The Sunday Post: Rituals
I have written a couple of times about the little feral cat that I adopted, or who adopted me; and the posts received quite a lot of responses. Cat, as I simply called him at first, was tiny, battered, wild and terrified of me and everyone else when he first turned up in the back garden. It took months of patience to even tempt him into the house, and begin his rehabilitation. He is now, within certain boundaries, domesticated. He loves to be stroked and brushed, but doesn’t like to be picked up and handled. He is a very clean little chap, house proud one might say, but there are little unpredictable lapses when it comes to soiling, which is probably because he has tummy issues caused by Feline HIV, a legacy of his wilderness years. For this reason he has to sleep in the rear porch at night, but I have made special provisions to keep him warm. Not simply an insulated basket and comfortable blanket, but also an electric heater of the type used to keep greenhouses frost-free, and a clever little advice that looks like a big plastic saucer. You heat it up in the microwave and it slow releases the heat over hours. A perfect hot water bottle for Cat.
I found some great meaning and purpose is saving and domesticating Cat, and it had something to do with repairing myself. A couple of years ago he was joined by Lucy, the cat from next door. I say cat, but when he first turned up he was a tiny, slender thing, barely more than a kitten, and because he was so slender I assumed he was female, and called him Lucy, after a beautiful black-haired girl I was briefly met on a train (back in the days when trains worked). In fact, I can be charitable to myself about my mistake because when my beloved friend the vet Dr Pesta came to stay and examined him it took her five minutes of examination to work out that “she” was a “he” who had been spayed. I was worried that his owners were not capable of looking after him correctly, and began to look after him. He appeared to find this attention, and my lodgings, very appealing. Old Cat, as I then came to call him, has put up with a rival tolerably well, although there were some “incidents” at first. Cats are territorial creatures, and I can’t blame him for worrying that he would be displaced from his new refuge. They are sort of buddies now, however. They seem to go off and hand out together at times.
The two cats are in many ways chalk and cheese. Old Cat is rather small, and although he now has a sleek coat (he eats like a king) he still has a weepy eye and rather battered look to his fur. Lucy, or Young Cat, is a now gorgeous, jet black, powerfully built miniature black panther. Old Cat does not make a sound unless you touch a sore spot which I suspect is caused by arthritis, in which case he will squawk with pain, although he has learned to purr. Young Cat has no problems in vocalizing when he is hungry or wants attention. Old Cat sits and waits patiently for food like a quiet, very polite old man glad of charity. Young Cat thinks nothing of trying to raid the shopping like a bandit. Old Cat has never learned to play, and I don’t think he has ever caught anything at all. There was a mouse once, but I think it was dead when he found it. Young Cat is a naughty, playful scamp. He loves to climb, investigate and tumble around on the stairs and play games. He is, fortunately fitted with collar with a bell to help prevent the massacre of the local bird life. Occasional incidents still occur, in which case I have been the recipients of local wildlife, somewhat dismembered. I believe the theory is that this is a sign of devotion by the feline in question.
Now, both cats have come to play an important part of my morning ritual. It goes as follows. After years of sleeping in as a sort of proxy teenage slob, I now like to rise relatively early, when the most of the rest world is sleeping. I have the good fortune to be self-employed when not messing about on the interweb thing, and to work a lot from home, and this permits a certain pleasant routine. At this time of year always pull my woolly dressing gown on a pair of the thickest, warmest socks available, then pad down stairs. Off with the alarm, and into the kitchen. Heating and hot water get switched on. Radio (news) on. Unbolt and open the kitchen door. There I will find a small black and white cat having already risen from his own bed (as long as I haven’t been ultra quiet) and waiting to slink in, which he’ll do directly, before a good stretch.
I always greet him with “good mornings” and pet him and stroke his forehead and his back – gently, this, because of the suspected arthritis in his rear legs. He likes this and purrs. Then there is the ritual of the table-cloth. A piece of kitchen towel is laid down on the kitchen floor as his “table cloth”. He knows this and sits patiently by. Then I get his ceramic dish, and open a packet of something – usually in gravy for two reasons. One, he has lost a lot of teeth and I worry about him with biscuits. The second is he is on meds (steroids I think) and I need to mix them in his food; force feeding a tablet is out of the question. It works fine. The porcelain dish is placed on the “table-cloth” and feeding begins at once, with more purring. I should say that he has particular tastes in cat food – some are acceptable, other brands are not unless he is very hungry. I have been well-trained. With the first course served I am free to get a brew on; Yorkshire tea with lemon juice, no milk. However, a second course is usually required.
He is a hungry chap, possibly due to thyroid problems of some such. Sometimes this involves a second pouch of cat food, and sometimes more inventive things. If there’s any leftover roast chicken from the day before, that goes down well, provided it’s soft. One unusual day a while ago I found him striving to get at the remains of a poached egg. So, on some days I poach him an egg and carefully open up the yolk, which he likes to lap up. But he doesn’t like that too often He likes variety. When sated – but not before – he quietly slopes off out of the kitchen, into the front room, and there to his allotted armchair with a blanket and newspaper on top (in case he has tummy problems). And he settles down to sleep again for the morning.
I am now free to perform stage two of my ritual, which involves retiring to my study, firing up my steam-powered computer and reviewing the world. I have my “quiet hour” before the day proper begins, I am at peace, and sip my tea, and then start work. Usually about 8 am stage three of the ritual begins with a plaintive cry outside my study door. Young Cat will have crashed powerfully through the cat flap and sped up stairs to where he knows I will be, and announce his request for breakfast, of, as I suspect, second breakfast. I read recently that cats have evolved to make their cries on the same register as human babies to make their cries more evocative. It works.
And so downstairs I go, Young Cat galloping ahead anticipating more breakfast for him in some shape or form, maybe biscuits, maybe a treat. I return to work. Sometimes when Young Cat is sated he goes straight off for some adventures or a third breakfast – who knows? More often, and particularly if the weather is off, I will be joined in my study by this curious, playful feline. Fun and games ensue. These include: biting my socks; jumping on the work desk and stalking about (particularly standing on the key board); investigating behind the computer screen (which is on the window ledge) and peering out the window to survey the street below (fascinating world); investigating the miracle that is the bathroom (how do taps work?) and wriggling about full stretch on the bathroom floor. There are also interactive sports such as playing with and chasing string, or a ball with a jingly bell in it.
These quiet, simple little rituals are nothing in themselves, but they seem to give meaning, solace and comfort in what can be a harsh and troubled world; a sort of handrail along the slippery stairs of life. I find as much meaning and certainty in these as I do in any religious rites, notwithstanding my monastic status. I also used to have a bedtime ritual in times gone by. Don’t be alarmed! Very simply it involved turning down the lights, lighting a candle, and playing a beautiful and relaxing piece of music whilst savouring a wee dram of single malt. My favourite was work by Jan Garbarek & the Hilliard Ensemble; a strange hypnotic blend of medieval plainchant and free saxophone – otherworldly and beautiful. I think I should re-instate it.
Have a lovely ritual of your own today.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kMbaVenF4Ug&list=PLC709C61889DC1846
Gildas the Monk
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January 4, 2015 at 10:48 am -
A really nice Gildas-piece to wake from my diazapam induced slumbers from , thank you
Even if I didn’t like cats I’d have enjoyed it immensely-which is the sign of a really good writer. -
January 4, 2015 at 10:54 am -
January 4, 2015 at 11:10 am -
We had a furry black and white mustachioed moggie, homed from an eccentric cats league person. Fully grown, very frisky. A head in the cream bowl sort of cat. A kill the only red shank that ever was in our garden sort of cat. He glad handed visitors from the top of a wing chair at parties, then strolled about soliciting strokes and kind words. Slept on the front window ledge over the radiator and messed up the curtain lining with his fur. Party attenders had to be reminded not to pick him up. Or they would soon find out about his sharp claws and teeth! Cats are so different, one from the other. Both of us now too ancient to entertain cat eccentricities now. His party trick was sitting up on his haunches, like a meerkat, all the better to obtain a pat or a stroke or food. Everything totally on his terms. Thanks for your homely record of being owned by two black cats.
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January 4, 2015 at 11:37 am -
As the benzodiazepinical haze lifts and the second large dose of caffeine works its merry way round my nicotine stream , I want to say something about rituals- there is a slightly more serious side to them. If there is one thing caring for The Bestes But Clinically Insane Frau In The World has taught me, it is that rituals are the tent pegs that secure the bouncy castle of her mind to Reality. I don’t mean the ‘religious’ rituals such as my, in my role of ‘priest’ (it’s a Mormon thing) lighting the votive candle in memory of her late mother (it’s a Catholic thing) or my rolling my eyes heavenward at the news of some personal catastrophe and declaring ‘ Oh Lord, what sin have I committed that I be thus punished?’ in Friesen Low German (it’s a Blocked Dwarf thing). I mean the silly little things like going for a walk at roughly the same time, the same route daily and seeing if the Bell ringers manage to announce our arrival to the town. Lifting our clasped hands over the same Postbox so we can continue to walk hand in hand. Or my playing ‘air guitar’ to the theme tune of one of her favourite Bavarian Cop Shows when we watch it on the laptop on Monday evenings. It disconcerts her if I don’t make ‘zombie’ noises/action when she tries to say ‘guten morgen’ through the slime that has collected in her lungs during the night or tell her to’quit smoking’ (she’s a life long anti-smoking zealot) when she coughs up all the aforementioned slime. Sometimes it seems to me that her entire day is a series of rituals. Large and small.
To the mentally ill, as with children, rituals are important in a way that ‘sane’ Adults can’t always ‘see’….and bigger Fools look on.
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January 4, 2015 at 1:02 pm -
Exactly! You’ve got it
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January 4, 2015 at 11:55 am -
Wonderful piece, Gildas, and very true in reflecting the solace that animals can bring to the human existance – particularly those who through whatever circumstances live on their own. In my case a dog. Although, whisper it quietly, thoughts of teaching her to accept a kitten, have crossed my mind recently !
Nothing like dropping your hand down from the arm of your favourite chair and stroking a silky head.
The Garbarek & Hilliard Ensemble CD was one I enjoyed many times in the past. Last week I spotted it in the box room, what a coincidence you mention it !-
January 4, 2015 at 1:04 pm -
Coincidence? Or just that Racconistas have taste?
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January 4, 2015 at 1:25 pm -
Great piece Gildas that captures well the deep but not easily explained meaning to be found in looking after a kitty (or more than one) or any other creature but having hewn coal at the same coalface as you (for I too was a litigation solicitor) I was also greatly struck by your early morning ritual which was something that I could never indulge in when in practice but which having had the opportunity to indulge in since leaving practice would never willingly cast aside ….in a manner of speaking, for me an important moment to reflect on broader issues…. rather than waking and clicking straight into lawyer mode first thing and clicking off as I went to bed
I don’t know if you recollect one of your earlier pieces on the Cathars (we crossed swords on the relative parts played by the Dominicans and the Cistercians) but in that piece you also struck a note with me in that when something interests you , you have learnt the pleasure and importance of urgently leaving work aside and investigating it. Again a practice I can thankfully now adopt.
I really enjoyed being a litigation solicitor when younger and it taught me much about humanity but it ultimately became hugely limiting and reductionist and perhaps a bit like you I welcome the chance to reflect on matters other than other peoples problems and how to win for them and my measurement of the world is I believe all the better for it.
Please give your kitties a cuddle from Fat Steve-
January 4, 2015 at 1:33 pm -
Thank you Steve, that is kind and insightful. I may look up that Cathars piece, it was interesting research…
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January 4, 2015 at 7:03 pm -
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January 4, 2015 at 7:19 pm -
That’s toilet humour rightwinggit
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January 4, 2015 at 7:25 pm -
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January 4, 2015 at 8:24 pm -
You are such a snob Blocked Dwarf as everyone knows its Befnal not Bethnal
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January 4, 2015 at 8:58 pm -
Our three cats saved me when my husband died suddenly and without warning. I was in such a state of shock that all I wanted to do was sleep, when I woke I had to face what had happened. I had to get up and feed the cats, buy their food and take care of them , we both loved them and that kept me going through a very black time. Sadly the cat that was very much his died soon after out of the blue, I often wonder if he missed him too much.
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January 4, 2015 at 8:59 pm -
Forgot to tick the box again!
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January 4, 2015 at 9:04 pm -
It’s a strange and rewarding bond between animal and man.
I’ve got two rescue cats and two others that come in from I don’t know where.
They like Sunday afternoon in the winter with the gas fire on and the TV on tuned to the football channels .
Two of them are Newcastle supporters ie black and white.
One is a “Hitler Cat”
In the summer they love to sit out in the garden with me which backs onto woods , nice ice cold beer and watch the planes high in the air over the house going to sunny climes. You can see what they are using flightradar24.com– fascinating, though a bit analR
Good to seen Gildas is enjoying cats -
January 5, 2015 at 5:35 am -
“he has lost a lot of teeth and I worry about him with biscuits. “
I wouldn’t worry too much – my old Siamese boy only had his canines at the end, and loved biscuits even more than anything!
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January 5, 2015 at 6:57 am -
I wouldn’t worry too much either. Gildas you could try mixing a few in with his wet food or give him a few softened with wáter or gravy. He’ll either ignore them or enjoy the variation and the worst that might happen is that he’ll bolt them and they’ll reappear minutes later, whole and slightly softer. When that happened Peewee used to just walk away with a look on her face – ”I don’t know who did that but it’s nothing to do with me”.
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January 6, 2015 at 12:20 pm -
Gildas, I salute you, for caring so kindly for a little cat with FIV and providing preferable accommodation for the neighbour’s cat. You have caught the situation perfectly, they need caring for and our caring for them does us good.
Even if I didn’t like cats I’d have enjoyed it immensely-which is the sign of a really good writer.
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