I don't need another cat

I don’t need another cat.

      She was sitting on the windowsill as I walked into the living room, cup of coffee in my hand, to sit with my feet up and do the crossword; a habit I had got into in the last couple of months. Life wasn’t dull, just different, and the midmorning crossword filled a void.

      She was –yes, there was no doubt, she was a she, a queen among queens - she was quite, quite beautiful. As black as soot. No, as black as velvet; silkily soft. Her eyes shone like blue-black diamonds. I couldn’t help but smile as she stared through the window at me in her steady, haughty manner.

      Five minutes or so later, looking up from the paper, unable to decide whether the clue called for a word for a clergyman or for something to do with forestry, I saw her still looking at me. She pierced me with her gaze. Like all cats do, she seemed to look into my soul. Then she turned her head away and in a flash was gone.

      The next morning and the next she was there again. I knew all the cats in the neighbourhood, I thought, and it crossed my mind that she could be a stray wanting food, although she looked neither hungry nor neglected; she looked magnificent. She sat for some minutes, each time, still as a statue, staring at me. And then, as before, was gone. Later on, on the fourth day, she was back in the same spot beside the flower pots on the windowsill staring doggedly at me once more. It crossed my mind to invite her in. I had always had a cat in my life but when Tibby had died in the early spring I decided that a really didn’t want another one. No cat could replace my beloved friend and, in any case, as I was about to retire, I didn’t want the commitment of a pet. So no, I wouldn’t have another cat; I would not invite her in.

      ‘I don’t know who you belong to but you should go home,’ I told her. She gave me a look of disdain and I knew her response was a quizzical ‘I belong to someone? Never!' And of course, I knew she herself would have been ‘the owner’ not the owned.

      The next morning there she sat. I have to admit I was pleased to see her. I couldn’t help but say ‘Good morning.’ Once more she stayed a while simply staring unblinkingly at me. I had a feeling I was being assessed. During the day I asked one or two of the neighbours if they had noticed her round and about and did they know where she had come from but while she had been seen, no one knew any more. I was trying to ignore the idea that she might be homeless but it was an idea hard to resist and I found that part of me even hoped it to be so.

      It was another warm summer day and I really did need to leave the patio doors open; it wasn’t, honestly, meant to be an invitation. When she returned in the late afternoon, she sauntered into the kitchen and sniffed around, checked out the cupboard with the open door for non-existent mice, wandered through to the living room and scrutinised the hall. Just in case she was hungry I opened a tin of tuna and put some in a saucer for her. She did me the courtesy of tasting it and, then, flicking the end of her tail in a sort of farewell wave, she left.

      Despite not wishing to share my home and my life with another cat, I looked for her in the morning and was, I must confess, glad to see her. She sat for a while contemplating me deeply, and then disappeared as softly as summer snow. She came to lie on the patio after lunch; she stretched in the sunshine waking from her nap, widening her six-toed front paws and I noticed with sheer delight that she was a polydactyl.  Without so much as a ‘with your leave’, in the late afternoon she returned to the kitchen and ate the whole packet of gourmet cat food in her saucer. Well, you see ( and this is in no way an apology) when I was at the supermarket I just happened to walk down the pet food aisle and it occurred to me then, that in case she was without a loving home, and really hungry, I should be prepared – a simple act of human kindness. She then nestles into Tibby’s old basket that I had retrieved from the garage. I’d lined it with a cushion from the summerhouse and a woolly jumper which was intended for dispatch to the charity shop. It was quite snug. She seemed to approve. I wondered whether to shut the door, but thought it best not, she may have wanted to leave later and I didn’t want her to feel trapped. I’d have to do something about the cat-flap, if she stayed. She slept soundly and I didn’t want to disturb her, so it was around ten o’clock that I locked up for the night.

      In the morning she was waiting by the door to be let out. With the same flick of the tip of her tail, she left. Would she return? She was a cat! She would do her own thing. ‘See you later?’ I said, more as a plea than a question. I reminded myself that I neither wanted nor needed a cat and then, too, I reminded myself that it was not altogether my choice; it is the cat that makes that decision.

      It seemed that she was housetrained (again a mistaken notion, no one ‘trains’ a cat, though the cat may want to comply). She inspected the garden and came back a little more comfortable. The box of food I had bought the day before was on the floor of the larder. As I opened the larder door she rubbed her cheek against the packaging favourably. Obviously I had purchased a brand she was satisfied with. She followed me while I found a clean saucer for her. She ate and disappeared. And was that a fond ‘farewell’?

       The next two days were much the same but we talked more. Yesterday she watched me with her unwavering, superior gaze then moved from the windowsill to my lap to help with the crossword puzzle. She slept, left, returned, and ate, all at her own whim. And later, after I had put my book away, turned out the light and made myself comfortable under the bedclothes, I felt the gentlest bump as she landed on my bed and curled into a squidgy lump beside me. I had, presumably, passed muster.

      We had been chatting more and more each day. I had found I respected and appreciated her silent sagacity and quiet wisdom. This morning I felt it was time to talk about the most important matter on my mind. Over the last few days despite, or maybe because of, her company, the idea of retirement had started to pawl. What had seemed like a good idea in the cold months of winter seemed a cop-out from life now. Reading and gardening might be fine hobbies when I reach a hundred and ten but right now they are insufficient past-times, they just don’t have the ‘umph’ I need in my life. I’ve enjoyed the holiday but I miss the challenge of spells with colleagues and banter, experiment, and each day a new adventure. Coffee with friends and neighbours every day is enjoyable, I really like it, but it’s far from enough - yet. I’m still young(ish) and have lots to offer – so much knowledge to share. I had been missing something else, too; I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

      ‘So, Queenie,’ I said. (It wasn’t a name I’d chosen, but was in fact the only name she could possibly own). ‘So, Queenie, what do you think? Should I come out of this retirement malarkey, and pick up the reins of the old job?’

      We had talked at length all morning. I had rehearsed all my arguments for and against (though mostly for) my return to a larger horizon; the quietness of my new life (for) and the quietness of my new life (against); the missing something-but-I-don’t-quite-know-what. By the serious look on her face I could tell Queenie agreed wholeheartedly with postponing the change to the permanent hustle-free lifestyle I had so recently adopted. Putting my feet up could be delayed for a decade or so. Both of us, I feel, was elated with the final decision to shelve the scheme. We wouldn’t let the sunset on our plan; we’d be soaring into action right away - when Queenie had had a snooze and I had finished the crossword.

      Now here we are at midnight. I turn my head as we fly across the warm night sky and smile at her riding pillion behind me. Yes, this was what I’d been missing. Magic! And I do believe that one of us has just winked.