Jack and the Cat

Jack has always loved the cat but it has been unrequited love.  The cat is old and cranky and has no ears any more because they were surgically removed a few years ago after becoming cancerous.  Her eyes are rheumy and she dribbles a bit.

She didn’t like him as a baby, perhaps because she was always shuffled off when he arrived in his little pod.  We were so fearful for him and legend has it that a cat can suck the breath out of a baby.

Dislike on the cat’s part,  turned to hatred when Jack began to crawl.  Another quadruped was more than she could bear, especially as he was enchanted by her extravagant white tail and she has never let anyone touch that.

Jack was charmed by her little feeding station full of tiny biscuits and take your eyes off him for a second and he’d pop one in his mouth.  Thief and marauder he didn’t endear himself to the cat.

Jack’s mother asked us why we always addressed the animal as Cat and not by name.  Was she not properly loved?  Yes we did love her after our fashion.  It wasn’t that.  The problem was that we had allowed our youngest son to name her Fergus even though he knew she was a female.  The name never sat well on her so Cat she became, or when affection bubbled up, Catty.

As Jack grew and began what I understand is now known as “cruising” – that is, walking with the support of furniture, the cat’s hatred retreated a little.  She would eye him but not instantly flee.  He’d laugh when he saw her beside the heater.

“Gentle Jack.  Be gentle”

But Jack’s gentleness had so much potency behind it.  The flat of his little hand would touch the tips of her fur as he held his breath. ”Haaah” she’d hiss and run away.  Like any other massage client she likes a firm stroke without hint of menace.

“Cat all gone”   Jack would sigh.

Jack is monogamous.  We took him to the zoo once but not even the meercats stirred any tenderness.  His heart is pledged it seems.

He longs to please.  There is no mischief in his love.  No desire to pull her tail or, as one child I knew once did – chop off her whiskers.  He loves without judgment or curiosity and I wish more than anything for such feelings to be rewarded and  encouraged.  I want him in the fullness of time to be this kind of lover.

 I thought of improving the situation by getting him to help me feed her.  His hand in mine we scooped food from the tin and on to the dish and placed it on to the newspaper.  The cat came, not exactly bounding up but she came and nosed  the food.  Jack was ecstatic.

“Hungry cat.”  he said. “Very very hungry cat.”

After that, like a little trapper he would lure her to him with her dish.  I put a chicken drumstick in it once and Jack set off with it.

“Heavy bone” he said and I thought it a powerful phrase.  He carried the dish up our steep wooden stairs with impressive skill and offered it reverently to the cat hiding under the bed in the spare room.

“So it’s room service now” scowled Graham when he found the nasty remains later in the week.

I am trying to become more robust in response to Jack’s love. Painful though it is to witness this constant rejection it is not a viable relationship.  She is much too old for him for a start. A hundred and five in cat years to his two. But I am really not sure that a kitten or a puppy would do the trick.

Just the other night,  Jack’s parents came to dinner.

 “We’ve got a bit of news,” they said, “But you mustn’t tell anybody.  It’s much too early”

And of course I won’t, but suddenly my heart is easy about Jack.  Soon there will be a new target for all that love.  I hope the little one will be able to cope.