The Visit (August, 2012)
Who said curiosity killed the cat? It’s not true.
It all started with a visit to the farm by my nephew, his wife and two young children, aged three and six.
Blame the children!
Hugh and Stella are urban kids who love animals – especially horses and cows, though chickens and sheep are close contenders.
They arrived late on a very hot afternoon. Too much time in a car. A walk was needed, especially down to the neighbour’s farm, in search of cows which had sought the shelter of the large trees by the tiny country cemetery.
I was touched that soon after our meeting, Stella grabbed my hand unprompted and walked down the drive and up the lane with me towards the large old barn, not exactly a short distance away for little legs. Hugh followed a little more hesitantly but close behind, with parents and my partner John trailing.
Now this was not entirely a first meeting with Stella, but meetings had been fleeting. Hugh had been here before, but not often. But their parents had no doubt talked about us and chatted with them en route about going to visit their uncles on a farm.
Sitting in the car, Hugh, safely strapped into his child seat, had turned to Stella and proudly proclaimed: “They’re married you know”. “But what about a girl?” replied Stella inquisitively. “There’s no girl” retorted Hugh, knowingly. “Oh” said Stella as she turned and looked out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse at any four-legged creature.
At the barn, there were no cows, but there were sheep which timidly escaped into the barn and stood so that we could see them watching us through a low window in the stone wall. And we entered the old cemetery to find a large ringed bull lying placidly under a tree at the fence line. Hugh had been reluctant to enter the graveyard… but bravely garnered the courage of a toreador. Hugh and Stella approached and the Bull rose and ambled off to the herd of cows and young bulls grazing a little further off. Stella was on a mission and was oblivious to ancient gravestones and their stories.
As we strolled past the barn again on our way back to the house, a young cat, very like our once-upon-a-time Charlie in markings, came up to the children and teased them. This was no ordinary ferile barn cat. It was a flirt. The children were delighted.
As we headed back down the road, the young cat stoically followed at a distance. When we reached the foot of our drive, the cat hung back, as did we, waiting to see what might transpire. The cat joined us in the amble up the hill and the children and adults continued to delight in his presence.
Wherever the throng went, front porch, back hill, or in the many rooms inside, there went the cat, meowing at the window sill or door, trying to get inside to join the party whenever they party was inside. Sometimes, the cat managed to sneak in. When asked how the cat had gotten in, Hugh replied confidently, with a tip of his head, “The door …?”.
Being hot, the cat was first served water, then pate and cheese and finally milk. Black and white and moustached, as Charlie had been, it was quickly named Chaplin, although dad wanted to name it Hitler.
Waking the next morning after an evening of stories and champagne, it seemed the cat had spent the night on a chair on the deck outside near to where the children had slept. That morning, it kept up its resolve to be inside or wherever the activity seemed to be.
There was discussion that perhaps this too friendly, though somewhat shy cat had been cruelly dropped off, abandoned. It was discussed whether parents or uncles should adopt the kitten, and reason enough for not doing so was bantered around. With uncles newly released from care of much beloved pets, and parents travelling, there was no chance of adoption… The cat would have to return to the barn, where no doubt it had originated.
Chaplin seemed very like a female in her conduct. But when I had finally inspected her that morning, and reported that Chaplin was no female, but rather a very healthy boy, dad asked how I knew. Sheesh.
I replied with restrained amusement, “It has balls!”. “Oh” said dad fidgeting with his coffee mug, shamed by the guffaw spontaneously emitted by his loving wife.
The visit was too short. The young family was soon off on further journeys. Chaplin watched the car being loaded. He saw the children ensconced in their seats and sadly followed the car several paces as it headed off, before flopping to the ground in the shade of a shrub. There he lay, dejected, rejected once again and at such a young age. Life is cruel.
John decided it was time to drive the cat back to the barn, where our neighbour Mary would, no doubt continue to feed him. For he was not a sickly cat. Indeed his fur was shiny and he had a healthy glow.
But when John went to pick up Chaplin, he turned into quite another creature. It struggled and sank his young teeth deep into John’s tender hand. It would not let go. In agony and dripping blood, John smacked him on the head and letting go, Chaplin dropped spritely to the ground. Without losing a beat, he fled across the paddock, not looking back, gone into the long grasses and disappeared somewhere in the derelict barn on the other side of the fence.
It was still early morning. For the rest of the day the cat was nowhere to be seen. No doubt it had decided this was no longer a welcome hang about. Its uncertain life journey had begun – or continued. As my nephew later surmised, the moral of the story is “Never bite the hand that feeds you”.
The wound was nasty and sore. But I tended to John’s wound as we expressed our dismay at the turn of events.
But, the saga continues... After no sign of Chaplin all day, we took our supper of scrumptious leftovers to the highboy table under the umbrella on the patio. As I opened the screen door to go out, there sprawled on the patio, like a shameless playboy (or playgirl) centrefold, was Chaplin, purring and flirting, oblivious to his misdeed.... After dinner, and much seduction by said cat, I donned a pair of leather motorcycle gloves, and picked up adoring cat in my hands, all the while stroking and quietly talking to him... knowing full well that feline teeth could easily pierce leather gauntlets! But Chaplin was docile and resigned to his fate... he entered the car passively and sat quietly on the back seat while I drove him down the hill and up the lane to the barn. I drove into the farm yard, and there standing about were two inquisitive young cats - the same age as Chaplin and very like him in appearance. And lying by them was, apparently, an indifferent mother cat. They did not run... They watched, as if they had been expecting me....Now, Chaplin slowly left the car and walked over to a place near his mother and siblings and sat by them with his back, no doubt intentionally, turned to me... The cats all gathered round to hear his tale of high adventure....gutter to glam and back again (to steal a phrase from my nephew)..Sigh.I drove away and now wonder if Chaplin shall return with siblings for pate and milk.
Who said curiosity killed the cat? It’s not true.
It all started with a visit to the farm by my nephew, his wife and two young children, aged three and six.
Blame the children!
Hugh and Stella are urban kids who love animals – especially horses and cows, though chickens and sheep are close contenders.
They arrived late on a very hot afternoon. Too much time in a car. A walk was needed, especially down to the neighbour’s farm, in search of cows which had sought the shelter of the large trees by the tiny country cemetery.
I was touched that soon after our meeting, Stella grabbed my hand unprompted and walked down the drive and up the lane with me towards the large old barn, not exactly a short distance away for little legs. Hugh followed a little more hesitantly but close behind, with parents and my partner John trailing.
Now this was not entirely a first meeting with Stella, but meetings had been fleeting. Hugh had been here before, but not often. But their parents had no doubt talked about us and chatted with them en route about going to visit their uncles on a farm.
Sitting in the car, Hugh, safely strapped into his child seat, had turned to Stella and proudly proclaimed: “They’re married you know”. “But what about a girl?” replied Stella inquisitively. “There’s no girl” retorted Hugh, knowingly. “Oh” said Stella as she turned and looked out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse at any four-legged creature.
At the barn, there were no cows, but there were sheep which timidly escaped into the barn and stood so that we could see them watching us through a low window in the stone wall. And we entered the old cemetery to find a large ringed bull lying placidly under a tree at the fence line. Hugh had been reluctant to enter the graveyard… but bravely garnered the courage of a toreador. Hugh and Stella approached and the Bull rose and ambled off to the herd of cows and young bulls grazing a little further off. Stella was on a mission and was oblivious to ancient gravestones and their stories.
As we strolled past the barn again on our way back to the house, a young cat, very like our once-upon-a-time Charlie in markings, came up to the children and teased them. This was no ordinary ferile barn cat. It was a flirt. The children were delighted.
As we headed back down the road, the young cat stoically followed at a distance. When we reached the foot of our drive, the cat hung back, as did we, waiting to see what might transpire. The cat joined us in the amble up the hill and the children and adults continued to delight in his presence.
Wherever the throng went, front porch, back hill, or in the many rooms inside, there went the cat, meowing at the window sill or door, trying to get inside to join the party whenever they party was inside. Sometimes, the cat managed to sneak in. When asked how the cat had gotten in, Hugh replied confidently, with a tip of his head, “The door …?”.
Being hot, the cat was first served water, then pate and cheese and finally milk. Black and white and moustached, as Charlie had been, it was quickly named Chaplin, although dad wanted to name it Hitler.
Waking the next morning after an evening of stories and champagne, it seemed the cat had spent the night on a chair on the deck outside near to where the children had slept. That morning, it kept up its resolve to be inside or wherever the activity seemed to be.
There was discussion that perhaps this too friendly, though somewhat shy cat had been cruelly dropped off, abandoned. It was discussed whether parents or uncles should adopt the kitten, and reason enough for not doing so was bantered around. With uncles newly released from care of much beloved pets, and parents travelling, there was no chance of adoption… The cat would have to return to the barn, where no doubt it had originated.
Chaplin seemed very like a female in her conduct. But when I had finally inspected her that morning, and reported that Chaplin was no female, but rather a very healthy boy, dad asked how I knew. Sheesh.
I replied with restrained amusement, “It has balls!”. “Oh” said dad fidgeting with his coffee mug, shamed by the guffaw spontaneously emitted by his loving wife.
The visit was too short. The young family was soon off on further journeys. Chaplin watched the car being loaded. He saw the children ensconced in their seats and sadly followed the car several paces as it headed off, before flopping to the ground in the shade of a shrub. There he lay, dejected, rejected once again and at such a young age. Life is cruel.
John decided it was time to drive the cat back to the barn, where our neighbour Mary would, no doubt continue to feed him. For he was not a sickly cat. Indeed his fur was shiny and he had a healthy glow.
But when John went to pick up Chaplin, he turned into quite another creature. It struggled and sank his young teeth deep into John’s tender hand. It would not let go. In agony and dripping blood, John smacked him on the head and letting go, Chaplin dropped spritely to the ground. Without losing a beat, he fled across the paddock, not looking back, gone into the long grasses and disappeared somewhere in the derelict barn on the other side of the fence.
It was still early morning. For the rest of the day the cat was nowhere to be seen. No doubt it had decided this was no longer a welcome hang about. Its uncertain life journey had begun – or continued. As my nephew later surmised, the moral of the story is “Never bite the hand that feeds you”.
The wound was nasty and sore. But I tended to John’s wound as we expressed our dismay at the turn of events.
But, the saga continues... After no sign of Chaplin all day, we took our supper of scrumptious leftovers to the highboy table under the umbrella on the patio. As I opened the screen door to go out, there sprawled on the patio, like a shameless playboy (or playgirl) centrefold, was Chaplin, purring and flirting, oblivious to his misdeed.... After dinner, and much seduction by said cat, I donned a pair of leather motorcycle gloves, and picked up adoring cat in my hands, all the while stroking and quietly talking to him... knowing full well that feline teeth could easily pierce leather gauntlets! But Chaplin was docile and resigned to his fate... he entered the car passively and sat quietly on the back seat while I drove him down the hill and up the lane to the barn. I drove into the farm yard, and there standing about were two inquisitive young cats - the same age as Chaplin and very like him in appearance. And lying by them was, apparently, an indifferent mother cat. They did not run... They watched, as if they had been expecting me....Now, Chaplin slowly left the car and walked over to a place near his mother and siblings and sat by them with his back, no doubt intentionally, turned to me... The cats all gathered round to hear his tale of high adventure....gutter to glam and back again (to steal a phrase from my nephew)..Sigh.I drove away and now wonder if Chaplin shall return with siblings for pate and milk.
