So far, everywhere we have stayed
there has been a cat. Given our obsession with cats, this is fantastic. For
long years we have longed for a cat to share our living space and our lives
with us, but have been ‘just about to travel’ for at least the last 4 years,
and so have been unwilling to invite a cat in, only to abandon it. Or drag it
around the world with us. Which would be uncomfortable for both cat and us, as
our hands would fall off trying to keep up with the paperwork, and the poor cat
would spend much of its time in airport quarantine. The plan is to rescue a cat
once we get back, assuming we can find a flat which allows animals.
In the meantime, as I have
mentioned before, we are glass of wine, film, good company and craft beer
people. We are not clubbers. (Though M can pull some impressive moves in the right
setting, and I have been known to hit the dance floor in the right company.
Both assuming the music is good. We disapprove of new fangled bands who are a
quarter of our combined ages. Did I mention we are becoming rather comfortably
middle aged?) So, whilst neither of us have grown up with a cat or lived with
one, a curled up cat on the sofa, or a playful cat knocking over ornaments, for
us exemplifies home. Having a cat in each place has helped us to achieve what
was our original goal – to feel, rather than as though we have visited eleven
countries, as though we have lived in them. This is the reasoning behind
cooking for ourselves, shopping at local markets, staying long enough to make
local friends and choosing one place to stay in for a whole month.
“You must be mad,” said some
people.
“I want to be you” said others.
Whichever way, it has worked for
us. We have regretted none of our choices so far. We have another eight months
to go, so we’ll see, but I have an inkling this feeling will continue throughout.
Back to the cats. In Vietnam we
had Chiba, a small tortoise shell cat, not much older than a kitten, full of
life and play, but perfectly willing to curl up on our bed with us at night.
She was a rescued stray, brought home on our host’s motorbike. And for one
month, she was as much our cat as Vietnam was our home.
In Cambodia, A, our next door
neighbour and now good friend, was kind enough to allow us to share her little
black and orange cat, Vanilla. Vanilla was equally playful and whimsical and
also not much more than a kitten. She played with us in the garden, visited us
in our bungalow, and generally exemplified home.
It was getting to be an
expectation. But thus far, Thailand had not provided such a local feline
friend. At least not in our house. Beautiful as our pole house is, out over the
sea, with devastating views that can take your breath away each day, or each
time you look out at them, it is a house intended for short stay guests. It
does not contain a cat. And our attempts to befriend some stray baby mice, met
with reasonable disapproval from our host.
So we have made the best of it.
We, I in particular, have stopped to stroke every stray cat we come across, and
have played with B’s two kitten/cats, both about the same age as Chiba and
Vanilla.
There is one cat in particular
who we have fallen a little in love with. She wears a collar, which makes us
assume she is not a stray, and she is beautiful. She is grey and white, with
little white feet, and a friendly, gentle face with a pink nose. She looks too
healthy to be a stray and, as she is often around our front door, we have been
assuming she belongs to one of the local Thai families next door. I have been
stopping to make a fuss of her each time I enter or leave the house and now she
meows in greeting and trots over to me to receive the love each time I round
the corner. I say trots. ‘Favourite cat’
as we have named her, is quite pregnant. It’s not so much a trot as a waddle.
Her back legs stagger slightly under her bulging tummy, and her teats, when she
rolls over for a gentle stroke on her strained tummy, are swollen and ready to
care for her family.
“Hello Favourite Cat”, I say to
her gently each time, “how are those babies? OK? How are you doing?”
I ask her daily. She never replies.
Today, however, she came in to
see me. I was sat in the room nearest the road, which is unusual. Generally we
leave our door open, as is the Thai tradition, but spend most of our time, when
we are in, either in the kitchen or out on the deck, transfixed by the view. We
have been visited by a crab, by a tourist looking for S, and by S and B in
passing. It’s nice. Once we even had a visit from a big, gentle stray dog, who
padded all the way out to the deck to see us, sat down with us, and then accompanied
us when we went out to the shops.
One of the reasons it took us a
while to get comfortable with living with the doors open, was because you
can’t, out towards the kitchen and the deck, at the back of the house, really
see what human or animal might be wandering in until they make their way out to
find you. If they chose to wander around without going as far as the kitchen,
we don’t really know that they’ve been there.
So when Favourite Cat came in
through the door, I was aware it might not be the first time she’d visited. I
was very excited of course, and leaped off the sofa where I was supposed to be
catching up on my blogging, so far behind already, greeting her and bending
down to stroke her. I don’t ask her how her babies are today, partly because a
couple of days ago we noticed that she didn’t seem quite so pregnant any more.
“Perhaps she’s had her babies”, I
said to M.
“Maybe,” he said, “perhaps
they’re tucked away inside.”
“Probably,” I say, “which might
be why we haven’t seen her for a couple of days.”
To say we think no more of it
would be a lie, as I am excited to see the kittens, once they are old enough
for her to allow them out to see us, but it doesn’t go any further than that. I
don’t have the Thai to ask the neighbours and the ones we think might own her,
keep themselves very much to themselves so I don’t like to intrude and quiz
them about their cat. Their door is usually firmly closed. In Thai culture that
means, “leave me alone”, so we do.
Today Favourite Cat really
doesn’t seem interested in a stroke. She moves past me with nothing more than a
cursory brush around my ankles, as if to say, “don’t be offended but I really
have work to do.”
She sniffs each corner and then,
casually, walks through the lounge and into the hallway. I follow her. Without
a moment’s hesitation, she slinks underneath the stairs and rounds the corner
into the cupboard where we once searched for a mouse nest. It’s a dark cupboard
with rat poison and chemical cleaners and I am concerned that she will get shut
in if we go out without realising she’s there.
“Hey, now”, I say gently, sliding
the cupboard door open a crack. It’s dark in there but I can just see her.
She’s crouched in the corner, where there is a tiny space amid the wood varnish
and bleach and tools. She’s looking at me, very alert.
“You can’t stay in there,” I say,
“I mean I don’t mind you being here but I don’t want you to eat the mouse
poison or get shut in.”
I reach in slowly, let her sniff
my hand and then prepare to gently lift her out, when there is a movement
beneath her. I freeze and stare. Now that my eyes adjust to the darkness I see
that she is crouching over a number of furry, wriggling forms. I draw my hand
away.
“M!” I breathe “M, come quickly.
I think Favourite Cat has had her kittens!”
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