On Cats

  During the first week at the cottage, which is apparently a retreat, well tucked away behind trees and walls from the road and from other houses, several cats came to see who the new people were, and what new cats might have arrived.

  In the middle of a night, I saw a reddish tail disappearing out of the open window. I thought, a cat; and went back to sleep. Next day in the shop however, they said foxes came after cats off Dartmoor. All kinds of nasty stories about foxes and cats. But you can’t lock cats up in the country; a landscape so full of cats does not seem much evidence of danger from foxes, or from anything else.

  The red tail turned out to belong to a handsome reddish-brown cat, which was chased away from the cottage by grey cat, who by now had made the cottage her own. Soon she was chasing away visitors from the gate, which is a hundred yards from the house. The cottage and the fields around it was now grey cat’s territory; and we might come across her sunning herself in the long grasses of the little field above the house, or crouched in the long field below it, where there are boggy patches and the birds come to drink.

  Then–invasion. The fences on one side were down, and one morning I went to start the fire, and found both cats on the windowsill, temporarily in alliance because outside the window lumbered and crashed and bellowed great smelling beasts which they had never seen before. Black cat let out her sad hollow plaint: Everything is too much, what is this? I can’t manage, please help. And grey cat was shrieking defiance from the safety of the sill. The cattle from near fields had broken through the fences and were pouring down past the house to the pool and to the long field which, as it was obvious they knew, was ripe for grazing. There was no one to help me chase the cattle out, not till much later that day; and the farmer did not appear. About fifty beasts made themselves at home, and the cats were distraught. They ran from windowsill to windowsill, and then out of the front door, in short angry rushes, and they complained bitterly, until help appeared and the enormous threatening beasts were shooed back to their own fields. Safety. The cats had learned there was no danger from this sort of animal. For when, a couple of days later, the gate was left open and ponies came in off the moor, the cats did not complain, they were not frightened. Eight little ponies grazed in the old garden; and grey cat picked her way out to them, sat on the stone wall and watched them. She would not come down off the wall; but she was interested, and stayed until they decided to leave.

  Cats will watch creatures, activities, actions unfamiliar to them, for hours. The making of a bed, the sweeping of a floor, packing or unpacking a case, sewing, knitting–anything, they will watch. But what are they seeing? A couple of weeks ago, black cat and a couple of kittens sat in the middle of the floor and watched me cut cloth. They observed the moving scissors, the way my hands moved, the way the cloth was put in different heaps. They were there, absorbed, all morning. But I don’t suppose they were seeing what we think. What, for instance, does grey cat see when she watches, for half an hour at a time, the way motes move in a column of sunlight? Or when she looks at the leaves moving in the tree outside the window? Or when she lifts her eyes to the moon over the chimney pots?

  Black puss, meticulous educator of her kittens, never loses an opportunity for a lesson or a moral. Why should she spend a morning, a kitten on either side, watching the flash of metal in dark cloth, why does she sniff the scissors, sniff the cloth, walk around the field of operations and then communicate some observation to the kittens, so that they perform the same actions–interspersed, since they are kittens, with all kinds of tricks and games? But they sniff the scissors, sniff the cloth, do what their mother has just done. Then sit and watch. She is learning something and teaching them, there is no doubt of it.

  chapter eight

  Black cat was not well before her second litter. There was a large bald patch on her back, and she was thin. And she was overanxious: for the week before she did not like being left alone. The cottage was full of people, and it was easy to see she had company. Then, at the weekend, there were three women, and the weather was bad, and we wanted to drive to the coast and watch a cold and stormy sea. But black cat would not let us go. We were all irritable: in tension because we were not going to let her keep more than two kittens, since she was in no state to feed them. That meant we would have to kill some.

  On the Sunday she started labour about ten in the morning. It was a slow exhausting business. The first kitten was born about four in the afternoon. She was tired. There was a long interval between the expulsion of the kitten and the reflex when she turned to lick it. It was a fine kitten. But we had agreed not to look too much at the kittens, not to admire these vigorous scraps of life. At last, the second kitten. Now she was very tired, and gave her mournful Please-help-me cry. Right, we said, that’s it: she can keep these two and we’ll get rid of the rest. We got out a bottle of Scotch and drank a lot of it. Then the third kitten: surely, surely, that was enough? The fourth, the fifth, the sixth. Poor black cat, working hard, expelling kittens, then licking, and cleaning and tidying up–in the depths of the armchair, such activity. At last, she was clean, and the kittens clean and nursing. She lay stretched out, purring and magnificent.

  Brave cat, clever cat, beautiful cat…but it was no use, we had to get rid of four kittens.

  So we did. It was horrible. Then two of us went out into the long field in the dark with torches and we dug a hole while the rain fell steadily, and we buried the four dead kittens and we swore and cursed at nature, at each other, and at life; and then we went back to the long quiet farm room where the fire burned, and there was black cat on a clean blanket, a pretty, proud cat with two kittens–civilization had triumphed again. And we looked incredulously at the kittens, already so strong and standing up side by side on their back paws, their minute pink front paws, kneading at their mother’s side. Impossible to imagine them dead, but they had been chosen by chance and at random; and if my hand had picked them up an hour ago, descending from above, the hand of fate–then these two would now be lying under heavy wet soil in a rainy field. It was a terrible night; and we drank too much; and decided definitely that we would have black cat operated on, because really, really, it was not worth it.

  And grey cat climbed on the arm of the chair, crouching there, and put down a paw to touch a kitten; and black cat lashed out with her paw; and grey cat skulked off out of the house into the rain.

  Next day we all felt much better; and drove off to visit the sea, which was blue and calm, the weather having changed during the night.

  Black cat’s proud purring could be heard all over the big room.

  And grey cat brought in several mice, which she laid out on the stone floor. I had realized by then that the mice were part of the one-upmanship, a gift; but it was no use: dead mice are hard to see attractively. As she brought them in, I threw them out; and she looked at me with ears laid back, eyes blazing resentment.

  Each morning when I woke up, grey cat was sitting on the bottom of my bed, and on the floor a newly killed mouse.

  Oh kind cat. Clever cat. Thank you so much, cat. But I threw them out. And black cat went after them and ate them.

  I was sitting on the stone wall of the garden when I saw grey cat hunting.

  It was a day of thin fast-moving cloud, so that across fields, cottage, trees, and the garden fled sunlight and dark; and grey cat was a shadow among the shadows under a lilac tree. She was very still; but looking closely, you could see faint movement in her whiskers and ears; so she was no stiller than was natural when leaves and grass shivered in a light wind. She was looking, eyes shifting, at stubble a few feet off. As I watched, she moved forward in a low fast crouch, as a shadow moves under a swaying branch. There were three little mice creeping about in a litter of drying grass. They had not seen her. They stopped to nibble, moved on, sat up again to look about. Why, then, did not cat pounce at once? She was not four feet from them. I stayed there; cat stayed there; the mice went on with their lives. Half an hour passed. The tip of cat’
s tail moved: not impatiently; but the visible expression of her thought: There’s plenty of time. A dazzling cloud with the midday sun behind it shed a couple of dozen fat drops, each one gold. A drop fell on cat’s face. She looked annoyed, but did not move. The golden drops splashed among the mice. They froze, then sat up, and looked. I could see the tiny black eyes looking. A couple of drops fell on cat’s head. She shook it. The mice froze, and cat pounced, a grey streak. A small miserable squeaking. Cat sat up with a mouse in her mouth. It was wriggling. Cat dropped the mouse; it crept a little way; she was after it. Out darted a paw; with all her wicked claws extended, she made a scooping movement inwards, bringing the mouse towards her. It squeaked. She bit. The squeaking stopped. She sat licking herself, delicately. Then she picked up the mouse and trotted across to me, throwing it up in her mouth and catching it exactly as she had done with her kittens. She laid it at my feet. She had seen me there all the time: had given no sign of it.

  People went away from the cottage, and I was alone. There was more time for petting and talking to the cats.

  One day in the kitchen I was cutting up their food in the saucers on the table when grey cat leaped up and began eating from one of them. Black cat waited on the floor. But when I put down the two saucers, grey cat walked away: she was not going to eat off the floor.

  Next day, the same. Grey cat was trying to make me feed her on the table, a superior place, while black cat stayed on the floor to eat. I said to her, No; it was absurd; and for three days she ate nothing from the house; though perhaps she ate mice. Certainly not when she could be seen, however. On the fourth day she leaped up as usual to the table, and I thought: Well then, it’s interesting, let’s see. She was pleased to eat all there was in the saucer; and all the time she was glancing down at black cat who was eating on the floor: Look at me, I’m favoured.

  In a few days, black cat leaped on the table, trying to get the same privilege. At which grey cat, ears back, got on to the windowsill above the table, and waited for me to put the saucer up there for her. If black cat had achieved the status of the table, she decided, then she was going to demand one better.

  At which I lost my temper, and told the pair of them they were a nuisance, and they would eat on the floor or not at all.

  Grey cat then went off out of the house and ate and drank nothing for some days. She was out of the house all day; then day and all night–she was away two, three days at a time. It is at this point, on the farm in Africa, that we would have said: Grey cat is going wild. And we would have taken steps, fussed over her, locked her up, reminded her of her domestic nature. But probably, in highly populated England, going wild is not so easy. Even on Dartmoor there must always be the lights of a house gleaming somewhere not too far off.

  Next time she came back, I gave in; and fed her on the table, and praised her; and snubbed black cat just a little–after all, she did have her kittens. And grey cat came back into the house, and settled at nights on the foot of my bed. And when she brought in mice, I made a short flattering speech over each one.

  Black cat ate the dead mice. Grey cat never did. It was interesting that black cat did not start eating a mouse until I had seen it. Once a corpse had been accepted by me, and grey cat praised, then black cat got down off the chair, and ate it, tidily, methodically, while grey cat watched, and made no attempt to stop her. Though she did try putting them on a table, a windowsill, where it seemed she hoped black cat would not see them. Black cat always did: always climbed up and ate the mouse.

  Then, one morning, something extraordinary happened.

  I had gone shopping in Okehampton. I came back and saw, in the middle of the floor, a little cairn or mound of greenery. Grey cat sat near it, watching me. Black cat was waiting with her kittens in the armchair. They both wanted me to pay attention to the green mound.

  I went to look. Under the green stuff, a dead mouse. Grey cat had caught the mouse, and had put it on the floor as a present. But I had been longer coming back than she expected; and so she had had time for decoration–or perhaps it was a warning to black cat: leave the mouse alone.

  She must have made three journeys to the hedge, which was freshly sickled, to carry in three sprays of wild geranium, which she had placed carefully over the mouse.

  As I complimented her, she never took her eyes off black cat–a nasty, superior, triumphant look.

  I’ve been told since that lions sometimes drag branches over a fresh kill. To mark it? To protect it from jackals and hyenas? To shade it from the sun?

  Had grey cat remembered, through thousands of years, her kinship with the lion?

  But I do wonder: suppose black cat had never come to live in our house, suppose grey cat had remained sole owner of us, and the places we lived in, would she, as she settled into middle age, have bothered to charm and cajole? Would she have developed this complicated language of self-esteem and vanity? Would she have ever caught a bird or a mouse? I think very likely not.

  chapter nine

  Time to return to London. Grey cat was loose in the back of the car, and again monotonously complained, all six hours of the journey. A short silence as she dozed off. Then, a particularly loud miaow when she woke and realized she was still suffering.

  And the phenomenon so noticeable on the way down: it was not enough to experience noise, movement, discomfort; she wanted to see the terrifying loomings-up, the fallings-away, of other vehicles. I swear there was a satisfaction in her miaow then. Like a neurotic person, she was getting pleasure from it.

  Black cat sat quiet in the basket with her two kittens, fed them, purred when I put a finger through to stroke her nose; and did not complain unless grey cat’s voice rose particularly high, when she joined in for a few moments, matching miaow for miaow. It sounded as if she were thinking: if she is doing it, then I suppose it’s the right thing to do. But she couldn’t keep it up.

  I released the two animals inside the house, and at once they were at home. Black cat took her two kittens to the bathroom, where she likes to have them in the fortnight they are the right age to be taught. Grey cat at once went upstairs, and took possession of the bed.

  Autumn. The back doors shut because of the heating; dirt boxes brought in to the verandah; cats let out when they ask to be. Not very often: they seem happy enough with an indoors existence while it is cold.

  Black cat went rampageously on heat. She came on heat the usual ten days after the birth of the kittens, in Devon. It was while the grey cat was away hunting. Black cat left the kittens in the chair in front of the fire, and went out to look for a male cat. But for some reason there were none around: probably grey cat had chased them away too thoroughly. But none came running to black cat, as they come running across gardens and walls in London when she calls to them. She would have to go further afield. She took the kittens upstairs where she felt they would be safe, and went up to the gate where she sat calling and yowling. She rushed back briefly to the kittens, since for black cat not even sex can take precedence over motherhood; fed them, went off again. She ate hardly at all, and yowled and yearned her way into a gaunt and bony condition. When I woke in the night I heard her calling up near the gate. But she did not find a mate; and she had got fat and sleek again.

  In the couple of months since we left London, the cat population had changed. There was not one of the original cats left. Grey tabby had gone; and the long-haired black-and-white cat had gone. The comparative newcomer, the white cat with grey patches, remained. No other cats around for that mating; so the patched white cat became the father, and we were interested to see what dice the genes would throw this time.

  The autumn was cold and wet. When I went out to the back, grey cat, black cat came too, and walked fussily over wet leaves, and chased each other back to the house. A sort of friendship was beginning. They have never yet licked each other, or slept close. But they were beginning to play a little; though more often than not the one who started play would be snubbed in a hiss. They always meet with caut
ion, sniff each other’s noses–is that you, friend or foe? It is like the handshake of enemies.

  Black cat grew heavy, and slept a great deal. Grey cat was boss cat again, did her tricks, displayed herself.

  Black cat again had her kittens in the top room, and we let her keep all six of them. We were still too sore after the murder of the last lot to go through it again.

  When they were mobile, black cat decided there was only one thing she wanted, only one thing, and she was going to have it: the kittens must be under my bed. This was because the room upstairs was, much to her annoyance, not occupied all the time, so she could have company and admiration. The studying girl was having a gay and social Christmas. Black cat is a sticker. She brought the kittens down. I took them downstairs to the bathroom, in skirtfuls. Black cat brought them back. I took them down. She brought them back. Finally brute force won: I simply locked the door.

  This is the time when, kittens at their most enchanting, one longs for them to leave. Kittens underfoot everywhere, kittens on tables, chairs, windowsills, kittens tearing the furniture to pieces. Everywhere you look, a black charmer–because they were all black, six black kittens, and the whitey-grey father had had no effect on their looks at all.

  And among them, black cat, indefatigable, devoted, dutiful, watching them every moment. She was drinking pints and pints of milk more than she wanted, because every time a kitten was near, she had to teach it how to drink. She ate every time a kitten was near a saucer. I’ve seen black cat, obviously disinclined for even one more mouthful of food, stop as a kitten went out of a room, lick herself, prepare to rest. That kitten or another came in. Black cat bent over the saucer, and ate, with the low trilling sound she uses for coaxing her kittens. Kitten came, sat curiously by the mother, watching her eat. Cat ate on, slower, forcing herself to eat. Kitten sniffed at the food, decided warm milk was best, went to black cat’s nipples. Black cat made a low commanding sound. Kitten, obedient, went to the saucer and made a small lick or two; then, having done as ordered, raced back to black cat who flopped over on her side to nurse.