Pet-Friendly
When my son, the logical one, not the rational one, was able to afford a larger house because of fierce saving, learning to do without etc., he felt he should be able to afford pets. So he got himself two kittens from the shelter. That was when he was living in Pascoe Vale.
They were delightful little pieces of fluff, literally. He called the male, Loki, and the female, Coco. They were not just curious, they were downright inquisitive. They would try to attack anything that moved, just to see whether it would fight back, and then curl up unctuously when they saw that the human whose feet they had tried to eat, was looking at them sternly. They finally learnt to use the litter, and things settled down.
Out of the two Loki was the gentler one, the more timorous one, to the point of going away to hide somewhere if guests came home. Coco, the female stood her ground, come hell or high water. Loki stood near the glass doors, watching birds, and trying to carol like them. He was also the one who stood at the door and greeted my son and his wife from work, with frantic cries of welcome.
Coco would be curled up in her favourite corner, and open a lazy and condescending eye, and permit herself to be fussed over. She noticed, she observed, she made decisions for herself. Even while feeding, Loki needed to be repeatedly invited to eat: and all the time, Coco would be watching him with a smirk and a snigger, before walking away, after cleaning her own bowl, with an almost human sigh of disgust.
Which was why, my son and his wife were devastated when Loki went out through the cat-door; but didn’t return. They came home from work to find an agitated, dismal Coco, mewing for all she was worth: but no Loki.
In the gathering winter dusk, they ran around knocking at neighbours' doors, asking, enquiring, pleading, begging, and then coming home finally and collapsing in tears and fears. They knew, who better, that Loki didn’t know how to fend for himself, and he was terrified of anything that looked strange. And out there, everything must be strange.
For four and twenty days, my son and his wife printed flyers, posted messages on every social media channel, asked their friends for help, enlisted the support of the local TV channel.
And they walked, all the way to Glenroy, Oak Park, Strathmore, calling, pleading, visiting people, and then coming home to weep and sleep, when they could. They would try not to look at the cars speeding on the streets, the railway train rushing by. They walked through all the places that they thought one frightened feline would have gone to roost.
But nothing came of the search.
And then, one day, an emaciated, trembling Loki, crawled in, through the cat door, looked at my son piteously, dragged himself to the food bowl, ate what was in it, thirstily lapped up water in the water bowl, and fell asleep, curled on the floor. My son sat down and watched, his tears falling unheeded, to the floor. He didn’t try to touch or pet Loki, because the latter was still in a state of terror and remembered horror. For the next couple of days, all Loki did was eat and sleep. It took him almost a month to decide that he was safe.
My son and his wife now live in a bigger house, with a garden, that doubles up as a playground for the cats. They have a chip-embedded collar now, and have their own customised leashes. Coco loves keeping a watch on my two-and-a-half-year old granddaughter. When she feels she needs more food, she parks herself on the small stool in the kitchen, and stares unblinkingly at my daughter in law, till she is fed.
When we were in Melbourne, Loki used to run up the stairs to our room, very early in the morning and sit outside it, mewing faintly. He knew I got up earlier than everyone else. So I used to walk down the stairs, fasten the leash, open the garden door and let him out to do his thing. The end of the leash, could be hooked up to a piece of the furniture, so that he was safe. And Coco would make sure that I was seated comfortably, reading Game of Thrones, or some book from the Glenroy Library, before curling up on my lap, purring contentedly.
Life was good.
This piece is a(nother) response to the following prompt by Liberty Forrest, Author
