of Megan’s mouth were down. Karen fixed me with a cold stare.
“You’re bloody cat,” she said, “widdled on my xylophone.”
My heart sank.
“I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.”
“Too late. Cat pee has to be cleaned up on the spot, and disinfected. That’s why people use sand-trays.”
“He also pooed under my piano,” said Megan.
“What!”
I was dashed. James had failed. I, too, had failed.
“Well,” I said lamely, “back to the drawing-board.”
“Back to the sandbox ,” said Megan tartly.
I looked around.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“God knows,” said Megan.
“Who cares?” said Karen.
I found him in the loungeroom, upside-down on the beanbag, cat-napping. His back legs, splayed like coathangers, pointed at the cieiling. His front paws, crossed over his chest, twitched as he dreamed.
“James Gatz!” I said sternly. “What have you done!”
He ceased twitching, and slowly his eyes slid open. He regarded me for a second, dreamily, then slowly rolled over and stood up. He reached out, splayed his claws, then arched himself into a black hoop as he yawned and stretched gloriously. I scooped him up.
“Lesson time!” I said, and carried him outside. That night, I resolved, I would shut my bedroom door. And if he failed again, I would throw science to the winds and try more traditional methods: rub nose and smack.
But in the morning I could see nothing. A hands-and-knees sniff test confirmed: James Gatz had graduated. I looked out of the window: to my delight I could see a half-hidden deposit in the sandbox. I took the news to the girls.
“Good” said Megan, without looking at me.
“We’ll see,” said Karen.
But I knew, and James knew, that he had passed the test. Nonetheless I decided to maintain the sandbox at the bottom of the ladder for a few days more, just in case.
That night I gave him tuna for dinner. He ate it all and licked his lips and mewed for more. I decided he was turning into quite a handsome fellow. His coat was sleek, he was losing some of his mottled look, and was it my imagination or was he starting to acquire a certain swagger? My heart swelled with pride.
There was no repeat of the xylophone episode. James was declared fully independent.
One afternoon I was watching him exploring the back garden, investigating all he found with nose and paw, when a movement in the hydrangeas caught my eye: the neighbour’s large grey cat advancing on him slowly. James stopped dead. His back curved slowly into a question mark and his hair stood on end. His face flattened into a mask of fear and hate.
I thought such a display a little uncalled for. So did the grey, who continued advancing with no expression at all. I walked over to the two of them. I reached out and stroked the grey. He made no objection, but his eyes were fixed on James. Perhaps they just needed an introduction. I scooped James up, but just as a precaution I also picked up a piece of kindling from the woodpile. Then, slowly, I held James out to the grey.
James must have felt like a sacrificial lamb. He wriggled in my hand and mewed pitifully.
“Don’t worry, I said, “I won’t let him get too close.”
But the grey, faster than a striking snake, flashed out and banged his teeth into James’ shoulder, then slid back. Then he turned on his heel and began walking off. At which point my block of wood slammed squarely into his flank. But he only jumped, hissed, broke into a trot and disappeared over the fence.
The cheek of it! My cat right in my own hand, and he does that!
I took James inside and made a careful examination, but could find no mark. He licked furiously at the spot, but seemed otherwise undamaged. And at dinnertime he ate a very healthy plateful.
It was around this time that Ginger made his appearance. A flat face, great square head and squat, heavy body. His face was covered with scars and his short tail had more than one kink in it. A street fighter.
The first time I saw him he was loping up our drive. I was taking no chances – I hurled a floorbrush at him and he bolted, with an amazing turn of speed for such a bulky beast. A few days later I was working at my desk when there was a fearful screeching outside my window. I dashed outside just in time to see Ginger flying over the front wall.
When I got back to my room James was on the carpet, again licking himself like crazy. And again, I could find no mark. And after a few minutes James was swaggering around as if nothing had happened.
I regarded him for a minute. He was getting bigger all the time. In fact he was almost an adolescent. I wondered whether he might turn out a tiger of a cat, a fearless feline who would tackle intrepidly the most terrifying toms in town. I fetched him a piece of cold crayfish from the fridge.
After that first encounter, Ginger became a regular visitor. Sometimes I found him first, and chased him off. But sometimes James found him first, and got a hiding. But perhaps that was just part of growing up. Had I not endured the same thing myself, more or less?
But that didn’t make me like Ginger and better. What right did he have to come into my yard and assault my cat? And he was so hideously ugly. Who could own such a brute? Who could love such a monster? Certainly he had not been reared properly. Most likely love-starved as a kitten, beaten and abused, traumatic toilet training, the whole caboodle. Result: cat full of hate, social misfit and menace to society at large.
So far I only resented Ginger. But soon I learned to hate him. I arrived home from shopping one Saturday, burdened with bags, and stepped over James, who was lying on the front doormat. I noticed that he did not move, which was unusual. So when I had put the shopping away I went back out and knelt down to stroke him. But as my hand touched his neck his head whipped round and he squalled. His coat was wet through. I slipped my hand under him and he howled. I pulled my hand away and he got up and tried to walk away. But he seemed to be dragging a leg, and his back looked crooked. What on earth was this!
He moved a short way, then sat. He moved to lick himself, but seemed unable even to do that.
The vet very gently felt all his limbs, then gave James an injection.
“He’s badly bruised,” he told me, “but no bones broken.”
“Why is his back so crooked?”
“That’s stiffness and swelling. It should clear up in a few days. If it doesn’t, bring him back and we’ll take some X-rays.”
“What do you think happened to him?”
“Cat fight,” he answered promptly.
“Couldn’t it have been a dog?”
“No,” he said. “Big dogs break bones, tear cats open. Small dogs usually keep clear of cats. And look here.”
He parted the fur on James’ side, showing scratches and small red holes.
“Those are claw marks. And these here – “ he showed larger red holes around his back “these are teeth marks. Usually,” he added, “it’s the dominant tom in the neighbourhood.”
“I know exactly which tom it was,” I said, “and his days are numbered.”
He chuckled.
“You shouldn’t blame him,” he said. “An adult tom can have a territory of a hectare or more. Best thing you can do is have your cat neutred.”
“That’ll be the day. If there’s going to be any neutering, it’ll be me neutering that ginger bastard with my garden shears.”
The vet smiled again and gave me a friendly pat on the back as he ushered me out, to get me ready for the bill.
I took James home and laid him on the bed. He fell asleep almost at once.
He woke late in the afternoon, and moved slowly and stiffly to the kitchen. He sat down beside his bowl and gave a meow. I stared in wonderment: nearly recovered already!
The next morning he was still walking stiffly, but his tail was high and some of his swagger was returning. By the time I got home from work he was himself again: he hid under the kitchen
table as I walked in, then danced out on his hind legs, swinging wild combinations with both paws. Then he tore off down the passage. That night he tormented my toes under the blankets, every time they dared to move.
The weeks passed. James grew taller, longer, sleeker. He became a better hunter, catching lizards with ease and eating them, guts and all. And if he caught a mouse or a bird he was sure to keep it whole until I had seen his trophy. He learned to leap from the kitchen table to the fridge to the top of the highest cupboard so he could survey the world from his lofty perch just below the ceiling. He learned to leap from the top of the fridge onto the shoulders of unsuspecting visitors, and to bite their feet if they wore thongs. His voice grew deeper again, and his appetite grew exponentially. I calculated he was eating, gram for gram, about eight times what I ate. I remarked on this to the girls.
“Have you wormed him?” said Megan.
“Twice,” I said firmly.
“An animal will eat as much as you put in front of it,” said Karen.
The girls’ enthusiasm for James had waned, no question of that. They were also trying to persuade me to have him neutered. Sacrilege! And James was not an animal, he was a feline prince!
Ginger had not put in an appearance for several weeks. I persuaded myself his owners must have left the neighbourhood, or, better still, that he had been cat-napped and euthanased. But barely had this thought been born, when a terrible cat-squalling shattered the