SPRING

With the coming of spring a whole new world opened up for Toby Jug and me in the northeast of England. In this part of the world, springtime brings more than just relief from winter, awakening the earth around us again in ways that more southern European climes enjoy for most of the year. The first greening of the trees and the bursts of vitality from crocuses, snowdrops and then daffodils in the gardens and woods are always welcome. I wanted Toby to enjoy to the full this first spring of his life. This particular springtime was especially anticipated because it would signify not only the passing of a severe winter but hopefully also mark the end of Toby Jug’s life or death traumas. It was a time heralding hope that both he and I could take advantage of sunny days outdoors.

At first I didn’t let him outside alone in the garden because I was afraid something might attack him. There were hawks and crows about, as well as weasels and foxes, and I was very much aware that Toby Jug wasn’t big or strong enough to protect himself, nor was he at this stage sufficiently aware of danger or mobile enough to run away.

I had become accustomed to taking him almost everywhere I went in the cottage. Sometimes I just carried him in my hand or stuck him in the pocket of my wool cardigan with his head peeping out, so he could see what was happening. At other times I would place his jug near to where I was working, whether it was in the kitchen preparing food or at my desk in the study, so that he could keep me in sight. It was most important to him that he was able to see me wherever I was in the cottage – if he couldn’t he would set up a rumpus which was out of all proportion to his size. His wails were no longer so feeble that they could not penetrate walls, even walls as thick as those in my cottage. Therefore, when I was at home I tried not to aggravate him by leaving him alone. It also made me feel guilty whenever he became distressed. I felt totally responsible for him and I liked to have him with me anyway.

He was not as yet physically robust enough to be given the freedom to run around the cottage on his own. There were lots of places that I was sure would attract the attention of the kitten when he was in his actively curious mode. There were cracks in the old skirting board and holes near the water pipes where spiders dwelt and where an unwary miniature kitten might disappear. It would take no end of ingenuity to retrieve him without demolishing part of the cottage. I consequently decided that until he achieved a decent size and weight I would restrict his access to certain parts of the cottage.

With the improvement in the weather now that spring was here I felt that it was warm enough to allow Toby to venture into the garden, but at first I judged it better for safety’s sake to only take him out in his jug. The garden of the cottage was extensive and varied and for Toby Jug it promised to be a cat-wonderland of scents and sights. When he was capable of exploring the garden he would discover a multitude of natural delights which were the products of my time and effort.

When I first bought the cottage in 1964 it was much in need of renovation and the garden was grossly overgrown. Two years later, when Toby Jug came into my life, I had succeeded in clearing the lawn of weeds and the shrubbery had been cut back to manageable proportions. As I reworked each section I concentrated on planting roses and plum trees near to the house. The latter had a special significance for me. On a working visit to Hong Kong some years earlier I had been introduced to the ancient Chinese art of plum-tree painting, which dates back over a thousand years. In keeping with my interest in gardening I bought a famous book on the subject and discovered that plum trees flower with fragrant and fragile blossoms and the trees grow into extraordinary and aesthetically pleasing shapes which are quite unlike other fruit trees. According to Chinese folklore they are said to endow a garden with spiritual blessings for joy and health. I became so enthralled by what I had read about the beauty of these trees that I made up my mind to buy and plant some of them when I acquired a garden of my own. Now my plum trees, although still young, were beginning to assume what promised to be fascinating shapes and their blossoms, true to my expectations, were fragile flowers of sublime beauty.

In addition to plum trees I also planted a small orchard of apple, pear and cherry trees. I had also discovered a greengage tree in a local garden centre which I planted beside the plums. This veritable plethora of fruit trees meant that in early spring there was a display of blossom marvellous to behold. I also made a patio garden near to the back door of the cottage. Here I planted mulberry, blackthorn and some small crab-apple trees. In the centre of this small garden area I planted two dozen roses of various kinds selected for their perfume. This ensured that in both springtime and summer the garden adjacent to the cottage had plenty of colour and on a still evening the air was filled with sweet perfume.

Further into the garden I embarked upon an ambitious tree-planting project. Alder, white hawthorn, maple and old English oak were planted to border a winding gravel path leading up to the back fence where I had erected a summerhouse. The spaces between the trees were given over to lawn and plantations of bulbs of all manner of spring and summer flowerings. Behind the stone-built double garage I dug a vegetable plot, which was bordered by a stone slab patio, complete with a masonry barbecue. Around the entire perimeter of the huge garden and drive I had painstakingly erected a seven-foot wooden fence. My intention was to create a private garden paradise. I imagined that when Toby Jug was eventually able to roam the garden he would have a whale of a time. He was a lucky cat because all of this was his to share and enjoy.

On evenings in late spring I loved to wander through the garden of fruit trees in blossom simply to gaze at their delicate flowers filled with coloured pollen dust and to feel at peace with life and the universe. Listening to the calming sound of their leaves as they stirred in the breeze was, for me, an insight into the splendour of creation. As the evening became night I liked to linger in the garden, especially when the sky was clear.

Later in the year, when Toby Jug was a mature cat, he loved to share my night-time excursions and surprised me by wanting to play games with me. He would disappear and then suddenly reappear from out of the darkness, charging at me, and then crouch in the grass before he reached me, inviting a chase. When I made a mock dash towards him, he would race away to leap up the garden fence and station himself on the top in his lord-of-the-manor pose. It was interesting to see how his cat nature emerged so strongly at nightfall. I was intrigued that he seemed to want me to play with him as if I was also a cat. But this was still in the future because for the present Toby Jug had a lot to learn about the garden and about the feast of wonderful experiences it had in store for him.

Whenever the weather permitted being outdoors at night, I was astounded at the countless stars I could see above me. The sight of this timeless universe always filled me with such wonder that it put my life and Toby Jug’s into a very brief and insignificant perspective. At Owl Cottage, for the first time since childhood, I actually saw some shooting stars. The sight of them was a thrilling spectacle. I remembered to make a wish whenever I saw one.

Together Toby Jug and I could see all of this from the cottage garden, our window on the cosmos. To be here in this cottage garden and to experience all this was like a dream come true for the city boy who hated the enclosed boredom of school and played truant to wander through the woods and along the river banks (and was soundly beaten for it). Now I could indulge a keen delight in the freedom to enjoy nature as I wished. The prospect of sharing these wonders with Toby Jug gave my enjoyment of these simple pleasures a heightened perspective.

The daily happenings in the surroundings of the cottage had a prime quality about them which I stored in my mind. These included images of pipistrelle bats erupting from the eaves of the cottage and winging their dizzy flight-paths across the garden in the softening light of dusk. Or in the autumn twilight, a tawny owl calling from a nearby woodland copse whilst in the garden an adult female hedgehog, followed by two young ones, scoured the lawn, hunting for snails and slugs. I was always amazed at how rapidly hedgehogs could move.

When I bought the cottage I was intrigued by its name, Owl Cottage. It was only when I came to strip away the thick canopy of overgrown ivy and Virginia creeper that choked the stone walls at the back of the cottage that the reason became apparent. On the end walls of each of the three gables there were stone-sculptured owls of Victorian design. One of them was a fat brown owl of benevolent countenance, while the one on the highest gable was a tall thin owl with a look of the hunter. The third owl was the smallest of the three and bore the finely chiselled melancholic expression of the proverbial wise owl. I became very fond of this feature and made certain that the concrete around their bases was in a good state of repair to ensure that they would not be blown down in a storm.

All of this – the old stone cottage, the cottage garden with its trees, flowers and the shrubs – Toby Jug inherited in his role as the house cat. It was his garden as well as mine. Cats love a garden because it reminds them of their natural habitat: a place where they can pretend to be a wild animal again but with the option to lead a domestic life of civilized comfort when they wish.

I was fortunate to have a home where I felt at one with the wild Northumberland landscape. Owl Cottage amply fulfilled most of the conditions I had in mind when I was first searching for a rural property. Firstly, I had to be able to see trees from all of the windows and open doors. I have always loved to be near trees and to sense their living presence. In pagan times it was believed that each tree was governed by a spirit, something I don’t find that hard to believe. When I’m gardening or sitting out in the garden, either in the early morning or late evening, I am always aware of each tree as a living presence. And as in the lyrics of the song from the musical Paint Your Wagon, I find it only natural that I should talk to them.

Another condition I had when I bought the property was that it had to be old and in this respect Owl Cottage suited admirably since it dated from the late eighteenth century. However, there must have been dwellings on the site before that because the road that passed outside the front of the cottage had been built over an aged horse-and-cart track linking the port of Amble to the many rural hamlets inland. There is a tale recounted from local folklore that Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson travelled on horseback along this track from his ship moored at Amble to meet up with his beloved Lady Hamilton at Linden Hall where she stayed as a guest of the Blackett family, who were important landed gentry. It is a romantic notion to think that the heroic admiral rode past my cottage door for his not-so-secret assignations. The local history of the area abounds in such tales, which serve to promote the aura of mystery that, traditionally, characterizes the Northumberland of bygone days.

One of the many selling points of the inside of Owl Cottage was the bathroom. It was an extension built out from the roof with a splendid wide-tiled windowsill spanning the whole width of the wall. Plenty of space here for toiletries and perhaps a houseplant or two, I thought when first viewing the property. Although I didn’t know it at the time, plenty of space too for a certain cat to lounge in comfort. I also guessed that I would have a panoramic view of the sky when lying in the bathtub. But the best was yet to come. When I opened the window there was a breathtaking view of the Coquet Valley stretched out below. Over the tops of the huge trees, that would hide the river in summer, I was able to see far beyond to the hazy outline of the Cheviot Hills.

Further exploration of the cottage revealed a cramped attic bedroom which had an oval window facing east from which on a clear day I could just make out the blue outline of the North Sea about ten miles away. To my city-weary soul it was a sheer delight to consider the prospect of living in a place of such outstanding natural beauty. I set about buying it straightaway. When the deeds of the cottage arrived I was intrigued to read that it was forbidden to butcher a beast on the premises and that using the grounds for duelling would not be tolerated. Interestingly, though, I had noticed that some of the stones of the outside walls of the cottage were deeply scored as if they had been used to sharpen swords. Yet another romantic notion from the past!

Once it was mine, everything I discovered about the cottage enchanted me even though it required a lot of attention and much hard work and money to refurbish. Everything I did to improve it was a labour of love. The mysterious circumstance in which Toby Jug came into my life, I decided, was a good omen. It marked the end of the early years of professional striving and the solitude that usually goes with living in rented city flats. It also gave me a pet to care for and love. In return Toby Jug loved me with all the devotion of his being and filled an emotionally sterile gap in my life. An act of fate had brought us together and his struggle for survival helped me to evaluate what was of most importance in my own life.

The college where I worked was housed in a medieval castle owned by the Duke of Northumberland. The castle was situated in the town of Alnwick, often described as the Windsor of the North, whose feudal walls were surrounded by trees and fields that extended all the way to the farmsteads around my cottage. The quintessential rural landscape in which I found myself living was both a balm to my jaded spirit and a boost to my freshly awakened senses. It made for an improved and healthier quality of life. Even the air was sweet and full of the fresh aroma of flowers and woodland herbs. When the wind blew easterly the tang of the sea could be scented in the garden. Toby Jug’s first experience of the outdoors reawakened me to the sights and scents of the natural surroundings as I witnessed his rapturous response to the garden.

 

When I first took Toby Jug out into the garden, I rested his jug on a flat stone on the wall fronting the rose garden and sat close by to watch his reactions. The effect upon him was beyond my expectation and showed something of the tough personality he possessed. Instead of cowering in the bottom of his jug, as I anticipated, he stood on his hind legs with forepaws pressed against the side of his jug and gaped at what was for him a whole new world. His small eyes bulged with excitement, his tiny head pivoted all around trying to encompass these new sights and his firm little tail wagged feverishly with the inevitable result that he suddenly fell and rolled over on his cotton-wool bed. Scrambling up on all fours he began to dash around his jug, frequently bumping his head in his eagerness to see everything. Finally realizing that I was at hand, he rushed to the side of the jug where he could catch my attention and whined piteously. He was obviously desperate to be let out. So despite my fears, I lifted him out of his jug and plonked him on the grass.

The experience momentarily paralysed him with excitement as he became aware of the smells of the garden at first hand. With eyes half-closed and nostrils quivering he looked to be in a state of pure ecstasy. Then, as he realized the immensity of space around and above him, his body began to tremble and shake all over. This situation lasted for several minutes before, at last, summoning up all his courage, he moved forward with exaggerated caution and deliberation. Moving only a few steps at a time and then halting to sniff the air, he proceeded as if he was stalking some huge and dangerous prey. After a while his movements ceased altogether and he lay down totally exhausted by his efforts. I guessed that the experience was proving too much for him. Tenderly scooping up the tired kitten, I laid him back in his jug whereupon he curled himself around as cats do and fell fast asleep. Toby Jug had made his first venture into the great wide world. He was no doubt now dreaming about his adventures, judging from the way his sleeping body gave occasional tremors, punctuated by squeaks, as if he was reliving the whole episode over and over again.

I decided to give him time to digest his encounter with the garden. There was a problem in that, for his own safety, I couldn’t leave him out of his jug unless I could remain present. However, if I left him in the jug for security then he would not be able to see things clearly because of the distortion caused by the curvature of the glass and this would only increase his distress. Eventually, I remembered an old birdcage in the garage, left behind by the previous occupants of the cottage. I wondered if this might be the answer. With some difficulty I retrieved it from where it hung beneath a dusty beam. After cleaning it out I tried him inside. It seemed to solve the problem admirably, at least for the time-being. Far from objecting to this indignity, Toby Jug seemed very much at home in his cage and explored it with great curiosity.

The next day was sunny and mild so I thought I would try him in the cage on an upstairs window sill with the window open. From this position he was able to see the entire garden. He became very excited and agitated by the small songbirds whizzing between the trees. After a few days I felt confident that he could cope with the garden at first hand and with his usual affable approach to life he really began to enjoy the experience safe within the confines of the cage, which I moved around periodically on the patio so that he could have a different view of his world. This was also a secure way of familiarizing him with the garden in preparation for the time when he could wander at will.

Meanwhile, I was free to do some minor gardening jobs. As long as Toby could see me he was content but if he lost sight of me he would panic and cry out until we were reunited. Needless to say, on many occasions I got very little gardening done.

Fresh, sunny, spring days and chilly nights eventually gave way to mostly wet summer days and not so chilly nights. Toby Jug grew in size and gained in health. At long last I was able to dispense not only with his protective cage but also with the jug. It was clear that Toby would always be small in comparison with other cats but, considering what he was like when I rescued him, the change was gargantuan.

There remained, however, the problem of safety. How freely was I prepared to allow Toby to wander now that he had graduated from the protective environments of both the jug and the birdcage? I concluded that there would have to be limits imposed until he was mature enough to care for himself outdoors. The solution lay in buying him a harness.

One day I took Toby Jug with me to a local pet shop. The shopkeeper offered various harnesses for cats and rabbits which were far too large for Toby’s small frame. The man, in his late sixties, was anxious to please and seemed both challenged and amused by the problem of getting a harness to fit Toby Jug. After desperately searching his mind, with a great deal of head-scratching, he recalled having specially adapted a fabric harness for his daughter’s guinea pig which she had always insisted on taking with her when they went caravanning in the summer holidays. This sounded more hopeful. The only problem with this solution was that his daughter was now in her twenties and the guinea pig long gone. He was hopeful that she might have kept the harness for sentimental reasons because she had been inconsolable when her guinea pig had died and she was an inveterate hoarder. He promised to check with his wife and daughter that night and made a note to remind himself. I thanked him and promised to call the next day.

In fact, several days passed before I had time to call at the shop again although I wasn’t really expecting anything to come of it. Meanwhile, Toby had to be confined to barracks. When I called again I took Toby Jug with me and the shopkeeper’s eyes lit up when he saw us. He gleefully produced a small, brown, worn harness which he held aloft in triumph. It would be a perfect fit for the little cat he said, grinning from ear to ear, and so it proved. He was very pleased to have solved the problem and refused to accept any payment. I was delighted with the harness and Toby seemed very comfortable wearing it. Thanking him profusely I nonetheless bought a week’s supply of cat food from the shopkeeper which I anticipated Toby Jug might eat someday when he grew out of his present addiction to canned baby food. I suppose I was spoiling him rotten but then I thought he deserved it and it pleased me to do so.

When I got home I again tried the harness on Toby Jug and it fitted perfectly, just as it had done in the shop, although Toby wasn’t too sure about wearing it now that the novelty had worn off. Next, I measured out a length of twine which allowed Toby to range freely on his own. Attaching this to his harness and securing the other end to the leg of an iron garden chair, I set him free. He didn’t move much at first and kept looking up at me to see what was required of him but eventually his attention was taken by some flying insects and he became engrossed. Now I could happily leave him for a while and get on with my jobs. This arrangement proved to be satisfactory as long as I remembered from time to time to change the place where I had tethered him.

For the most part Toby Jug was content to lie in the shade of a bush and watch the world of the garden go by, especially birds and butterflies. Occasionally, he would rouse himself to pounce on a fly which he then ate, quite a change from baby food. He seemed to appreciate the sights, sounds and the mysterious scents around him. I think it all unnerved him at times and he needed space to adapt. He always acted relieved when I untethered him and brought him back inside the cottage where he would start playing about more confidently in his familiar surroundings. Toby Jug was at heart a lap cat and at this stage content to be a house cat – a ‘homebird’ as the saying goes.

I recall one day buying some liquorice from the village shop and noting that Mrs Brown gave it to me in a white paper bag reminiscent of those used in the old-fashioned sweet shops of my schooldays. I was working at my desk and it so happened that just as I finished the last bit of liquorice Toby, who was then about twelve weeks old, was trying to clamber up my sweater. On a sudden impulse, more for amusement than anything else, I popped him into the sweet bag. Far from struggling to get out, he snuggled down and rested quite happily, with the paper bag wrapped around him and his diminutive, grizzled face peeping out of the top of the packet.

My enduring images of him at that early stage of his life are best described by words such as tiny, little, small, diminutive and so on. But for all that he had a strong body and a personality brimming with energy and curiosity as well as a huge capacity for affection. In addition, he had developed a deep-rooted attachment to me. To Toby Jug I was family and to me he was more than a cat. To me animals have unique personalities in the same way as people do. I have known budgerigars, cats, dogs and horses, each with their very own characteristics and personal ways of behaving which rendered them special, just like people. The cats in my life have all played an important part, helping me to understand the phenomena of animal behaviour and to realize that each of them is entitled to a life of their own. At a dinner party one evening I remember how I astonished a senior medical research scientist by asking him if he had ever considered, with regard to the cats and dogs he used in his vivisection experiments, that their lives were as important to them as his own life was to him.

 

My life with Toby Jug began to follow a routine that started at breakfast time, which he greeted with tremendous enthusiasm. It was the start of a new day and a fresh opportunity for him to savour life to the full. Apart from holidays and most weekends, breakfast tended to be a rushed affair because I usually needed to leave for work at about 7.30 a.m. Once we were downstairs Toby Jug insisted on being served immediately. He was always ravenous and I largely fed him on the best quality tinned cat food unless there were some roast beef or chicken leftovers from my meal the night before. Then, as he was eating, I would open the upper half of the back door so that he could answer the call of nature whilst I washed, shaved and got myself ready. After which, weather permitting, I would join Toby in the garden.

Mug of tea in hand we would gravitate towards the top end of the lawn. The view over fields and woodland towards the distant Cheviot Hills was balm to my mind before the demands of work. Toby, like most cats, was a fastidious washer and the morning ritual involved him vigorously licking and preening himself as he sat at my feet – it was a definite policy of his to be as close as possible to me whenever opportunity afforded – whilst I drank my tea and gazed at the view. Soon I would have to leave him and I would catch a glimpse of him in my rear-view mirror as I drove off, watching my departure from his vantage point at the top of the old apple tree by the gates. I hated leaving him and I knew that he missed me enormously but I could not take him into college and so he had to amuse himself all day until I arrived home in the evening, when he would be waiting with the warmest welcome a man could wish for. During the day when I was at work I always left one of the shed doors ajar so that he could make himself comfortable inside where there was an old clothes basket with a blanket inside and a dish of fresh water.

Breakfast on Saturday mornings was the best of the week. There were grilled venison sausages and lambs’ kidneys bought from a country butcher in Rothbury and free-range eggs from a local man who boasted ‘Fresh Eggs From Happy Hens’. I would also have wild mushrooms, when they were available, that I collected, accompanied by Toby, from the fields by the river where the cattle grazed and, from the nearby farm, slices of home-cured bacon dripping with flavour. Toby Jug would share some of the morning banquet with me, including some sausage and fried egg which I cut up for him, but not the bacon which he preferred to deal with by himself. When he had finished, he would lick his plate clean, jump down from the table, have a drink from his water bowl then go and wash himself in front of the fire, after which he catnapped until I called him to go out.

He loved sitting in the car whilst I drove around the town collecting the shopping for the week ahead. If, for some good reason I had to leave home without him on a Saturday, he would be inconsolable and truly ‘miffed’ with me when I returned. This was because I belonged to him on Saturdays and he would do all in his power to insist on this priority. I must say that on the few occasions that I had to leave him I missed him too since I liked to think that the weekend was a time when both of us would enjoy being together.

Whenever I was able I would take him with me in the car on weekdays when my work entailed visiting schools to supervise students or when I was delivering cheques to landladies where students were billeted on special practice. On these occasions I would prepare a picnic for us to share and we had some memorable times picnicking in wild and picturesque rural settings of the Scottish Border towns from Duns to Lauder to Selkirk and beyond.

On one occasion I had parked alongside a row of old trees by a river bank. The car door was open for us to breathe the sweet clean air. Toby set off on a little prowl around. Generally, I still kept Toby on a lead when we went out on our jaunts, but I thought that he wouldn’t venture far. Suddenly I heard sounds of a skirmish and spied a red squirrel’s bushy tail in full flight, with Toby Jug in hot pursuit. The squirrel raced up a tall Scots pine and from a high branch set about scolding not only Toby but me as well. I retrieved my cat, just as he was contemplating a climb up the tree when I got the distinct impression that, far from having murderous intentions, he simply wanted to play as cats do when they chase each other backwards and forwards. However, I doubt whether the squirrel shared this view as it remained safely in the treetops until we resumed our journey.

Toby Jug’s naivety was quite ingenuous. I thought that eventually he would mature into a killer cat, although yet again I had my doubts; he had probably become imprinted with too many human sentiments from living so closely with me and not having contact with his mother long enough to learn cat ways and cat lore.

On one warm spring morning in late May, Toby Jug and I were walking along a hillside path near the rural hamlet of Kirknewton when I stopped to gaze at some horses grazing in the valley below. After a while we continued with our walk. Toby Jug suddenly started pulling hard on his lead. In fact, he pulled so hard that he hurt his throat and we had to stop whilst he endured a fit of coughing. Looking around I saw what had excited his attention. Further along the path there was a grassy green meadow and it was full of rabbits feeding. ‘Well,’ I thought to myself, ‘let him have some fun. He’ll soon find out how fast rabbits can run.’

I slipped his head loose and off he went in a rapid stalking stealthy crawl with much tail swishing and wriggling of his behind. Of course, the rabbits had already spotted him and they fled to their respective burrows long before he got anywhere near them. However, it was then that I realized the mistake I’d made in letting him go because, far from giving up the chase, Toby Jug kept on going and disappeared down one of the rabbit holes. I raced over to the spot where he’d vanished and, crouching down as low as I could get to the rabbit hole, I began urgently calling him. To no avail.

Nothing stirred inside the burrow as far as I could tell and I was beginning to feel increasingly alarmed. What if the rabbits ganged up on him? Rabbits could kick and bite, as I knew from experience as a child who had kept one. I wasn’t aware of just how long I spent with my face pressed to that sandy tunnel desperately calling his name when I suddenly became aware of voices above and behind me. I must have presented a strange if not ridiculous sight: a grown man with his head down a rabbit burrow, shouting ‘Toby Jug!’ Easing myself back to my knees I turned around with what must have been a shame-faced grimace and started lamely to explain what had happened when I stopped in jaw-dropping amazement. What I saw was a man standing staring down at me with a wide smirk on his face but what really astonished me was the sight of a second person. She was bending down stroking and talking to none other than his highness Toby Jug. I staggered to my feet and realized that Toby had obviously come out of another burrow entrance and had been watching me behind my back. He would have been puzzled at the sight of me lying fully stretched out with my head jammed up against the rabbit hole shouting his name. Both the man and the woman laughed heartily when I told them what had happened and continued on their way. Meanwhile I clipped Toby Jug’s lead back on and decided that we’d had enough adventure for one day. We returned to the car and drove home with the Toby perched on my shoulder, purring loudly in my ear. Too late, I realized that I was wearing my brand new Harris tweed jacket.

Later that evening, after we had dined, I retired to the conservatory and was soon joined by Toby. I stroked and fondled him even though he had given me such a traumatic time during the afternoon. As far as he was concerned he had merely been having a jolly frolic. Nothing wrong with that was there? And it was then that I recalled my distress at several ‘fun’ incidents which had almost killed him in the past months. Banishing such thoughts from my mind as inappropriate in this restful setting, I was helped by the glowing sight of the planet Venus rising resplendent above the treetops, a golden star against the inky-black night sky. I took this to be a good omen for the future. Toby Jug was by now fast asleep and emitting faint snores. As I listened to him I wondered what new excitement this exceptional little cat would bring into my life. Tomorrow would no doubt herald yet more surprises.

 

I think that animals tend to be much more accepting of human beings than the other way around. I often found that cats took the initiative in my relationships with them. But it was a two-way process of communication. Whilst I sought to domesticate my cats, they made me more aware of the natural world by sharing their instincts and demonstrating their skills to me. And how fascinating they were. I totally reject the idea of the ‘dumb animal’ because I have never found it applied to any of the animals I have kept as pets. I’ve always found my pet cats to be graced by an in-born wisdom which perhaps many civilized human beings have lost. This was especially so with Toby Jug.

Toby Jug was, in a lot of ways, different from the many other cats I have known. He was more like a child to me because, in a sense, I had reared him and he knew no parent but me. I’m sure that some people would dismiss my feelings about Toby Jug as mawkish rubbish but I am equally certain that other people would echo the same sentiments about their own pets in spite of accusations of mad ‘anthropomorphism’ – the name given to attributing human behaviour to animals. Whilst all the animals I have known were special to me, Toby Jug assumed a significance in my life which was out of all proportion to the fact that he was a cat.

I don’t think there is any doubt that, for many people, love, the strongest emotion of all, enters the equation when an animal becomes a pet. Sceptics would argue, though, that this love is only one-sided – without regular feeding, all of an animal’s so-called affection would soon cease. I’m not so sure that this is true. In my experience animals need to be loved as well as fed, just as people do. I have known cats, dogs and horses who wanted to be stroked and petted, quite apart from their need for food. This was most certainly the case with Toby Jug who showed feelings of loving attachment for me beyond anything that I had experienced before with any other pet animal and it warmed my heart to feel it.

During my childhood there were always cats about the house, sitting on walls in the backstreets and in the gardens of the neighbours’ houses and the backyards near my home. I recall the amusement when a cat got into our classroom at the local elementary school and how I was the one who managed to catch it and set it free outside again. I remember, too, the time that my grandmother’s cat had two black kittens and my outrage and horror when my father drowned them in a pail of water because nobody wanted them and we were too poor to keep them ourselves. Most striking of all are my memories of my first visit to the zoo where I had to be dragged away from the tigers’ compound. My wonder at those huge, beautifully marked cats knew no bounds. In my spare time I loved to read stories and look at pictures of the jungle cats of Africa and India. The favourite story of my boyhood was Rudyard Kipling’s Jungle Book in which the Tiger, Shere Kahn, was my hero.

I also remember a striped tabby we had during the Second World War, when my father was away at sea. I found him as an abandoned kitten wandering the streets totally lost. My mother, with a family of three children to feed and only a pittance from the Admiralty to live on, reluctantly allowed me to keep it. I called the kitten Tiger. He was silver-grey with vivid dark stripes and he ate anything that was left-over from the family meals. He especially loved porridge. Tiger was always the first to run into the Anderson Air Raid Shelter with the family when the warning siren sounded to alert us to the German bombers which were mounting a blitz against the armament factories and the shipyards along the River Tyne. He survived the war but sadly was later run over by a lorry.

I have an almost instinctive attraction to cats. Whenever I see one I have to go and speak to it. For the most part cats come towards me and allow me to stroke them. I love to watch the graceful way that they move. To me, the most attractive dancers and actors have the skill of moving like a cat, that flowing smoothness which is a joy to watch. Teachers of yoga advise members of their classes to learn to stretch like a cat and to practise breathing exercises by moving the stomach muscles rather than the chest in just the same way cats do when they are totally relaxed. When I first saw Sean Connery as Special Agent 007 in the James Bond films I was captivated, as were audiences worldwide, by the speed and grace with which he moved; he walked with the stealth of a big cat.

It was because of these feelings that I was prepared on a cold winter’s night to venture out in a snowstorm to rescue an injured cat. The reward for all my efforts was more than I could ever have expected. It was the bonus of turning a tragedy into a triumph: I found a dying kitten who grew into a wonderful pet called Toby Jug.