Cleo

“Oh Cleo, I’m so sorry!” I cried, rubbing her with the towel and hurrying her through to the living room. I flicked the gas heater on, held Cleo as close as possible to the flames, and massaged her frantically.

“You were right, Rosie. I’m hopeless with cats. This is terrible!”

Rosie towered over us disapprovingly. “The water was too cold,” she said.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I thought it would probably be all right. Or it could’ve been the wrong shampoo…”

The tiny body lay lifeless in my hands.

“I’ve killed her, Rosie!” I sobbed. “She’s the only thing that cheered things up around here. Now I’ve drowned her! I know you don’t think I’m a cat person, but I was starting to love this kitten.”

So this was going to be my life from now on. Everything I touched was destined to shrivel up and drop dead in my hands. For the sake of the world I’d have to climb a mountain at the bottom of the South Island, crawl into a cave and wait for things to end.

Then, to my astonishment, the rag on my lap emitted a single, demure sneeze. A shudder of life rippled through her body. She raised her head, climbed unsteadily onto her paws and shook herself indignantly, showering me with water.

“Oh, Cleo! You’re back! I can’t believe it!” She hardly needed the additional rinse of my happy tears.

The kitten fixed me with eyes the size of satellite dishes and bestowed a lick on my finger, as if she’d woken from a pleasant dream and was wondering what was for breakfast. Jubilant with relief, I rubbed her precious fur until it was nearly dry. Not since the boys were born had I felt so ecstatic to see a creature alive and functioning.

“Listen, she’s purring!” I said to Rosie. “Do you think she forgives me?”

Rosie didn’t look convinced. “Just as well she has nine lives,” she said. “One down, eight to go. That poor kitten’s going to need every one of them in this house.”

After Rosie left, I kissed Cleo, thanked her for coming back to life, and held her close to my chest to keep her warm.

From that moment on, Cleo and I had an understanding. Baths, as far as she was concerned, were strictly for the birds.

Cleo was turning out to be quite a teacher. Like all good educationalists, she adopted her techniques according to the abilities of her students. Her near-drowning experience demonstrated I wasn’t doomed to destroy everything in my path, after all. For the first time in my life I’d actually revived a living creature. And Cleo was giving me a second chance.

Compassion

Even though the cat is a solitary creature, it is capable of acts of great kindness.

“Sure you’re going to be okay?” I asked, clicking Rob’s school lunch box shut. His sandwiches were made of wholemeal bread, the healthiest available on supermarket shelves. Rob would’ve preferred white fluffy bread, naturally, but I was determined he’d sprout to a vigorous adulthood. If he couldn’t learn to love broccoli and bean sprouts I was going to stuff them into him, anyway. No more bad things were allowed to happen to this boy.

The school had been understanding about us keeping Rob home for an extra couple of weeks. It was his second year of school, so he knew most of the kids in his grade. Nevertheless, his first day back without Sam loomed over us. Since Rob’s education began, Sam had been woven into the fabric of every day. In playground warfare, the extrovert older brother provided a protective shield for the younger, quieter one. Nobody would pick a fight with Rob when they knew they’d also have to confront Sam (famed for his Superman kicks). Older and younger brother were Starsky and Hutch, Batman and Robin, each incomplete without the other.

“Will you drive me?”

“Of course,” I said, fastening the buttons of his new shirt. Western style, it featured winged golden horses flying against a white background. Wings and feathers seemed to haunt every aspect of our lives. The shirt was on the lurid side, but Rob loved it, and I was encouraging him to express his individuality.

There were no arguments with Steve about the cost of children’s clothes anymore. With Rob’s help I’d managed to venture into an impressive range of shops over the past couple of weeks. Like most New Zealand primary schools, Rob’s had a no-uniform policy. The intention was to create a laid-back atmosphere. The reality was, children’s fashion trends absorbed more time and money than most parents would’ve liked.

On his first day back, everything about Rob was fresh from the packet, including the shoes with marshmallow-soft soles. (“They squeak,” he said, as we wrangled with the spaghetti of his shoelaces. “People will laugh at me.”—“They’re just jealous,” I assured him.) His clothes and professionally trimmed hair presented a mother’s challenge to the world: this boy is precious; damage him at your peril. The only item on him that wasn’t new was the Superman watch on his wrist.