Every fearsome hiss that greeted me whenever I approached convinced me we had made a colossal mistake that could take twenty years to dissipate.
It did not take much to receive a growl or a swipe. The pocket tuxedo ball had a voice larger than its thirteen-week frame and was determined to use it at every opportunity. As I positioned myself on the floor for the fourth day in a row, work laptop heating my thighs, I avoided eye contact with the panther in the furthest corner of the living room; even looking at her was deemed a heinous crime. I logged on to check emails and sighed. What was intended to be a diversion from a worldwide contagion was rapidly descending into a lost cause.
I had been the instigator, pressing for a rescue cat to join our family. We had gone without pets for ten years; my daughter had been too young to remember furry cuddles and purrs of contentment. The responsibility of caring for an animal was something I felt intrinsically that a child should learn, and the mental struggles of being confined indoors with no siblings was taking its toll. I voiced my opinion that we adults needed to think of the bigger picture: a new focus for our daughter’s life in lockdown, a deflection from the global whirlwind.
Much of the country was thinking in tandem, demand for puppies and kittens was astronomical, but six months into internment, we received a call about a young cat that was seeking a home. And so, here we were. In the combat zone.
We had barely clapped eyes on our indignant delivery, her having darted from the wire carrier to underneath a bookcase, where she had remained ensconced for several days, snarling with trepidation at three sets of reassuring eyes. When she crept out grudgingly to use the litter box, she was a domestic tumbleweed, having acquired months of dust from her inaccessible haven, a lacy veil against her sleek, onyx coat.
This was not turning out to be a cherubic, velvety bundle of optimism for my daughter. She was wary, terrified of getting hurt.
So was my child.
We had things in common, that cowering, angst-ridden package, and we humans trying to domesticate her. She was unverifiable feral offspring, and the recent months were evolving us the same way. Meeting after meeting online for work becoming less formal with each log-on: professional top halves above the tabletop, joggers and slippers below, morphing eventually into onesies, with angst and dwindling impetus as accessories. It was challenging to stay sharp and look ahead, find positives in places other than a drive-in test centre. Wondering if that one time popping over to the local shop for milk would change your family’s life forever.
Unfair pressure was being pinned on this screeching pile of misery lurking under the rows of paperbacks. This piteous creature was expected to replace coronavirus with cuddles, apprehension with affection, fear with fluffiness – and she was having none of it. We were not certain whether she was eating and drinking enough: while we were in the room, her position never changed from her literary bunker. No amount of coaxing was persuading this miniature spitfire to join our incarcerated family.
Fear of the kitten perishing through anxiety and malnutrition brought us to contact the shelter to take her back. Our hearts ached as we stopped calling her ‘Clover’ and reverted to her original name. Enough confusion for the tiny tempest. As I viewed her guarded eyes shining at me from her impossibly cramped sanctuary, I acknowledged that we had failed her. Life would continue, in uncertain ways: navigating a virus that was spiralling out of control, encroaching our world with its mutating markers, entrapped in a cage watched over by strange giants, their ability to hurt ever-present.
Forgetfulness was opportune. Serendipity (n) serənˈdɪpəti: the act of a person neglecting to collect a petrified, spicy kitten.
The rescue charity would be telephoned next day to jog their memory about the cat on hunger strike. We were all gathered, miserable, in the living room, achingly aware of the resonating silence in the corner. To avoid baby tuxedo further distress, our eyes were directed towards the television screen rather than her haunted eyes. Poor little babe.
As the latest statistics controlled the news and the futures of the viewers, I became aware of the smallest of sensations against my shin: a nudge, made with a curious black nose: a plucky touch of hope. The nose inspected three sets of legs, none of which dared stir, but the hearts inside those limbs’ owners beat excitedly, a rare emotion after months of torment.
The nose sniffed its way over to the food bowls: three, with varying offerings to tempt a ravenous stomach. The hesitant mouth selected a choice and devoured an appetiser, moving on to a heartier main course in the next dish. Dessert would keep for later.
That little face with disproportionately large ears inspected us all above the knee. From its adorable uptilt, I noticed what I initially believed to be a miniscule feather below her lip, in reality a sole dot of white marking amongst a sea of ebony. She stood there long enough for us to spy a sprinkling of pearly toes, and as she turned to visit the litter box, snowy flash of tummy, now sated with two courses of nourishment.
After several brief returns to the bookcase that evening, she would emerge to inspect us again, as if to decide about these peculiar new lodgings. The house absorbed the decompression of four souls.
That extra day. Those sweet twenty-four hours.
Everything changed for three humans and one destitute kitten. Hope x 4.
…and social media gained another user with paws:@cloverscloseups