The Cat
When I was 10, my brother and I would walk to and from school each day, up the hill and over to the main road, left around the corner until we arrived at a tiny little Catholic school. Half way up our street, on the corner opposite the entrance to the sporting fields was a small broken down cottage surrounded by overgrown shrubs and trees. It was rumoured that a witch lived inside and my brother would insist on crossing the street or running very quickly past as we approached it each morning and afternoon.
But I was captivated and tried to sneak a peak past the giant weeds and unloved hedges to see if I could catch a better glimpse. You see, a little old lady lived there – I imagined her to be at least 100 years old and with her, lived hundreds of cats. In truth, she was probably only about 65 with maybe 20 cats in tow however that house captured my imagination for the whole of my tenth year.
It seemed that she lived alone and was often taunted by the children in the neighbourhood. Consequently, she appeared to be rather grumpy and would hose children if they lingered too close to her front gate. My best friend, Carolyn, told a tale of a boy from grade five who had visited the old lady and promptly disappeared – never to be seen again. “She eats children” she would whisper, “and feeds the leftover bits like ears and noses to her cats.”
The concept of a grumpy Hansel eating witch living up the street from our house loomed large in my imagination however this didn’t stop my fascination with her and those hundreds of cats and every chance I could, I tried to take a closer look at this strange little corner of our neighbourhood.
One Saturday morning I awoke to the sound of my little brother sobbing. Apparently, our very curious cat, Socks, had chased a cockatoo up the street and instead of returning, made a detour and went into the old cat lady’s yard. My brother was sure she was planning a late Socks brunch until I reminded him that it was only children that she ate – cats were perfectly safe. :-)
Determined to rescue our cat, we gathered up enough courage to walk up the hill to the corner opposite the entrance to the sporting fields and knock on the door of the broken down cottage. Opening the gate onto the thick clumps of overgrown hibiscus bushes that had taken over the front garden, the sound of the creaking scraping metal scared my brother so much that he ran away and left me alone in the unkempt garden of the crazy cat witch.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Socks who immediately raced over to purr and rub against my legs. Once I bent down to pick him up, cats came out to greet me from every corner of the garden. Tabbies, Persians, Siamese, kittens, tomcats – all colours, shapes and sizes – all coming to check out this strange bewildered human trespassing in their domain. It was a cacophony of mews and purrs that met my ears as I sat down on the footpath to pat, stroke and cuddle this rather large and odd collection of cats. Momentarily forgetting where I was I talked to them asking questions (as if to expect a response), kind heartily pulling on their tails and had a glorious time communicating and connecting to my new feline friends.
Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up directly into the face of the witch! “So this little black one is yours dear? He comes and visits me often – what’s his name?” How disappointing - this witch didn’t have a crackly voice at all, it dripped with honey, her face was soft and she smelled of lavender.
That day, I listened to a wise old woman who introduced me to every single cat by name and personality, recounted their stories, told of those she had lost and those she could not bare to give away. There was no mention of her history or family, no anger or grumpiness – nor could I find a cage to keep naughty little boys in or a large pot for boiling children. I watched as she gently and lovingly fed and cared for her cats and noted with sadness, even at the tender age of ten, that not many people saw the beauty or grace in her service to these cats. All they saw was her difference, her willingness to walk to beat of her own heart and her eccentric lifestyle. After all, the Catholic Church associated cats with witchcraft and Satan and while working hard to build their new brand and establishing Christianity as the only religion, they hunted and killed cats over a 1000 year killing spree. (Of course, the Black Death then had space to flourish when there were no more cats to kill the mice and rats carrying the plague – but that’s a whole other story :-).
Looking back as an adult with three cats of my own, there is a part of me a little terrified that I will someday somehow become the crazy cat witch living with hundreds of cat and eating school children. J However, there is also a part of me that remembers how much joy and comfort these cats gave to this beautiful little old lady. What balance did 20 odd cats give to one old lady? What were they surrogating in her life?
Why cats? What is it about a cat that provides so much consolation and companionship? The close relationship between cats and humans dating back to ancient times of the Egyptians to the Norse, to the Orient and the Celts collectively appears to represent some sort of threshold guardianship for the Otherworld. The humble feline – protector and soothsayer, secretive, mysterious, crafty and clever, linked with shamanism and magic, has long associations with superstitions – anything from a black cat crossing your path to which way it washes its face! They definitely demand a certain respect. The Muslim prophet Mohammed is said to have found a cat sleeping on his robe, so he cut a hole in his robe rather than disturb the sleeping cat. After all, in every household cat there is an element of “Don’t screw with me!” as we tend to tip toe around these superior beings in case we upset them.
So as we run around cramming every second of our lives with activity and busy ness, exhausting ourselves with a never ending list of “have tos” , our cats yawn, stretch, roll over and go back to sleep. What are they expressing on our behalf? Are they another dimensional us in a lazy haughty self focused form? As their usefulness centuries ago was dependant on chasing away mice, is their purpose today to reflect and remind us of those forgotten day dreams and somehow entrain our bodies to relax, slow down and just chill? Being loved by a cat is quite a privilege, perhaps their greatest gift to us is their incredible self love?
