During his trial weeks as an outdoor cat, Jonah proved a nuisance to others and a danger to himself. He could scramble up anything, from trees to lampposts, but coming down he always got into trouble.
One day, a neighbour tapped on the door to report our cat was stuck up on his roof. He kindly offered the girls a ladder so they could reclaim him.
Another time a different neighbour brought him home trembling in her arms after he’d tried to take on her two black tom cats. I’d seen those two monsters patrolling the street. The size of small panthers, they were cat mafia. She told us the pair of them had cornered Jonah before she’d rescued him. He was, she said, lucky to have escaped with both eyes intact.
Jonah’s attempts at bird stalking were tragic. The moment he saw a pigeon he’d freeze and crouch close to the ground. Homing in on his victim he shadowed every little waddle and peck until he almost merged with his prey.
His camouflage colouring gave Jonah potential to terrorise the bird world – until he curled his lips back and emitted a loud ‘Heh! Heh!’ giving the pigeon time to rearrange its feathers and deliver some reprimanding ‘tut-tuts’ before flapping up on to the fence.
As for the usual cat business of gliding effortlessly along fence tops, it was beyond Jonah. Birds laughed at him whenever he tried it. With the front and back feet of one side of his body limping along the top of the palings, and the other two feet trailing behind on the crossbeam below, he hobbled along looking like a two-legged mutant.
Jonah’s nerves were made of crystal. He jumped and cowered at the slightest noise. The slam of a rubbish bin lid sent him scuttling for cover.
The sound of dogs barking, on the other hand, was a battle cry. No matter how big or brutal-looking the dog was, Jonah would charge toward it, tail flying, confident he’d crush the thing with a flash of his eyes.
He had no idea how to fight, adhering to courtly ideals of warfare. Much yowling and posturing was involved but he always kept his claws sheathed. To him, battles were largely psychological, staring the enemy down until they realised how unworthy they were and skulked away.
We were constantly on Jonah safaris, running down the street past the WANTED signs for missing cats, calling his name or rummaging uninvited through neighbours’ gardens. Occasionally, he’d allow us catch him without much fuss but most of the time he’d refuse to return to the loving arms of his family until we’d all had a good sprint around the street for half an hour or so.
Despite his escapist ways, he was hopelessly dependent. He always stood in the window waiting for us to come home, and was first at the door to greet Philip and the girls. When we put him in a cattery for a weekend while we checked out Rob and Chantelle’s wedding venue, he was miserable. One of the cattery workers, Vivienne, had taken a shine to Jonah. She said she’d played with him for an hour each day, and he made her laugh. She was soft-spoken and gentle. I liked her straight away. A flicker of concern crossed her face when she mentioned Jonah had been very needy and thrown up twice. She said catteries mightn’t suit him. If we went away again, she’d be more than happy to cat sit him at our place.
I returned to the pet shop and asked Nathan for advice about our would-be runaway. He sold me a red cat harness with a bell and lead attached. Cats love them, he said. Imagining how smart the red would look against Jonah’s colouring, I bought the optional brass disc and had it etched with his name and phone number.
Jonah detested his harness to begin with. He considered doggy-style walks beneath his dignity. It took him months to understand the harness was offering him a form of freedom.
Soon after the name tag was attached, he managed to wriggle Houdini-like out of the red straps, forcing Philip to play Rugby again. One morning when I left Jonah in his harness in the back garden for a few minutes, he managed to entangle himself almost to the point of crucifixion on the olive tree stakes.
The ongoing struggles with our cat were nerve jangling. A peaceful diversion was required. I went to the wool shop and purchased some maroon yarn. When Lydia saw me clicking needles in front of Deal or No Deal she was delighted, acting as if my knitting her a maroon scarf symbolised acceptance of her religious ambitions. I was trying. Even though I had an open door approach to spirituality, I couldn’t help worrying about how much she’d be giving up if she shut herself away as a nun in Sri Lanka. There was enough wool left over to make the world’s ugliest beanie, which I duly did.
Tying both my daughter and cat up in red threads, I hoped to stop them both ruining their lives. Nonetheless, I was happy to support Lydia in her efforts to help Jonah become an outdoor cat.
Until Geoffrey turned up.
Our friend Geoffrey’s an expert on almost everything. If you want to know how to make wine out of shoe leather, or ice cream from rain water, he’s your man.
When he heard we had a new kitten, he was quick to drop over.
‘Jonah,’ he said, casting an appraising eye over our kitten. ‘Isn’t that an unlucky name?’
‘What do you mean?’ Lydia asked.
‘You know, the old superstition,’ Geoffrey answered. ‘Jonah was the sailors’ demon.’
I assured him we weren’t taking Jonah on a sea voyage in the near future.
‘He’ll have to be an indoor cat,’ said Geoffrey. ‘The average lifespan of an inner-city cat is eighteen months. If you let him outside he’ll get run over, poisoned, mauled by dogs or stolen.’
Our cream and chocolate kitten was too mesmerised by a housefly circling his head to notice the cloud of gloom hovering over Geoffrey.
‘It’s even worse for males,’ Geoffrey added, sinking his teeth into a slice of banana cake. ‘They’re territorial. They get into fights. If they don’t get killed the vets’ bills are horrendous. And they can catch AIDS off other cats.’
‘Cats get AIDS?’ Philip asked. ‘You’re joking!’
‘I certainly am not. They have their own form of it, different from human AIDS. It’s endemic among city cats.’
Lydia’s mouth dropped. It was difficult to argue with Geoff’s prognosis.
Jonah’s head spun faster and faster as he kept pace with the fly. He was going cross-eyed. Listing slightly, he was liable to topple over with dizziness. But a fly was a dragon with wings as far as Jonah was concerned. Self-appointed World’s Number One Domestic Dragon Slayer, he was immune to minor irritations like giddiness.
‘Shame you didn’t get a female,’ Geoffrey sighed, licking the crumbs off his fingers. ‘They’re easier to manage.’
‘That’s a bit sexist,’ said Lydia.
‘True though,’ said Geoffrey, sounding unattractively smug.
Jonah launched into the air and snapped the fly between his teeth at least a metre above the ground. The manoeuvre was swift and entirely elegant. Who wouldn’t want to share their home with such a magnificent creature? I could only think Geoffrey was envious.
‘I’m just giving you the facts,’ he added, draining his second cup of coffee.
‘You live close to town and your cat’s ancient, isn’t it?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but she’s female and she hates going outside. When I open the door she refuses to go out. And she’s the size of a tiger, pretty much.’
Jonah’s fur glistened in the sunlight as he tried to prod the fly back to life. It lay on its back wiggling its legs half-heartedly in the air, reminding me of a yoga pose I’m not particularly fond of.
‘So we’ll have to keep Jonah inside all the time if he’s to have any chance of reaching the age of two?’ I asked.
‘It’s illegal to let him out at night anyway,’ Geoffrey replied, glancing at the time on his phone. ‘Cats destroy wildlife. And kill possums.’