Cleo

We headed along the path to the zigzag. A force tugged me back towards the house. I turned to see our kitten peering out of Rob’s window. If a representative of Hallmark Cards had wandered up the zigzag he’d have signed her up for a lifetime of schmaltzy photo shoots. Nestled in a basket or garden pot, dangling from a Christmas stocking, she’d have been irresistible.

Back in the bathroom she’d rescued me from one of my bleakest moments. I was grateful to her for that. She was beautiful, wonderful. And impossible to live with.

Taming the Beast

A cat tames people when they are ready.

Cats and people are unlikely allies. If they were logical, humans, with practically the entire animal kingdom to choose from, would opt to tame creatures more like themselves for pets. Monkeys would be an obvious choice. Furry, intelligent and largely vegetarian, monkeys can learn tricks. But people don’t warm to primates on the whole. In a monkey’s eyes they recognize their own cunning gleaming back.

Instead, humans prefer creatures closely related to their fiercest enemies—lions and tigers and wolves, who’d rather gnaw their bones than sit at their feet and amuse.

The pet shop mostly catered for this preference. Out of habit or instinct, I headed for the dog section. An Aladdin’s cave of squeaky balls and rubber bones, it was Rata heaven. Rob steered me to the other side of the shop and pointed out a cushiony thing he thought would be an excellent bed for Cleo. The leopard-skin cover certainly reflected something of Cleo’s personality.

A shop assistant homed in on us and recommended a sack of dried kitten food. (Special food for kittens? I could almost hear my mother wail. Has the world gone mad?! We’ll have women running the country next.) The shop assistant said our kitten would love a soft toy stuffed with catnip, adding that it made them extra playful. Imagining Cleo on the feline equivalent of LSD, I said no thanks.

On our way to the counter she talked us into buying a bag of kitty litter and a plastic tray to put it in. I didn’t want a kitten. Steve was almost certain to throw a fit when he came home and saw what Cleo was capable of. What were we doing purchasing all these accessories? Rob stood on tiptoes and slid the cat bed across the counter’s glass top.

She was a talented saleswoman. Beaming down at him, she asked for his kitten’s name. His face turned pink with pride as he said the word. And, he added, she was the best kitten in the whole world.

Life was complicated. I drove the long way home, winding down the gully past the Botanic Gardens, where the boys and I used to feed ducks. Visiting the ducks was always a good way to defuse their energy when they’d been cooped up inside after days of bad weather. Feathered or furred, animals always had a way of reaching into their frazzled, overactive souls and calming them down. The sight of a brown duck gliding over silvery water tuned all three of us into a wider world where problems didn’t seem so insurmountable. We invariably left the duck pond feeling calmer. In spring we’d count the ducklings, always one or two fewer than the week before. But it was impossible to mourn for long, not when the tulips were out. The boys would run, their hair fiery gold in the sunlight, through rows of dazzling reds, pinks and yellows.

I asked Rob if he wanted to see the ducks but he was keen to get back to Cleo. I couldn’t face them, anyway. And I wouldn’t be visiting the tulips this year, either. They would have to flower by themselves. Every corner of Wellington housed gut-wrenching reminders of our previous life. The town was one big mausoleum.

But home was no longer a shabby retreat from the world. Within twenty-four hours the kitten had taken charge and transformed it into the House of Cleo, invading every centimeter of my personal space, coiling between my ankles, scrabbling up the back of my chair if I sat down for a coffee, following me to the bathroom and pouncing on my lap the instant I settled on the toilet seat. Socks, supermarket bags and all the collateral damage from the night before still had to be cleaned up. If I wanted to avoid making explanations to Steve I’d need to find someone in the Yellow Pages to fix the curtain cords. And who knew what additional acts of vandalism she’d pulled off while we were out?