Cat Pets by Sheela Jaywant

We called our first cat ‘Babbu Singh’. Sri Husband, a dog-person, didn’t allow it into the house, but did not mind it being fed and sheltered outside the house or under the staircase. The fellow (Babbu, not the Husband) moved his baby limbs, trying to walk, trembling and swaying, in what we labelled The Cat Dance. I don’t remember why we called him Babbu, but later we changed his name to Daan-Singh (Danc-ing, in case you didn’t get it). Over my shoulder, he (Sri Husband, this time, not Babbu) said, ‘You’re writing on cats?’ Bai Goanna echoed: ‘Cats?’ To shut them up, I showed them how much information Google had on them (cats, not Sri Husband or Bai Goanna). It worked. While they read about felines, I typed on. Babbu died young, we don’t know of what. He had been ill for a day, and at the end he opened his mouth very wide, let out a loud terrible sound and just fell down dead. Cannot get that out of my mind. The next one was named ‘Mouse’. Mews=Mows=Mouz=Mouse, see? Sri Husband, who never liked cats was, in the beginning, and all the time, annoyed at the sound and feel of her. She mewed uncouthly at him for no reason at all, brushed herself against his legs to his annoyance and, despite closing windows, sneaked inside the front door when someone opened it, and found her way to him. If he was sleeping, she would unobtrusively curl up against his leg or abdomen, giving him a start when he moved or awoke. He did all he could to chase her away: roll the newspaper and whack her, throw a shoe, yell. Unafraid, she climbed upon the tallest cupboard, daintily walked on the open shelf on which stood precious glass curios, jumped on the kitchen platform and (blasphemy), with her paw or snout, moved the lids from vessels to investigate whether the contents were to her liking, to eat, generally drove him to growl and say unpleasant things about the feline family in general. Undeterred, she put her claws out and scratched him, tore his clothes; never mine. We have no recollection of how she entered our home, our lives. I think it began on a rainy morning. There was half-metre of rain overnight, with stormy winds. Civet cats, snakes, birds, all find shelter in the large jungle trees and shrubs in the confusion we call our ‘compound’. Even the village stray dogs rarely venture inside our wall. Domestic animals prefer open, more sophisticated habitats. This cat, ‘Mouse’, we suspect, was discarded, thrown into our compound by a villager who did not want to keep it, nor destroy it. That was kind of him: we know people who drown kittens or abandon them in markets or by the sea, where they generally die of starvation, or bullying by other strays, or illness. Although Sri Husband’s attitude was ‘get-rid-of-this-cat’, the white and yellow baby was fed with due care. In the beginning, we bought fresh fish for her, served it cleaned and sliced. We discovered she was selective: mackerels-yes, sardines-no. Once, we gave her packaged food, dry pellets of a certain brand. She loved the taste and, thenceforth, refused to even sniff any marine life, fresh or frozen, raw or cooked. No cuddling ‘Mouse’ was the rule. Absolutely no picking up, no baby-talk, no show of affection in any form, not by me, not by Bai Goanna. Thing is, ‘Mouse’ did not follow Husband’s words, neither understood them, nor obeyed in letter or spirit. Almost a year later, Mouse had an affair, got pregnant through multiple partners; her swollen belly indicated another generation was due. I had strict instructions that under no circumstance was ‘Mouse’ to be brought inside now, no kitten would be allowed, never, not in this house, by no one at all, not a chance.... I nodded, and Bai Goanna assured Sri Husband that we had understood clearly: no kittens, no cat, not now, not ever. On another cyclonic night, much worse than the one that had brought ‘Mouse’ to us. the seasonal creepers that climb high up on the majestic trees that stand sentinel around us billowed like oversized curtains. The wind howled menacingly. The teak trees banged against the cement roof, making a booming sound inside the house. There was no electricity, of course. A metal roof rattled over someone’s house. A window slammed. Boughs snapped and fell, twigs were flung across roads. A car horn blared rudely. In that chaos, we heard a feeble, distinct but barely audible ‘mew.’ ‘The cat’s littered,’ said Sri Husband. Bai Goanna and I kept our promise, said not a word about Mouse or what might be happening to her. He flashed the torch in the upstairs balcony. On a tall table, inside a cardboard box, she had littered two-four-six babies. She was still licking them, but looked very tired. Through the drumming drops of pelting rain, he took a long look at the pathetic souls and opened his heart and one bathroom for them. Blobs of flesh, suckling from time to time, first flailing, then creeping, then crawling, gained strength by the day. Then, one day, one died. Another followed the next day and a third a day later. The remaining three were very carefully monitored. Not a peep out of Sri Husband when they boldly clambered up the leg-sleeve of his jeans. Their wobbling, frail limbs got strong and they wrestled with each other, scratched the upholstery, climbed onto the dining-table, ventured inside suitcases and were rescued each time they mewed in terror. Bai Goanna and I pretended not to notice, definitely did not comment on this. Finally, they went to their adoptive homes. Sri Husband, began to like cats, somewhat, referred to ‘Mouse’ as ‘Tiger’s Aunt’ (Vaagha chi maushi), the vernacular description of the species. He was no longer annoyed at the sound and feel of her. She still mewed uncouthly, brushed herself against his legs, and no longer needed to sneak in. She was welcome. Every moment she was with him, she reminded him, mere mortal, that her ancestors were worshipped by the Pharaohs of Egypt. When he slept, she curled up against his leg or abdomen, giving him a start when he moved. He adjusted. She kneaded his flesh with her claws, nails extended, scratching him at times. He playfully pushed her away. She caused tears in his clothes, never mine. It’s noteworthy, how animals win humans over. She vanished one day. No neighbour had seen her, no corpse was found; we suspected she had been eaten by a snake. This was nearly certain when our third and present cat-child, ‘Choo’, alerted Sri Husband one morning to a python less than a metre from his leg. Our part of Goa is still uncemented, with a healthy forest surrounding our modest abodes. Creatures creep, fly, crawl, eat and procreate as Nature intended them to. Choo communicates well. When she returns after her daily nocturnal outings, she tells us about her adventures. Do you know, cats meow only with/to human beings? When Sri Husband was unwell, she did not leave his side. She put a comforting paw on his hand/foot, as if to say ‘I’m there, you will be fine.’ Watching a football match on tv recently, Bai Goanna and I caught Sri Husband pointing out a goal to Choo. We nodded to each other: magic is possible, miracles can happen, when an animal adopts you.