Six years ago I made my first trip to England. It was a whirlwind trip of cobbled-together days off for my parents' wedding, that to this day exists only as a series of jet-lag hazed memories and cold. At some point during that first night, I woke up to the bed-shaking impact of a 14 lb monster landing beside me. Half-dreaming and those self-preservational instincts fumbling with the equally important sleep and warm, I looked reached down and felt out little pointy ears and a fuzzy head.
Ah, cat.
Followed by:
Big, warm cat.
Within seconds, I'd dragged the sprawl of him up to snuggle next to me.
This was how I met Binks, and it set the tone of our relationship from then on. During term breaks (particularly the winter ones), he was always to be found curled at the end of my bed, and eventually I got used to the amazingly loud snores from an otherwise mute animal (which, to be honest, never ceased to be reminiscent of a bed-monster) and the fact that a creature who only stood a fifth of my height would, nevertheless, occupy most of the bedspace.
There have always been greeting rituals with each of the animals when I come back from university. The dog grabs a shoe, or his stuffed toy and we chase each other around the back garden. My cat demands a full rundown of where I've been and what I've been doing and copious belly rubs. And Binks, in his very dignified super secret agent way, would wait until all the commotion had died down and I'd gone out for a cigarette. He'd sit beside me - a discreet 6 inches away in case any of the neighbour cats were watching - give me a quick sniff, and then we'd watch the garden together. Behind closed doors (and you absolutely mustn't tell anyone about this), I was even allowed to scoop him up and ruffle his fluffy self. He was generous like that.
Being something of a nightcreature, the quiet parts of the evening (after the sane ones had gone to bed) is always populated by cats, and dictated by their various schedules. Bast demands to be fed at 11 PM and 3 AM. Calypso will demand to go out at 4 AM, and when she's unsuccessful, does battle with anything and everything she comes across. Binks, if not already up in one of the beds, would plop himself on a spot on the couch, and progressively melt across any available space as he slept. Much like the bed. He's sat up with me through essay and novel revisions, helped me make a rug, and one night last summer, after everyone had gone to bed, when the vet had almost guaranteed Bast wouldn't make it home after taking on a dog, Binks sat with me while I cried, and let me squeeze the fluff out him while I prayed to the cat gods to fix my little cat. He was generous.
There's a thing about cats. If you have them, you know. They're a little bit mad, a little bit magic, and it's not the least bit difficult to understand why people have created myths and superstitions around them for centuries. A cat challenges and a cat remembers, and sometimes, if you're lucky, a cat will even forgive. They aren't easily bought, though, cats, and there's something about that, when you've won their respect. When you understand the language of eyes and nose twitches and head tilts.
Today was the issue launch for Aliiterati, so my alarm was set to pull me out of bed earlier than my customary afternoon waking time. This morning it went off in unison to the phone ringing. I lay up in my garret roost and listened to my step-dad answer the phone, and then go quiet. The longer the silence lasted downstairs, the further into my duvet and pillows I burrowed. These past few weeks, lying in the quiet of my garret roost and prowling around the tadpoles in the garden pond and fussing over which picture looked best where, I'd taken to whispering to the cat gods again, in the language of eyes and nose twitches and head tilts.
Fix him. Fix him. Fix him.
The silence said, this time the cat gods had declined to answer.
A short while later, my mom came up to tell me what the silence had already said. I stared at the silly pictures on my wall and felt the lack of 14 lbs of bed-monster and thought, no, he is cat and cat is invincible.
All through these past few weeks, whatever the vet has said, I've clung to that thought as stubbornly and wholeheartedly as I did when it was Bast in the hospital.
he is cat and cat is invincible.
Of course he'll get better. Of course he'll come home. Of course.
he is cat.
Strangely, maybe appropriately, the house is that much quieter without its most silent member.
 |
| Secret agent, bed-warmer, rug-maker: the many talents of Mr Binks |
Ah, cat.
Followed by:
Big, warm cat.
Within seconds, I'd dragged the sprawl of him up to snuggle next to me.
This was how I met Binks, and it set the tone of our relationship from then on. During term breaks (particularly the winter ones), he was always to be found curled at the end of my bed, and eventually I got used to the amazingly loud snores from an otherwise mute animal (which, to be honest, never ceased to be reminiscent of a bed-monster) and the fact that a creature who only stood a fifth of my height would, nevertheless, occupy most of the bedspace.
There have always been greeting rituals with each of the animals when I come back from university. The dog grabs a shoe, or his stuffed toy and we chase each other around the back garden. My cat demands a full rundown of where I've been and what I've been doing and copious belly rubs. And Binks, in his very dignified super secret agent way, would wait until all the commotion had died down and I'd gone out for a cigarette. He'd sit beside me - a discreet 6 inches away in case any of the neighbour cats were watching - give me a quick sniff, and then we'd watch the garden together. Behind closed doors (and you absolutely mustn't tell anyone about this), I was even allowed to scoop him up and ruffle his fluffy self. He was generous like that.
 |
| Mr Binks, editor extraordinaire |
There's a thing about cats. If you have them, you know. They're a little bit mad, a little bit magic, and it's not the least bit difficult to understand why people have created myths and superstitions around them for centuries. A cat challenges and a cat remembers, and sometimes, if you're lucky, a cat will even forgive. They aren't easily bought, though, cats, and there's something about that, when you've won their respect. When you understand the language of eyes and nose twitches and head tilts.
Today was the issue launch for Aliiterati, so my alarm was set to pull me out of bed earlier than my customary afternoon waking time. This morning it went off in unison to the phone ringing. I lay up in my garret roost and listened to my step-dad answer the phone, and then go quiet. The longer the silence lasted downstairs, the further into my duvet and pillows I burrowed. These past few weeks, lying in the quiet of my garret roost and prowling around the tadpoles in the garden pond and fussing over which picture looked best where, I'd taken to whispering to the cat gods again, in the language of eyes and nose twitches and head tilts.
Fix him. Fix him. Fix him.
The silence said, this time the cat gods had declined to answer.
A short while later, my mom came up to tell me what the silence had already said. I stared at the silly pictures on my wall and felt the lack of 14 lbs of bed-monster and thought, no, he is cat and cat is invincible.
All through these past few weeks, whatever the vet has said, I've clung to that thought as stubbornly and wholeheartedly as I did when it was Bast in the hospital.
he is cat and cat is invincible.
Of course he'll get better. Of course he'll come home. Of course.
he is cat.
Strangely, maybe appropriately, the house is that much quieter without its most silent member.
 |
| The cat who commanded dragons. |
