After Cleo (31 page)

‘You mean when backyard breeders raise dogs in slum conditions and keep the females pregnant all the time?' I asked.

‘Yes; the same thing happens with kittens. They're bred indiscriminately, sometimes siblings joined with each other, and sold on to pet shops. That'll be one of the reasons your pet shop didn't sell Jonah with papers.'

A sprayer
and
inbred? Vivienne's words were harsh, but I trusted her. She was devoted to cats as a species and understood them at levels I couldn't fathom.

‘Will he grow out of it?' I asked.

‘Not necessarily,' she replied.

My heart sank. I asked why he'd started doing it now.

‘I think several things have triggered it,' Vivienne replied. ‘Jonah's world's been turned upside down. From what you've said, he's jealous of the new baby and he's missing Philip. It's quite possible he's feeling overwhelmed by the responsibility of becoming the household's Alpha Male.'

Alpha Male? What responsibility does an Alpha Male have these days apart from lying around waiting to be fed?

Vivienne emailed a page and a half of advice, with information about the three main causes of inappropriate spraying. They were: 1. Medical reasons; 2. Litter-tray related; 3. Anxiety /stress. While Vivienne was pretty sure Jonah's problem was due to this, she thought it would be worth a vet's check to be sure there was nothing physically wrong with him. The litter tray had to be kept impeccably clean and well away from his food bowls. Whatever the cause, she said, scolding and punishing wasn't going to work.

The vet's window was filled with photos of missing cats. The receptionist said they were usually found run over and killed. For all our doubts and failures, our struggle to keep Jonah indoors was vindicated.

Jonah stood regally on the vet's table, tail aloft and awaiting adulation. King of the World, the vet called him, which he rather liked – until she started prodding and probing. Jonah rolled his lips back and emitted a loud hiss. He then crumpled like a hopeless sissy, moaning and howling so loudly I felt ashamed.

The vet took him ‘next door' to conduct further tests. She returned with a somewhat deflated version of the cat we knew and loved. Unable to find anything wrong with his insides, she repeated Vivienne's advice and sold us a magic spray bottle. When plugged into an electric socket it emitted calming pheromones that remind cats how safe and happy they felt when they were kittens. Almost all her feline patients had responded to it, she said.

Hopeful that our troubles might be over, I hurried home. After plugging the bottle into an electric socket in a corner where Jonah had performed several misdemeanours I called the girls downstairs to admire the new miracle cure. We watched mortified as he backed up against the electric plug and gave the vet's bottle a thorough showering.

The girls and I did everything Vivienne, the internet and the vet suggested – from the orthodox to the wacky. We bought (even) more toys, gave Jonah Rescue Remedy, placed crystals under his cushion and took him for evening outings on his lead down the street. Nothing worked. We tried a different vet, and then another. The third vet recommended medication. Cat Prozac. No way. I drew the line at putting Jonah on drugs.

It was difficult not to take his behaviour personally, especially the day I discovered he'd desecrated Dad's piano. Tears welling, I cleaned what I could and trussed the family heirloom in layers of cling wrap.

I hesitated before inviting anyone over the front doorstep. Yet most of the time Jonah was charming and lovable as ever. Sometimes I felt like one of those wives who endures abuse from her handsome husband, knowing that after he's given her a black eye he's going to dazzle her with charm and chocolates the next day.

Lydia found the phone number of a cat psychic in Queensland. Seeing I was paying for it, I didn't feel too guilty lifting the receiver in my study to listen in. The cat psychic's tone was rustic and cheerful. I imagined her in a condo by the sea tuning into feline frequencies.

‘Jonah's talking to me now,' she said down the line.
‘Oh my
heavens!
I've never heard so much complaining! Nothing's good enough for this one. Your cat's too big for his boots. You need to treat him less like a king and more like a cat.'

After we'd hung up, the girls and I agreed the psychic was talking sense. At bedtime Jonah was demoted to a leopard-skin cushion in the laundry. He accepted the indignity of being shut away. In fact, he had an active night life barrelling through his outdoor run to exchange insults with possums.

While keeping Jonah safely removed from our soft furnishings through the hours of darkness limited some of his excesses, part-time exile had no noticeable effect.

‘He's doing
what
??!!' growled Philip when he phoned from his Stanford apartment which, judging by his emailed photos, was enviably stainless and smell-free.

‘It's nothing,' I lied. ‘We'll have it sorted by the time you get home.'

Which was like saying the war would be over by Christmas.

Rejection

Rehoming a cat. Or husband

The night Philip was due to return from Stanford, Jonah paced the house – impeccable as always at intuiting something special was about to happen. When he wasn't stalking around on his chocolate-coloured stilts, he was perching on the living room window ledge scanning the darkened street below. Maybe someday a scientist will find out how animals know when one of their humans is coming home. Is it to do with the power of love, an ability to tune into subtle energies – or a combination of both?

He emitted a series of urgent meows. I joined him at the window and together we watched a set of taxi headlights glow like a cat's eyes and grow larger. Before the taxi had even stopped, Jonah bustled to Shirley's front door and stretched his length up toward the handle.

Lydia bundled him into her arms and opened the door and we all ran down the path to welcome Philip. Jonah was overwhelmed with joy. His purring was thunderous as he buried his face in Philip's hand, revelling in having his ears flattened, his chin stroked and his nose rubbed all at the same time.

I felt sure everything would be fine now our Alpha Male was home. The star was back in Jonah's sky and he could comfortably revert to being secondary male in the household. Nevertheless, to be on the safe side, he slept in the laundry that night.

We started next morning with the old routine our cat loved so much. Jonah, fishing rod between his teeth, burst through the bedroom door while Philip went out to make tea. He quickly made himself comfortable on Philip's pillow and waited for the games to begin.

But it was Saturday and Philip didn't have to hurry off to work. Besides, he was jet lagged. Philip wasn't interested in being relegated to a chair to have his tea and toast while Jonah had pride of place. He moved Jonah gently aside and climbed back into bed next to me.

Jonah emitted the nasal ‘hrrrrumphing' noise he made when he was put out, and dropped to the floor.

‘Don't worry about him,' I said. ‘He'll soon get used to you being home again.'

Fixing Philip with a steely glare, Jonah raised his tail and backed up menacingly against the bedroom curtains. I watched helpless as his tail trembled delicately in the motion I'd come to dread.

‘Oh no!' I cried. ‘Stop him! He's going to . . .'

It was too late. Staring Philip straight in the face, the cat unleashed himself.

Philip's one of the calmest people I know. It's one of the reasons I fell in love with him. He almost never loses his cool.

‘
That's it!
' he yelled, leaping out of bed and chasing Jonah out of the room. ‘
That cat will have to go!
'

Stomping down the hall after them, I saw Jonah's tail flash through the laundry cupboard into the safety of his outdoor run.

‘Go!? What do you mean?' I asked, my voice trembling.

Breathing heavily, Philip ran his hand over his scalp. ‘We can't spend the next ten years like this,' he said, turning away from me, his voice etched with ice. ‘He'll have to find another home.'

The air turned suddenly cold, as if a fridge door had been opened.

‘But what if we can't find him one?' I asked.

‘Then he'll have to go to a farm.'

Farm?
The word echoed across the years from my childhood. That's what grown-ups said happened to pets who'd disappeared. It took years for me to realise they weren't talking about romping over grassy fields in the company of cows and geese.

‘Just look at the damage he's caused,' Philip continued. ‘He's destroyed the new stair carpet; we've had to get the curtains cleaned umpteen times. There's that smell in Lydia's room . . . He's got to go.'

An unfamiliar shiver ran through my veins. For the first time in twenty years I felt a chill toward Philip. How could a man who'd opened his heart to my two older children and raised them as his own, who'd been such a great husband and father, be so heartless?

Jonah wasn't perfect, but neither were we. For all his faults and dysfunctional behaviour, he belonged with us.

The instant Philip left for work I grabbed the phone and punched in Vivienne's number. We'd tried every form of therapy – conventional and otherwise. Our house was vandalised. My piano was mummified in cling wrap and my marriage was teetering on the edge of an emotional Grand Canyon. As Vivienne answered, I had a sudden flash of inspiration.

‘Is there such a thing as nappies for cats?' I asked.

After what I took for amused silence, Vivienne said she didn't think so. She wasn't surprised when I told her about Philip's ultimatum.

‘You've tried almost everything,' she said. ‘I know it's hard. Spraying's the number one reason cats are put down.'

A boulder settled in my chest as I watched Jonah roll nonchalantly in a patch of sun on the family room rug. He seemed to know his fur blended beautifully with its pattern of soft greens and browns. Stretching his pipe cleaner body in a graceful curve, he blinked at me and yawned. I adored our madly affectionate, funny, crazy cat. We
all
did – well, most of us, anyway. I could never take him to a vet to be ‘put down'.

As well as all her other work, Vivienne was involved in the rehoming of cats. Her website's heart-tugging photographs of abandoned kittens and strays always worked their magic. She and I discussed the sort of household Jonah might be comfortable in. Certainly not a family of noisy young kids, and he'd drive a little old lady insane. A farm, even if one genuinely existed, would result in physical and emotional collapse.

‘Tell you what,' said Vivienne with a mischievous giggle. ‘I could always put a photo of Philip on my website and see if I can find
him
a new home.'

When I told the girls about Philip's decree their mouths dropped. Katharine gathered him in her arms and buried her face in his fur.

‘He can't go,' she said. ‘We love him.'

Oblivious to the drama he was the centre of, Jonah purred raucously. I wished I could envelop our daughters and cat in some magical maternal apron and promise everything would be okay. But so much was out of my control.

The girls swore to work even harder monitoring his litter tray, keeping him away from his most frequently visited corners and sniffing out the faintest hints of smells.

After they'd left for classes, I decided to clear my head with a brisk walk. Bare winter trees clawed the sky. Grey rags of clouds hung over the buildings. Almost on automatic pilot, I boarded a tram and rattled across the river to the pet shop.

Letting Jonah into our lives now seemed like a blunder made when I was too weak and vulnerable to have any idea what we were letting ourselves in for. If we'd wanted a cat, we should've researched and stayed well clear of the pet shop. We should have been sensible and gone to a shelter and rescued a mixed-breed moggy that'd have been grateful for a home. We'd been fools to fall for Jonah's good looks and kittenish charms.

Peering through the pet shop window I could see a new batch of kittens was in. They were all identical to how Jonah had been – blue-eyed, sleek, cappuccino circus artists leaping about on elastic legs. Irresistible. One of the kittens danced across the cage while another crouched low and quivered, waiting for the moment to pounce on his sibling. A small group of people gathered to admire the spectacle.

A young couple, bundled up against the cold, stood beside me. They were captivated, just the way we'd been.

‘Let's ask if we can take that one home tonight!' said the young woman, her face ablaze with infatuation as she pointed at the kitten who was flying through the air about to land flamboyantly on his friend.

I turned to the couple, so in love they believed the only thing that could enhance their happiness was a kitten.

‘Don't do it,' I told them. ‘Get a puppy, or have a baby. Anything's going to be easier than one of those kittens.'

They looked astonished. They must've thought I was a fruitcake. Burying my head in my pashmina, I hurried on to the vet's. There was only one jumbo-sized bottle of cat urine neutraliser left on the shelf. We weren't the only ones with a problem.

I knew when I got home Jonah would be at the window. Then he'd be at the door and meowing under my feet. My nose would be on high alert for fresh layers of ammonia in the air. I'd be scouring the house for spots on the window ledge or against the stair railings.

When I opened the gate I saw his silhouette against the lead lights. His noble head, the elegant tapering limbs, the sublimely long tail – how could a beautiful creature inflict such misery? His eyes flashed when he saw me, and his mouth opened in a pink diamond shape as he emitted an accusatory yowl. I couldn't face him. Not just now. After heaving the jumbo bottle of neutraliser up the path and dumping it on the verandah, I strode across the road to the sanctuary of Spoonful.