When he returned on Thursday, the smell was worse. I asked again if he noticed anything. Peter’s denial was even more vehement. He swore he couldn’t smell A Single Thing . . . so there had to be a pong!
After he’d gone, I closed my eyes and searched the room. It’s surprising how effective nasal navigation can be once your eyes are shut. The smell was definitely stronger near the window, near the curtain . . . no, in fact on the curtain! When I opened my eyes, the top part of the curtain hung in innocently pristine folds. Clambering down on my knees, I lifted the fabric that touched the floor. The pong became so aggressive, I recoiled. Holding the curtain as far away as possible, I inspected a large incriminating yellow stain. It smelt like something the devil might choose as room spray.
Inspecting the shape of the stain, it reminded me of something – the streaks on the laundry wall! When I’d asked the painters to give the stains a second coat and the marks never went away, I’d assumed they’d forgotten to do the job. They were such amiable blokes I hadn’t wanted to nag. It hadn’t occurred to me that maybe they had blotted out the old stains, and a malevolent force had replaced them with new ones.
The stains weren’t modern art, but something I’d thought no civilised cat would stoop to.
The curtains were sent to the cleaners and hung up again. The stains reappeared. The curtains went back to the cleaners and Jonah was officially banned from the workout room, which he found hurtful because he loved rolling around on the mat for tummy rubs and doing yoga stretches in front of Peter twice a week.
Our pet exacted revenge. He targeted the areas that would cause maximum stress – Lydia’s bed, Katharine’s shelf of beloved books, her violin and under my desk. And then, horror of horrors – the portable cot!
The girls and I became like cats, crawling the house sniffing corners for evidence. Katharine turned out to have a particularly acute sense of smell. We bought an ultra violet light, hospital-strength disinfectant and a bewildering array of biodegradable cleaners.
We also bought special cleaning fluid from the vet’s. Its scent was sweet, almost as nauseating as the one it was designed to neutralise. My heart sank when I noticed it was available in jumbo size. I wondered who needed to buy it in such bulk. Did they have a thousand cats? Or was their problem ongoing and . . . unsolvable?
‘Spraying,’ Vivienne announced when I called her about Jonah’s new problem.
‘Cleo never did it,’ I said. ‘Well, only once.’
‘Yes but she was female. Spraying is what male cats do. It’s why people prefer female cats, and why Jonah was probably the last of his litter to be left in the pet shop.’
‘The shop assistant said it was conjunctivitis,’ I reminded her.
‘As I said before, it’s more than likely someone bought him when he was little, couldn’t handle his behaviour and returned him to the shop,’ Vivienne reminded me. ‘He’s probably inbred as well. Have you heard of puppy farms?’
‘You mean when backyard breeders raise dogs in slum conditions and keep the females pregnant all the time?’ I asked.
‘Yes; the same thing happens with kittens. They’re bred indiscriminately, sometimes siblings joined with each other, and sold on to pet shops. That’ll be one of the reasons your pet shop didn’t sell Jonah with papers.’
A sprayer and inbred? Vivienne’s words were harsh, but I trusted her. She was devoted to cats as a species and understood them at levels I couldn’t fathom.
‘Will he grow out of it?’ I asked.
‘Not necessarily,’ she replied.
My heart sank. I asked why he’d started doing it now.
‘I think several things have triggered it,’ Vivienne replied. ‘Jonah’s world’s been turned upside down. From what you’ve said, he’s jealous of the new baby and he’s missing Philip. It’s quite possible he’s feeling overwhelmed by the responsibility of becoming the household’s Alpha Male.’
Alpha Male? What responsibility does an Alpha Male have these days apart from lying around waiting to be fed?
Vivienne emailed a page and a half of advice, with information about the three main causes of inappropriate spraying. They were: 1. Medical reasons; 2. Litter-tray related; 3. Anxiety /stress. While Vivienne was pretty sure Jonah’s problem was due to this, she thought it would be worth a vet’s check to be sure there was nothing physically wrong with him. The litter tray had to be kept impeccably clean and well away from his food bowls. Whatever the cause, she said, scolding and punishing wasn’t going to work.
The vet’s window was filled with photos of missing cats. The receptionist said they were usually found run over and killed. For all our doubts and failures, our struggle to keep Jonah indoors was vindicated.
Jonah stood regally on the vet’s table, tail aloft and awaiting adulation. King of the World, the vet called him, which he rather liked – until she started prodding and probing. Jonah rolled his lips back and emitted a loud hiss. He then crumpled like a hopeless sissy, moaning and howling so loudly I felt ashamed.
The vet took him ‘next door’ to conduct further tests. She returned with a somewhat deflated version of the cat we knew and loved. Unable to find anything wrong with his insides, she repeated Vivienne’s advice and sold us a magic spray bottle. When plugged into an electric socket it emitted calming pheromones that remind cats how safe and happy they felt when they were kittens. Almost all her feline patients had responded to it, she said.
Hopeful that our troubles might be over, I hurried home. After plugging the bottle into an electric socket in a corner where Jonah had performed several misdemeanours I called the girls downstairs to admire the new miracle cure. We watched mortified as he backed up against the electric plug and gave the vet’s bottle a thorough showering.
The girls and I did everything Vivienne, the internet and the vet suggested – from the orthodox to the wacky. We bought (even) more toys, gave Jonah Rescue Remedy, placed crystals under his cushion and took him for evening outings on his lead down the street. Nothing worked. We tried a different vet, and then another. The third vet recommended medication. Cat Prozac. No way. I drew the line at putting Jonah on drugs.
It was difficult not to take his behaviour personally, especially the day I discovered he’d desecrated Dad’s piano. Tears welling, I cleaned what I could and trussed the family heirloom in layers of cling wrap.
I hesitated before inviting anyone over the front doorstep. Yet most of the time Jonah was charming and lovable as ever. Sometimes I felt like one of those wives who endures abuse from her handsome husband, knowing that after he’s given her a black eye he’s going to dazzle her with charm and chocolates the next day.
Lydia found the phone number of a cat psychic in Queensland. Seeing I was paying for it, I didn’t feel too guilty lifting the receiver in my study to listen in. The cat psychic’s tone was rustic and cheerful. I imagined her in a condo by the sea tuning into feline frequencies.
‘Jonah’s talking to me now,’ she said down the line. ‘Oh my heavens! I’ve never heard so much complaining! Nothing’s good enough for this one. Your cat’s too big for his boots. You need to treat him less like a king and more like a cat.’
After we’d hung up, the girls and I agreed the psychic was talking sense. At bedtime Jonah was demoted to a leopard-skin cushion in the laundry. He accepted the indignity of being shut away. In fact, he had an active night life barrelling through his outdoor run to exchange insults with possums.