That thought was actually in my mind, so how, having checked the bottle and patted their heads, I could have absentmindedly closed the bedroom door on them, leaving them with innocent expressions, cut off completely from their earthboxes...
I knew there was something wrong when we came back two hours later and there were no faces at the hall window to greet us. Even more so when I opened the hall door and nobody came through it as if shot from a catapult. Kidnapped. Dead. The wardrobe had fallen on them. The usual Siamese owner's thoughts flashed through my mind. Then I looked up the stairs, saw the closed door at the top, heard the sound of rampaging elephants inside... My thoughts switched immediately to those sweaters on the bed. I knew what I was going to find.
He'd done an absolutely outsize wet – through the sweaters, through the quilt, right down to the blankets. The hot water bottle had been dumped on the floor. In a futile hope I picked it up and checked it. Alas, it wasn't the bottle that had done the leaking, though the swamp on the bed was big enough. I looked at the undoubted culprit, watching me warily from the dressing table.
Why couldn't he have used a corner in an emergency, like any other cat? I wailed. If it came to that, why couldn't he have held on for a mere two hours? Normal cats don't use their boxes every five minutes like demented fountains. Why did he have to make such a point of it?
He regarded me with his Elizabethan philosopher look. His face always seemed much longer when he was solemn. I knew how he got Nervous, he said. How did he know it would only be two hours? He'd thought it was through not doing it that he and Shebalu had got locked in. He'd only been making a Libation.
He'd done that all right. I had to change all the blankets and it took days, after I'd washed it, to air the quilt. Even then I had to mount guard on it when Sass was anywhere near. He kept sniffing it with an air of unfinished business. More than that, he'd gone right back to his obsession about wool – obviously wetting the sweaters had brought it back to him. It became his main preoccupation and for a while it felt like ours as well.
Seven
Charles, given to reading peacefully in his armchair after supper, got fed up with seeing Sass eternally going past with one of his socks. He'd take it away, sit on it, resume his reading... The next thing to catch his eye would be Sass going past with the other sock, en route to dumping it by the kitchen door which was the nearest he could get to putting it outside. If it wasn't a sock then it would be one of Charles's sweaters, dragged along as if Sass's very continuance in this world depended on it.
According to him it did. Hadn't he stopped wetting on wool because we'd persuaded him, and got shut in the bedroom as a result? Where he and Shebalu might have been locked for Ever if he hadn't done some conciliatory work on the sweaters? Got to wet this one Too, he would inform us, struggling across the floor with his burden – and Charles would yell, slap his book down exasperatedly, and make a hurried grab for that. Why did that cat always take his sweaters and socks? he demanded. Why couldn't he occasionally take mine?
Because I didn't leave them where Sass could find them. On the bed or the bathroom stool was Charles's usual wont. One day, however, Sass went upstairs. I could hear him thumping around. It sounded as if he was moving a piano, but Siamese activities usually do. When he reappeared he was stumbling along with something big and dark, legs straddled as if he were carrying a pheasant. Charles's sweater, I thought, cocking a glance across the room from where I was watching television – and then I realised it was mine. My new Shetland sweater that I hadn't even worn. It had been on a shelf in the bedroom cupboard.
Charles, it transpired, had put all his things away for once and Sass, searching for a sacrificial offering, must have got the cupboard door open attracted by the peaty scent of the wool, which to him was probably worse even than the ordinary kind. This one smelled Awful, he informed me as he passed. Boy, were we lucky he'd found it. He'd just put it over by the kitchen door and perform his Magic Action on it...
Oh no he wouldn't, I said. I took it away from him and put it behind me in the chair, not wishing to miss the programme I was watching. Next thing I knew, he'd bitten me hard in the arm and I nearly hit the ceiling.
As I say, it needs psychology to understand Siamese cats. He hadn't bitten me because he was angry with me. It was just that I was wearing a woollen cardigan, I had the Shetland sweater behind me, the smell he so disliked was coming from my direction. Ergo, the thing to do was to seize me by my woollen-clad arm, drag me to the door and wet on me.
That, at least, was our interpretation of how his small mind worked about wool. With patience we could probably get him out of it, we thought. What we hadn't bargained for was Shebalu joining in the wetting game – for an entirely different reason.
There was a strange tabby cat coming into our garden. She kept seeing it through the window and getting annoyed. Sass would flatten his ears round the curtain at it, pretend he was a tiger in ambush, leave off next moment to come and see what I was cooking... Not so Shebalu, who would yatter at the intruder like a machine-gun then make straight for the earthbox in the corner.
We'd never had an earthbox in the living-room before. It had been installed as a mental prop for Sass. Now Shebalu would get into it, squat in girl-cat position, nattering away about Not Knowing what things were Coming To. As she talked, indignation would overcome her and she rose higher and higher in the box. As she did, the stream rose with her and inexorably hit the wall. Some people think that she-cats can't spray. They should have seen our Siamese hose.
We dealt with the problem as best we could by tacking polythene sheeting against the wall. (We couldn't remove the box on account of Sass.) When we saw her rear begin to rise we gently sat her down, telling her that girls weren't supposed to do that. Eventually it dawned on us what was upsetting her. She thought the other cat was her rival for Sass.
We were across in the orchard with the pair of them one day when the stranger happened along. We'd learned in the meantime that her name was Belle and she lived at the top of the hill. Seeing our two she came running through the grass towards them, obviously wanting to play. Sass looked interested. Shebalu growled and crouched. Belle turned tail and fled. Shebalu tried to chase her, but we had her on her lead, so instead she turned on Sass. In an instant she had him down and was kicking the daylights out of him. She'd seen him looking at That Hussy! she yelled. He'd been Encouraging her. No wonder she kept coming into Our Garden. She bet he'd sleep on her stomach if he could.
We didn't realise it was jealousy at first. We separated them and carried them back to the cottage wondering what on earth had come over her. We put Sass down in the sitting-room, all round eyes and ruffled fur, and hovered ready to grab him if she sprang again. Instead she marched into the earthbox and sprayed heartily against the wall – not even bothering to sit first, she was so furious. She then came out, having relieved her feelings and sniffed at Sass, who was regarding her as if she were a Gorgon. Suppose she'd better clean him up, she said, and forthwith proceeded to do it.