by Shaun Usher
What do you think, Johánek, whom I found on the street? What do you think Starlet, Uki, Misha and my dearest Petinka – I used to call you Van Gogh because you were so special, unique, ginger and white that I even wrote a book about you, hopefully someone will publish it one day. And what about you Mauglí, you will walk in pompously, wagging your broken tail like a doggie, your eyes will sparkle like ocean lagoons again, won’t they?? Death is but a thin veil. I’ll come too and I will be attractive and will run happily towards you, my cats. We will do the best bits together; I’ll be pulling the string or the Bad Toy which always gently hits your noses or ears because it’s a rubber band. Oh, I have forgotten Piggy, who disappeared when I left home a long time ago. When I returned home to stay for a short time, Piggy greeted me and laid down in his basket next to the bed watching me with a painful, reproachful and questioning look. After my next departure he left forever. Piggy, you will be there too, won’t you? You were a brave lad who jumped out from the first floor straight onto the street to play with the sweeper’s broom. Piggy the prankster, the joker. You were a poor and dirty street cat, but you always behaved like an aristocratic tomcat. I picked all your fleas with my fingers – and then I had to leave, my poor little boy. I still have a bad conscience because of what I did to you, Piggy, but I had to earn money; I was a student in those days.
As you know, my cats, my inspiration, my great love and Muses, I had to leave you and your eyes from time to time. When we are together again somewhere where it will be easy to explain everything, you’ll forgive me, won’t you. Do you remember, Petinka, when you wanted a cuddle that I often used to say: Esti, your friend, must work now, Petinka, so we have something to EAT. By this I mostly meant you, Petinka; children were throwing you half-dead onto a coal heap in the yard next to the house and you, a ginger and white, skinny kitten, were close to death and needed to be fed a lot. When you sat next to me on a chair by the fridge with your little front paw lifted, watching me with your questioning grey-green eyes, I couldn’t resist their beauty and took an immediate decision that you would never ever again encounter fear and misery. Then in your whole life you never wanted to go out, to the outside world, am I correct or not? When we were lying next to each other close to the electric heater, and I longed so much to be a child again, I told you fairy tales and you laughed until you recovered, even though the vet didn’t give us much hope. I loved you so much; you were scrawny and lame and I laid you down in a little armchair and covered you with a blanket so that you felt cosy as if you were in a bed and I fed you with egg yolks and wine sugar on the tip of my finger. Later you became a strong and big tomcat and whenever I was working you couldn’t wait until I finished and we would be TOGETHER again. In bed we looked at each other earnestly. First I called you Petrushka and later Péti. Be there too, please, when I come to join you. And don’t be jealous of little Snail, as you know, he was a lad from the forest, the son of a semi-wild cat; you used to bully him and Snail was such a shy boy. Mauglí loved you and after you were gone, she spent whole nights at the place you used to lay down. Her grief broke my heart. She was missing you so much even though Snail fathered her kittens; well, sit down next to Mauglí as you used to in the kitchen and wait until I come. Will you?
Mauglí was survived by two offspring, the brothers Crayon and Bajaja. They love each other in the same way that you, little Snail, were beloved by Beanie, you child. And there’s also Aran, an intelligent and beautiful calico cat, whom I found at the nearby cemetery, tiny and half-frozen. All of them will be gone before me, at least I hope so. I’ll be able to cope with the grief. They are old. Me too.
Cats of mine, please make a guard of honour for me when I pass away. I beg you. I don’t have better company; there’s nobody else I would write a letter like this to, my pets, my friends, who saved me from despair in the worst times. Come meet me!
My best regards to all of you. We all discovered the incommunicable within ourselves, we found each other and we loved each other.
Yours
Ester
LETTER 24
A HOME THAT NEVER CHANGETH
Katherine Mansfield to Ida Baker
20 March 1921
As 1917 came to a close, New Zealand author Katherine Mansfield discovered she had tuberculosis, the disease which would ultimately lead to her death six years later, aged thirty-four. In those years after the diagnosis, she left her home and cats, Athy and Wingley, in England and divided her time between France and Switzerland where she rested, wrote and searched for a cure. In March 1921 she received word from Ida Baker – her close friend, housekeeper and, near the end of Mansfield’s life, carer – that Wingley, who had been missing, was now found. This was Mansfield’s reply. Days later, she wrote to Elizabeth Bibesco, the lady who was having an affair with Mansfield’s husband, and warned her off. Baker soon arrived in France with Wingley in tow – her other cat, Athy, had moved in with an elderly neighbour back in England and, in true feline style, steadfastly refused to leave.
THE LETTER
Villa Isola Bella,
Menton,
France
Sunday.
D.I.
Your telegram about Wingley came late last night. It was very thrilling. I long to know how he was found, and even more, if possible, what was the meeting like between Athy and him. I envy you seeing that. I hope you really saw it and can tell me what happened. It is a great triumph to have found him. But now the question is – what to do with them? If we were not leaving for Switzerland I wouldn’t hesitate. But all these train journeys – arriving at hotels, and so on? Would it be torture for cats? I feel the cats’ first need is a settled home; a home that never changeth. And I know that is just what I am not going to have. At the same time the idea that they should be destroyed is horrible! You see, just suppose you and I hear, when we are in Switzerland, of another place & decide to try it. Or decide to make a sea voyage. Or . . . so much is possible. We couldn’t ever leave the cats with Jack, & to take cats where they are not wanted is cruelty. I confess I don’t see a way out. If Richard were older Id suggest asking him to mind them. Id better leave it like this. If when you have thought it over you decide it would be an unhappy life for them or impractical for you – have them destroyed.
Elizabeth Bibesco has shown signs of life again. A letter yesterday begging him to resist Katherine. “You have withstood her so gallantly so far how can you give way now”. And “you swore nothing on earth should ever come between us”. From the letter I feel they are wonderfully suited and I hope he will go on with the affair. He wants to. “How can I exist without your literary advice”, she asks. That is a very fascinating question. I shall write to the silly little creature & tell her I have no desire to come between them only she must not make love to him while he is living with me, because that is undignified. He’ll never break off these affairs, tho’, and I dont see why he should. I wish hed take one on really seriously – and leave me. Every day I long more to be alone.
[. . .]
Take things easy – & look after yourself. I hope the little boy is better.
Yours
Katherine.
LETTER 25
HE EATS LIKE A GENTLEMAN
Florence Nightingale to Mrs Frost
13 December 1875
Florence Nightingale, the founder of modern nursing, dedicated her life to the care of others. In 1854 she took thirty-eight British nurses to Turkey and trained them to tend to the countless victims of the Crimean War. Six years later, she founded a nursing school at London’s St Thomas’ Hospital – the first of its kind. She also wrote Notes on Nursing, an influential educational text that is still in print to this day. Despite such a full life, Nightingale found time and energy to care for more than sixty cats over the years, and in December of 1875 she wrote this charming letter to a Mrs Frost about Mr White, a well-behaved cat she had recently given up for adoption.
THE LETTER
35 South St 13 Dec 1875
Dear Mrs. Frost,
Mrs. Wilson is so good as to invite me to write to you about my Angora Tom-cat (who answers to the name of Mr. White) – now hers.
1. Mr. White has never made a dirt in his life: but he has been brought up to go to a pan, with sand in it. You must have patience with him, please, till he has been taught to go out-of-doors for his wants.
2. He has always been shut up at night: (in a large pantry:) to prevent his being lost. And I believe he ought always to be shut up at night: for this reason. [I think you must keep him in the house for two or three days till he knows his kind mistresses: & the place: for fear he should run away & try to get back to me.]
And perhaps if you could give him a pan with sand in it for the first night or two, it might be better.
3. He has always been used to have his meals by himself like a gentleman on a plate put upon a ‘table-cloth’ (on old newspaper) spread on the floor.
He is not greedy: has never stolen anything: & never drags his bones off his newspaper. But I am sorry to say he has always lived well: he has bones, & milk, in the morning: after 7 o’clock dinner he has any remains of fish not fish bones or chicken – or game-bones: which he eats like a gentleman off a plate in my room, as I have described: & never asks for more – then a little broken meat, & milk, when he is shut up at night:
& a large jar of fresh water (which he can’t upset) always on the floor for him.
4. He is the most affectionate & intelligent cat I have ever had: is much fonder of the society of Christians than of cats: likes of all things to be above in a room with me: (but make acquaintance with the little dog of a baby friend of ours): & when his own little sister cat died, he refused food & almost broke his heart. He washes & dresses two little kits we have here (of his) himself. I never saw a Tom-cat do this before.
5. You will see Mr. White is very black now. But, when he is in the country, he is as white as the driven snow.
He is 10 months old.
I have written a long letter about him: but in short I recommend him to your kind care: & am
yours faithfully
Florence Nightingale
‘HE IS THE MOST AFFECTIONATE & INTELLIGENT CAT I HAVE EVER HAD.’
– Florence Nightingale
LETTER 26
A TALE OF HORROR
Jane Welsh Carlyle to Kate Stanley
28 December 1860
Jane Baillie Welsh was born in 1801 in Haddington, Scotland, and in 1826 married renowned Scottish philosopher Thomas Carlyle. Their marriage was largely an unhappy one, as evidenced in the thousands of letters they wrote to each other during the forty years they remained wed until her death in 1866, and it is clear that she was often incredibly lonely. Perhaps as a result, she surrounded herself with pets that included cats, dogs and canaries – a mixture sure to lead to problems. Shortly after Christmas in 1860, she wrote to her friend, Kate Stanley, and described a ‘tale of horror’.
THE LETTER
5 Cheyne Row Chelsea Friday
Darling!
What a bright, good thought of yours, to write me a Xmas letter! Bless your little Heart and all it cares for!
I think there must have been spiritual magnetism at work; more or less. For I had been wanting to write to you, for a good while back; to tell you a ‘Tale of Horror’ about the Canary! and should have anticipated your letter; but that the end of the year brings me always such a heap of letters to be written in the Course of Nature, and little parcels to be made up for old friends [in] the North, which (not the friends but the parcels) have come, by length of habit to be a sort of moral necessity. Then these duties (such as they are) have this year had to be “pursued under difficulties” – a severe cold; involving confinement to the house. For the first touch of frost as usual knocked me over – like a nine-pin!
[. . .]
But you are thinking all the while; “what is it about the Canary? – Has the Cat–? “–Eaten it; you would ask; and the question is by no means an irrelevant one! – No – my Dear! your Canary is not quite eaten; but I am bound to say; no other Canary past, present, or to come, ever had such an affair with a Cat, and came out of it without being eaten. Nor could this one, unless your Guardian Angel, or mine, or the Canary’s own had worked a miracle on its behalf!
The Cat had taken to studying the Bird, at its first elevation, with a degree of interest that made one’s blood run cold! so I had sent for the Carpenter, and made him suspend the cage from the Drawing-room ceiling with a pully and brass chain. That done, I had no misgivings about leaving the Two alone together; having no idea what a Cat, under the influence of strong desire was up to! Returning from my walk one forenoon I was met at the door by Charlotte in the wildest excitement! “Oh! she said, whatever do you think the Cat has gone and done?” – “Eaten my Canary”? I answered, with calm desperation, – “No! FAR WORSE”! “She must have sprung off the little table on to the cage, and dragged it down, for the chain is lying in a hundred pieces! and the table is tilted over, and broken in two! and oh! Lady Airlie’s basket is broken to shivers! and the ferns all about! and the glass cover is broken to shivers! and every thing is all over the carpet”! – “And the Bird safe?” – “Well yes – tho’ the cage door was wide open, she hadn’t staid to eat it! The noise of the lead and everything falling must have frightened herself; for I met her rushing down the stairs, as I ran up at the row”!
What a mess when I entered the Drawing room! for “the Row” had just come off, and nothing was cleared away yet; the cage on its side still, on the floor; the table in two separate pieces; the carpet strewn with earth, and ferns, and bird seed, and water, and fragments of earthen ware, glass, brass-chain &c &c! and amidst all the Bird hopping about rather grave, but otherwise “as well as could be expected.” I was very sorry about my ferns; for they too were a sort of live pets, and had been given me when I was confined, spring gone a year, by Lady Airlie.
The Cat probably had not only frightened herself, but hurt herself, in the general crash of doom she had unexpectedly created. For she had rushed right out at the back door, and never showed herself for 24 hours after, tho a most domestic cat in general.
Relying (Ah too much) on the analogy between feline fools and human ones, I hoped Experience would have taught this individual fool wisdom! So did not at once send the Canary out of the House; seeing that the Cat herself could not be put away – for both practical and sentimental reasons. on the practical hand, We are never catless for a single week but hosts of very little mice troop in to us, out of the drains. Not only does this Cat keep us free of the mice, but she is cleanly, and moral, and honest – except under the temptation of a live Bird. Then, on the sentimental hand; was she not loved by my little Dog, as tho’ she had been his own Sister or wedded Wife? stirring him up to games of romps in his old age, and the chief delight of his old age! For his dear little sake, I couldnt put her away!
So a second time I sent for the carpenter; and had the cage fixed up against the window shutter at the very top – the brass chains of the present day, being it seems (as Mr C says) “like every thing else, an article that the man who made them ought to have been hanged for”!
The cat pretending to take no further notice of the Bird, I thought she had made up her mind that attempts on its life were not only perilous but hopeless, but one night while I was saying something to Charlotte, She suddenly Sprang at one perpendicular leap to the cage and hung on to it with her claws!! I couldnt have believed in such a leap if I hadn’t seen it! I flung my sofa cushions at her, and screamed, and frightened her into dropping down. But I kept the poor Bird under lock and key, after that, till I found her a safer home.
Miss Farrers Bird had escaped out of the window one day, and its pretty cage was swinging empty, so I sent the poor thing there, where it is now enjoying a life without shocks! I was very sorry to part with the Bird but should have been far sorrier to have it eaten.
[. . .]
My kindest regards and the best of good
wishes to Lady Stanley and your sisters and self
Affectionately yours
Jane Carlyle
Remember me to the white Dogs
LETTER 27
HE IS NOT A FORGIVING CAT
John Cheever to Josephine Herbst
6 December 1963
One afternoon in 1960, a balding cat named Blackie was thrust upon novelist John Cheever by Josephine (Josie) Herbst, an old friend who while visiting for lunch explained that she could no longer keep him. Cheever reluctantly homed the cat and renamed him Delmore after the poet Delmore Schwartz, the former wife of whom had once owned the cat in question. Alas, Cheever and Delmore didn’t get on; so much so that Cheever’s friendship with Herbst soon deteriorated and they ceased contact. The rift finally healed in 1963, when Cheever sent her an update by letter.
THE LETTER
Cedar Lane
Ossining
Some Friday
Dear Josie,
It’s been years since we had anything but the most sketchy communication. I’ve long since owed you an account of the destiny of your cat and here we go.
The cat, after your leaving him, seemed not certain of his character or his place and we changed his name to Delmore which immediately made him more vivid. The first sign of his vividness came when he dumped a load in a Kleenex box while I was suffering from a cold. During a paroxysim of sneezing I grabbed for some kleenex. I shall not overlook my own failures in this tale but when I got the cat shit off my face and the ceiling I took Delmore to the kitchen door and drop-kicked him into the clothesyard. This was an intolerable cruelty and I have not yet been forgiven. He is not a forgiving cat. Indeed he is proud. The next eventfulness came on Thanksgiving. When the family had gathered for dinner and I was about to carve the turkey there came a strangling noise from the bathroom. I ran there and found Delmore sitting in the toilet, neck-deep in cold water and very sore. I got him out and dried him with towels but there was no forgiveness. Shortly after Christmas a Hollywood writer and his wife came to lunch. My usual salutation to Delmore is Up your’s, and when the lady heard me say this she scorned me and gathered Delmore to her breasts. Delmore, in a flash, started to unscrew her right eyeball and the lady, trying to separate herself from Delmore lost a big piece of an Italian dress she was wearing which Mary said cost $250.00. This was not held against Delmore and a few days later when we had a skating party I urged Delmore to come to the pond with us. he seemed pleased and frisked along like a family-loving cat but at that moment a little wind came from the northeast and spilled the snow off a hemlock onto Delmore. he gave me a dirty look, went back to the house and dumped another load into the kleenex box. This time he got the cleaning-woman and they remain unfriendly.
