unfortunately lost when I moved houses. Still, I have an excellent memory that has served me in good stead as a teacher and lecturer. Over the years I made several attempts at writing the story of our life together but none of them worked. Then, when I took early retirement from full-time work, I decided to have a final go, prompted by my wife Catherine who had long suffered my stories about Toby Jug. This book is testament to the fulfilment of my promise and to the enduring love of cats that was Toby Jug’s legacy to me.
Five months after his death I sold the cottage because I found that I couldn’t go on living there with the heartache of his loss. I moved far away so that I could begin a new life. Friends advised me to get another kitten and some were offered but I couldn’t at that time bring myself to take on a new pet. Because of the way I felt, it wouldn’t have been fair to either the kitten or to me. At that time I did not think that I would see Owl Cottage ever again, only fate has a way of making the unexpected happen – but that’s another story.
Some four years after Toby’s death, I was engaged for a short time as a psychological consultant for a Tyne Tees Television programme called Friday Live. On a wintry night in January, after one of the shows about the topic of ‘Psychic Phenomena and Clairvoyance’, the celebrity cast and I were enjoying the TV company’s hospitality at a local hotel. One of the psychic experts, who had been demonstrating her skills on this particular programme, stopped by my chair as I was sitting chatting with some of the cast.
Placing a hand on my shoulder to attract my attention she leaned close to my head and, speaking in a hushed voice so that only I could hear, she gave me an astounding message. What she said brought tears to my eyes and yet, oddly enough, always gives me comfort whenever I think of it, even if I find it hard to believe.
She said: ‘I am tired out with my efforts this evening but I just had to tell you what I’ve seen because it might be an important message for you. When you walked over to the bar just now I was aware of a spirit animal following you. Did you once have a black-and-white cat that you cared for very much? The initials T and J come to mind. Does that have any meaning for you?’
Choking back long-forgotten emotions, I was quite unable to speak. I simply nodded.
‘Well,’ she said, smiling at the look on my face, ‘he’s sitting on your shoulder right now!’
Denis O’Connor trained as a psychologist and teacher. Throughout his career he taught in schools and lectured in colleges and universities. He holds a Doctorate in Education and Psychology and has contributed widely to academic books and journals. Paw Tracks in the Moonlight is an account of an extra special period in his life. He is retired and presently lives with his wife Catherine, and three male Maine Coon cats, Pablo, Louis and Max, in a remote country cottage in Northumberland.
The silver she-cat had raked together a rough nest of straw for her two kittens.
He looked the picture of a miniature Toby Jug, and that would now have to be his name.
As a special treat I drove down to the beach for a view of Lindisfarne.
The tomato thief exposed for all to see.
There came a sszzzzing down the chimney as another bee dropped.
We remained for long moments captivated by the sunset.
We prepared to leave camp watched by many unseen eyes.
We sat in the moonlight by the weir, watching the salmon below.
Toby Jug gave a piteous whine, and appeared on a branch just annoyingly out of reach.
Dirty and bedraggled, with the pathetic look of a waif, as I’d never seen him before.
Walking with Toby Jug in the Cheviot foothills in a rainstorm.
We fed the ducks and swans at Bolam Lake and wished them a ‘Happy Christmas’.
Just for fun, I built a snowman and a snowcat for Toby Jug.
Toby Jug went for a prowl in the snow, making paw tracks in the moonlight.
It was the anniversary of his rescue, and we both took a celebratory stroll in the snow.
I buried him under the apple tree he loved to climb, and made a solemn promise.
PAW PRINTS IN THE MOONLIGHT. Copyright © 2004, 2009 by Denis O’Connor. All rights reserved. . For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
First published in Great Britain by Constable & Robinson Ltd
eISBN 9781250018014
First eBook Edition : September 2012
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
O’Connor, Denis, 1934 –
Paw prints in the moonlight : the heartwarming true story of one man and his cat / Denis O’Connor.—1st U.S. ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-66829-7 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-01801-4 (e-book)
1. O’Connor, Denis, 1934 – 2. Cat owners—England—Biography. 3. Maine coon cat—England—Biography. 4. Cats—England—Biography. 5. College teachers—England—Biography. 6. Human – animal relationships—England. I. Title. II. Title: One man and his cat.
SF442.82.O26A3 2012
636.80092’9—dc23
2012031482
First U.S. Edition: October 2012