Reality, is only just around the
corner, and you have to face it sometime. In the case of the cats, I know, and
wake up knowing, that the sooner we face it, the better for them. I am awoken
by a meow, and, peeping out through the mosquito net, I see a small, pink
nosed, grey and white face, looking up at me. She is asking permission. I turn
to M, he is half asleep still, warm and smiling at me, eyes closed.
“Hello cat,” he says sleepily.
I reach down and hold open the
mosquito net for Favourite Cat. She jumps up with some difficulty, back legs
still weak from carrying four kittens. Both before she gave birth to them, and,
presumably, after, when she somehow transported them all into our house when we
weren’t looking. She lies down between us, paws outstretched, the way she lies
with her kittens. I regard her, sleepy myself, and so pleased to have her. And
yet with so many conflicting emotions.
Favourite Cat is perfectly
housetrained. She meows when she is hungry and follows us into the kitchen. She
is deeply trusting, even with her kittens. She lies down with us on the bed and
she has not, even once, made a mess in the house. Either she goes out to do it,
or she actually uses our toilet. I can’t tell. If she uses the toilet then she
is flushing it too. As flushing a Thai toilet involves filling a bucket of
water and pouring it repeatedly into the toilet bowl until its contents are
clean again, this seems unlikely. Such a house trained, healthy, well cared for
cat, wearing a collar. Something, I can’t help thinking, doesn’t add up.
Later, my suspicions are
confirmed. I have been feeling, though it has only been two days, a little
guilty that we have been feeding a whole family of stray cats in S’s house. And
that we haven’t actually got round to telling her. The fact is, if it wasn’t a
family of kittens, I might have gently put her outside, or allowed her in to
visit. But I wouldn’t have fed her. I am aware that this isn’t my house and
that I cannot keep on feeding her. But the kittens are very young and she is
feeding them. It feels like a very different situation.
Even so, as M is preparing
breakfast, I nip out. Sure enough, I bump into S.
“There’s something I wanted to
just mention,” I say carefully, formalities and ‘happy Christmass’es over with,
“we um..well a cat came in and had kittens in our cupboard!”
Careful as I am being, I have
been unable to keep the excitement out of my voice. But S is not sharing it.
“Oh no!” she says,
sympathetically, “put them out. Put them out and close the door. That’s the
best way to get rid of them.”
I am catching my breath a little,
but I know in my heart that this would be S’s reaction. She’s not a monster,
but she has been living in Thailand for 14 years now. She has the Thai attitude
to animals and, even more to the point, it’s her guest house.
“Well obviously they can’t stay,”
I say hurriedly, “because we won’t be there. But I am hoping to get them sorted
out humanely.”
I can’t help but linger a little
on the word ‘humane’.
“The kittens are too small to be
moved really,” I keep talking “and so we will make sure that by the time we
leave I will get them adopted. Take them to the Animal Welfare Centre or
something. Or maybe B will take them on.”
I see S’s face.
“We’ll make sure they are gone by
the time we leave,” I say again.
“Well I’d like them out before
then, ideally,” says S.
I am terrified that S will force
us to simply dump the cat family back out on the street.
“Leave it with me.” I say, “Give
us a couple of days. We’ll do it humanely.”
That word again - I can’t help it.
“They probably belong to next
door,” says S after I explain about the collar, though by this time something
in me simply wants to turn and run, and shut the door behind us. “She probably
put her out when she got pregnant. That’s the Thai way. It’s a Buddhism thing.
They believe animals should be free.”
“Well anyway,” I say, “see you
later. I’ll sort it out of course.” I flash her what I hope is a reassuring
smile and then I actually do pretty much turn tail and run. For the first time
since I first learned about the door code in Thailand, I deliberately shut the
door behind me. And lock it.
When I return to join M, he
shares my feelings that the cats should not simply be put out on the street,
but he isn’t surprised. “You always have to be so honest, don’t you,” he says,
kissing my forehead gently, “you didn’t need to tell her until we’d sorted it
out. I didn’t know that was what you were going to do or I’d have stopped you.
Of course she would react like that. It’s her house and she’s been living for
14 years in Thailand.”
Thai’s are not cruel, though they
have a bad reputation in respect of animals. But they are rather shruggy about
stray cats and dogs, not particularly moved by them and believing, especially
the Buddhists, in nature ‘taking its course’ without humans interfering. I do
have some understanding, and indeed some sympathy, for that point of view, but
I am angry with the neighbours, if S’s assumption is true.
“It’s NOT natural,” I say
crossly, “for humans to take animals in and put collars on them, domesticate
them so they don’t have enough instinct to survive in the wild, but not take
the trouble to sterilise them either. They do it FOR FREE in the Animal Welfare
Centre, to deal with the over population, which is causing starvation and
suffering for the animals.”
“I know. I know.” says M, sadly.
“I mean,” I am gaining momentum
in what is the first and so far only time I have felt that I cannot respect an
aspect of another culture. Hitherto I have been careful always to notice the
good, to accept what seems odd. But on this I am adamant, “if you are going to
domesticate an animal, then go the whole way. Either sterilise them if you
don’t want the kittens, or if you can’t be bothered to even do that, FOR FREE,
then accept your responsibility for your domesticated cat and look after or at
least find another home for the kittens. It’s not OK. It’s not natural to take
a cat in then dump it out on the street when it’s at its most vulnerable.”
M dishes up breakfast.
“Either the cat is free,” I say,
pulling drawers open and locating chopsticks and soy sauce, “or the cat is not
free. If you only take half the responsibility,” I pour water into glasses,
“then the only thing that you are keeping free is YOU.”
We write two emails, together.
One to B, to say that we are going to ask the animal welfare centre if they can
take the cat family, but that, as she had said she might want to adopt them
herself, we wanted to give her first choice, without making her feel obliged.
The second, to the animal welfare centre, explaining the situation, and asking
if they could take the cats, assuming our friend cannot adopt them. It’s
worrying on both counts. The animal welfare centre is vastly oversubscribed.
And B and Boris already have two cats. Another five would mean seven. Seven is
quite a lot of cats.
Then, with nothing more we can
do, we embark on our traditional boxing day walk. We have planned to go to the
National Park, do the hike around it, and then spend some time on the secluded
beach there. I look in on the cats again before we go. Favourite Cat is
stretched out and the look on her sleeping face, with her kittens, asleep at
her teats is blissful. It reminds me, poignantly, of a moment at my
Grandfather’s funeral, watching my two year old niece. She had no idea of the
gravity of the situation, but had been running round and round the church
building while all the adults had moved into the side building for the wake, to
her hearts content, giggling and shrieking. Now she had joined us for the wake,
and was, obediently, no longer running about, but as I glanced up at her, I saw
her rise up for a moment onto her tiptoes, with a joyful little laugh to
herself, looking so innocently and perfectly happy, that this, more than
anything else in what was a very moving funeral, brought a tear to my eye.
Favourite Cat does not know she is, what I am rather dramatically terming to
myself, in danger.
The walk around the National Park
is beautiful. In honour of my new found ‘write your own story’ attitude, I
climb to the top of the lighthouse, using some four separate rickety ladders,
and the hike around the park itself involves a bit of scrambling, and a bit of
careful, and wobbly balancing over a bridge. I feel brave and happy and the
beach really is natural and beautiful. We swim in the sea and we eat an ice
cream, pursued by some rather threatening monkeys. They surround us, snarling
and make several runs to jump up to snatch the ice creams out of our hands. In
the end M makes a big gesture, raises his arms to make himself look bigger, and
roars at the monkeys. They retreat. We have out monkeyed the monkeys.
Even so, we wade out to sea to
eat our ice creams in peace.
When we come back I check my
phone immediately. The animal welfare centre have sent an apologetic email,
probably a very difficult one for them to send, explaining that they simply
cannot take in any more animals though they could offer free medical treatment
if needed, so the animals were not ill or suffering. The angst caused by this
is short lived, luckily. Amid a flurry of skype conversations with close
friends for Christmas, B and Boris drop round to see the kittens – and to make
arrangements to adopt them.
“We were always going to take
them,” says B, soothingly, when I release a burst of heartfelt gratitude and
relief.
I look sideways at Boris. He is
as soft hearted as B, but more practical. It was he I had wanted to be certain
they could afford the money and space needed to look after another five cats.
He is staring at the kittens,
“I think,” he says thoughtfully,
“that the orange and grey one might be my favourite.”
I smile. The cats will be fine.
The cats that came for Christmas will be given a happy and loving home. Not
just for Christmas. For life. Just like
in the poster.
“..or maybe the stripey one,”
says Boris, “can I have two favourites?”
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