Angela Farmer
Cats have an uncanny way of climbing into my awareness and even my soul. They are masters of long-distance communication and body language. If I let myself begin to feel into one of them, a whole relationship starts to build—a communication that goes way beyond words.
In my early teaching days in London, I was asked to shelter a tabby cat after she had been spayed. A friend who made it her mission to find stray cats and get them neutered said that this cat was not wild but had been abandoned. Perhaps her owner had died. I agreed to take her, but only for a few weeks, as I was to leave for America on a teaching tour. Within days, Mimi, as I had named her, worked her way into me—there was no question of her leaving, and my flatmate was willing to care for her during my absence.
Mimi’s presence filled the small apartment, and if I was out teaching on the other side of town, I might suddenly sense her presence and feel compelled to return as soon as possible after stopping at the market for her favorite fish! There she was waiting to greet me, purring and snuggling into my arms like a baby.
Mimi slept at the bottom of my bed, but when it was time for me to be up, there she was planted on my chest and purring loudly!
If I was about to leave on a teaching tour and pulled out my suitcase, Mimi plonked herself on top of it with her back to me and sat there, quiet but defiant in her disapproval. Did she think that perhaps I would decide not to leave after all? There is a part of a cat we shall never fully know!
It was always clear here in this quiet valley of olive trees on the Greek island of Lesvos that my husband, Victor, was not having any cat inside for fear of fleas and damage to his precious antique carpets. I began feeding a shy gray one who appeared on the property, and that is how it all started.
Word gets around in “cat world,” and now fifteen years later up to forty cats turn up at mealtime in the summer, and even more appear in the winter when tourists have gone and restaurants close. Breakfast is dry “breckies” that I scatter in front of the house. Dinner is tinned meat mixed with dry food that I serve all along the stone wall in front of our olive grove. At first, as I head from the shed with my orange bucket and spoon, it seems like total chaos—a mass of fluff leaping, running, rolling on their backs in the sandy driveway or screaming and snarling as the hierarchy sorts itself out. Then, suddenly, peace as a multicolored “wool carpet” covers the long wall, every head down and munching!
I never cease to be amazed at the variety of shapes, sizes, and arrangements of colors: the totally black ones, the pure-white fluffy one with two different-colored eyes, the affectionate marmalade-and-white “lover boy,” and so many other cat variations of color, size, and personality. Each one is unique.
A sturdy, white female with a powerful presence who belonged to the neighboring farmer chose to become part of our then “little tribe” and became known as Mama. She was beautiful, proud, and intelligent. Most of all she was very loving, and she adored being held. It seemed as though she created an atmosphere of love around her and was definitely the matriarch. The other cats respected her, and young ones often stayed close for her warmth and comfort. Mama had four or five litters during her lifetime with us and always produced handsome offspring. As happens in the feral cat world, some survived and some didn’t. We now have at least two of her grandchildren.
In her old age, Mama had cancer and spent a few days at the animal-doctor’s clinic in Mytilini on the other side of the island. Mercini, the vet, and her partner were so touched by Mama’s presence that they refused money for treatment, saying she was “bringing light and love” to their home.
A couple of years later, the cancer was clearly eating into Mama, and a wound in her neck looked raw and dangerous. I took her again to the clinic. Life for a sick cat living outside was tough, especially in the winter. I was very sad and wanted to give her comfort, love, and warmth at the end of her life, but I knew she would get that with Mercini. There in Mytilini, Mama had her own little basket-bed between a parrot and a hamster in a sheltered area behind the main clinic and was free to roam the neighboring backyards. One time as I was walking through the building to visit Mama, I met Mercini’s partner and expressed my gratitude for their care and love. “Oh, no,” he said. “We are the fortunate ones. She is part of our family.”
We stare into each other with no words, and I feel we have done this for lifetimes.
As she became progressively worse and was surely in pain, Mama stayed mostly inside the reception area, which was stocked with all kinds of animal foods, collars and leads for dogs, and toys and medications. It was also home to a few seriously injured animals whom Mercini had adopted. One tiny dog ran around on a support with two wheels, having lost its back legs in a shooting incident.
Mama sat next to the cash register, and apparently many people looked in horror at the cancer wound in her neck. But Mama simply oozed love. Mercini told me that after a while those same people came with little gifts for her! “She is teaching people how to be human,” she said.
A few weeks later, Mercini called to say that it was time now for Mama to go, as it seemed the cancer had spread to her brain—she was sleeping on a cactus plant! It would be arranged for the weekend. I tried to feel out and connect to my beloved friend, but nothing happened. On Monday another call came from Mercini: “Mama disappeared, so probably she is not ready yet!”
Two weeks later I had been feeling very sad that due to my teaching commitments it had not been possible to get back to Mytilini to say goodbye to this beautiful soul who had become such a part of me. I started to write my feelings into a letter to Mama as the tears flowed.
Mercini called and said, “Mama passed away peacefully in my arms yesterday, and we buried her in the front garden where only my personal, beloved friends are buried.”
When I look at all the cats here, I am in total awe—of their beauty and their agility but mostly the emotions so clearly expressed in a gesture or movement. There is playfulness and sometimes aggression, jealousy, fear, pride, but also love and tenderness as they sometimes snuggle up and wrap their tails around each other.
My latest love affair is with a magnificent male tabby who always comes to sit on the ledge outside the window just above where I prepare the cats’ evening meal. He looks in at me silently with big green eyes that seem to see right into my soul.
His tiger markings in black and gray are exquisite, his whiskers white and long. I call him Beautiful Boy and talk a little to him. He goes all coy and drops his head, pressing it into the mosquito netting over the window. I ask him to show me his mouth, and he yawns, revealing a crimson cave I could dive into, his thin white teeth shining. We stare into each other with no words, and I feel we have done this for lifetimes. He soaks it up, and I feel his love. I am filled with sweetness. We keep searching into each other’s eyes—he seems hungry for this contact. It’s strange how close two souls can get—a secret I feel blessed to share with this great cat and all the others who have come into my life.