Like Lydia, Jonah had a distinct aversion to being trapped at home. He waited by doors and windows hoping to slither out the moment they were opened. And he took the adage of cats never coming when called to an extreme. Whenever anyone mentioned his name, he sprinted in the opposite direction.
Even ‘Kitty’ had a similar effect. He’d turn, scowl, raise his tail and bolt. Some days all I seemed to see of Jonah were the backs of his outsized hind legs and his tail swaying over the pleated circle of his anus as he galloped away.
Possibly Lydia understood his desire to wander the neighbourhood because of her own longing to roam. Living at home, shackled to us (financially anyway) for the foreseeable future, she craved freedom. I couldn’t completely blame her. At the same age I’d been married with two kids. That was imprisonment of a different kind, but it presented a mirage of adult independence. Perhaps she regarded the Sri Lankan monastery as an escape route.
According to the vet, the first step to independence for Jonah was getting him ‘fixed’.
I had no idea Philip would take the procedure so personally.
‘How can removing an animal’s testicles extend his life?’ he growled.
Men are supposed to be the logical species, but on the subject of balls rationality flies straight into the wheelie bin.
I assured Philip that neutering reduced the risk of infection and cancer and that de-sexed male cats didn’t get into fights so often so were less prone to injury. They were also less inclined to wander or spray urine (though that, I imagined, was something only feral cats would do).
Putting it like that made me quietly wonder if the vet mightn’t be interested in a two-for-one deal.
‘Can’t he just have a vasectomy?’
‘Neutering only takes five minutes. The operation’s much worse for female cats,’ I said, wondering why it always seemed to be that way for females of any species.
The day Jonah was due to get fixed, Philip had an early start. Katharine had an appointment with her maths teacher (‘And I get upset when he meows inside his carry box’) which left Lydia and me official Breakers of the Balls.
When we collected Jonah from the vet clinic later in the day, he didn’t seem diminished. By the look of things, his testicles hadn’t been removed so much as deflated.
‘Make sure he doesn’t lick his stitches too much,’ the vet nurse said as a playful paw protruded from his carry box to grapple with her belt. ‘Goodness, he’s got personality, hasn’t he?’
Jonah bounced back from the operation quickly. To Philip’s relief, the ‘fixing’ had left Jonah largely intact. Suffice to say that while the testicles had been flattened, the Eiffel Tower remained. Jonah enjoyed shocking female visitors by coaxing his glistening pink pencil out of its case and licking it with affection and attention to detail.
Any ‘Ewww! Jonah! Don’t be disgusting!’ responses only made him lick with more enthusiasm.
One day, when we judged Jonah fully recovered from his ‘fixing’, we decided to give him a trial run as an outside cat in the back garden.
I wasn’t strong enough to chase him yet, but wasn’t too concerned. Once he associated the tap of a spoon on a tuna can with us calling his name, I was sure we’d get him sorted.
Stepping outside, Philip lowered Jonah on to the deck. Our kitten sat there cute as Christmas and blinked inquisitively at the sky.
‘Look at that!’ I said. ‘No problem at all. He’s a sensible boy, aren’t you Fur Man?’
A blast of wind rushed through the olive bushes. Jonah raised his nostrils and tensed. His legs stiffened. His tail puffed. The sound of wind was new to him – and utterly terrifying. Philip bent to pick him up, but the kitten shot across the yard straight up the tree trunk. We hadn’t counted on Jonah knowing how to climb trees.
Perched above us, he flattened his ears against the wind as the branches heaved up and down like a raft on a storm at sea. Clinging to the decks, the kitten looked vaguely seasick.
Lydia hurried inside to retrieve the kitchen stepladder. Philip planted it in the earth and ascended toward the escapee. Just as he touched Jonah’s fur, the kitten slithered out of his grasp and clambered higher. Paw over milk chocolate paw, Jonah scrambled toward the top branches. A nearby pigeon tut-tutted and evacuated the tree in a huff.
‘Let him stay up there!’ said Philip.
‘But what if he doesn’t know how to get down?’ Katharine whined. ‘Or if he climbs down on the neighbour’s side of the fence and gets lost.’
Exasperated, Philip leapt off the stepladder and, with surprising agility, swung himself up on a branch. The girls and I watched breathless. For every bough Philip climbed, Jonah scaled one higher. The loftier their ascent, the thinner and less reliable-looking their footing became. If Philip trusted the wrong piece of wood he’d crash to the ground.
‘Got him!’ he called.
The girls and I heaved a collective sigh of relief as Philip abseiled down the trunk with Jonah in the crook of his arm. But just as Philip’s shoe touched the earth, the kitten launched himself in the air.
‘Block the escape routes!’ Philip yelled. ‘He’s going to run for it!’
The girls bounded to their positions along the left side of the house while I stood on the back deck nursing my abdominal stitches.
Jonah became a pale tornado circling the patch of grass in wider and accelerating curves. Philip made a lunge for him, but the kitten was too fast, deftly side-stepping Philip who plummeted empty-handed to the ground.
‘Look out!’ he called to the girls, brushing dirt off his elbows. ‘He’s coming your way!’
The girls bent their knees and stretched their arms out, creating a human shield as the kitten sprinted toward them. Then, spinning on his hind legs, he veered away from them . . . and disappeared down the side of the house.
The scene was vaguely familiar. The chase, the attempt at blocking, the fancy footwork followed by unexpected escape. I’d tried to stay awake next to Philip through countless Rugby games on television, understanding nothing. That was it! They were playing Rugby. Jonah was worthy of his name.
We peered down the side of the house where no living thing, apart from spiders and air-conditioning repairmen, ventured. There was no sight or sound of Jonah.
Philip whispered to the girls to stay where they were while he ran around to the front to wait at the other end of the canyon. I followed him at a sedate pace to give moral support.
‘Can you see him?’ he called to the girls.
‘No! Can you?’
Silence, except for the wind. Jonah had evaporated like a genie.
Out the front by now, I was beginning to wonder if the kitten had slipped out of our lives forever when a silver bullet shot out from the side of the house into the front garden. Philip dived sideways and, in what seemed slow motion, twisted gracefully through the air. He extended his arms, his hands curving around the missile, lifting it several centimetres.
For an instant, man and furry ball hovered mid-air . . . then time sped up and they collapsed on the soil. Philip landed on his stomach with his arms outstretched around the unharmed kitten. The perfect Rugby tackle.
‘Poor Jonah!’ I cried. But as Philip brushed the blood off his knees and handed me the kitten, it seemed Jonah was unhurt and not at all shaken. He purred ecstatically and stretched a sportsmanlike paw towards Philip.
Inside Cat
The only thing more worrying than holding cats and daughters close is setting them free
Our daughter and our cat still craved freedom. Lydia clearly longed to return to her monastery. Jonah wanted to run away down the street. Both were oblivious to danger. I wasn’t ready to give either of them what they wanted – or not just yet.
I’d hoped Jonah might demonstrate some of the streetwise savvy Cleo had been born with. Cleo had lived near busy roads her entire life and had possessed a second sense about keeping away from traffic. Jonah’s idea of a safe haven was hiding under the wheels of parked cars.