Bono

Chapter Thirty-eight

FIVE GUARDIANS

There’s something wonderful about being owned by a cat.

There have been enough significant cats in my life to count on the fingers of one hand. All five had excellent manners (when they chose to use them), a talent for enjoying life on their own terms, and an admirable capacity for affection.

The first was black and white with fur too long for convenience. Like many cats with Persian blood, he hated being manhandled, particularly by children. I could hardly blame him. If our body hair grew a foot long and giants tried to grab us, we’d feel the same way. We named him Sylvester after the cartoon cat who was the arch nemesis of Tweety Bird. Sylvester lived up to his namesake. He idled his afternoons away dozing on top of my budgie’s cage. Poor little Joey froze on his perch and turned a brighter shade of green while the cat flicked his tail across the bars. Sylvester didn’t have to be psychic to figure out Mum didn’t like cats. In return, he pooped in her high heeled shoes whenever possible. It must have involved a lot of skill to position his posterior over her precarious six-inch heels. The pointy toes allowed little room for error. But he concealed his weapons artfully, and they had the desired effect every time. Sylvester taught me that the un-dercat, if he thinks creatively, can have power.

Dad’s opinion of cats differed from Mum’s. When he found a tabby kitten wandering around the gasworks one day, he bundled him up and drove him home in the backseat of our old Ford Zephyr. Once inside the house, the kitten cowered under an armchair. I longed for him to feel safe enough to show himself. When he finally did, I noticed the marking on his forehead formed an M. When I begged to call him Mickey, our parents were too distracted to put up an argument. My brother later pointed out Mickey had six digits on his front paws. In Europe, it’s said polydactyl cats were often killed as witches’ familiars. They were popular on ships, however, and Ernest Hemingway loved them. Years later, when we visited Hemingway’s cats in Florida, they were beautiful and gloriously offhand. Though they were descended from literary aristocracy, I loved how they reserved the right to lie in the grass and behave like cats.

Mickey became my first soul cat. He seemed to know when I needed the warm touch of his fur. When I arrived home after another confusing day at school (What’s the point of algebra?), he’d be waiting for me at the top of the steps on the veranda. He understood everything, and asked nothing in return. Mickey taught me there is no such thing as “just a cat.”

After I’d nearly grown up and rushed into marriage, our older son Sam talked me into taking on a small black cat he named Cleo. When she stood over us after his death, I learned about the healing power of cats and their connection to other worlds.

Through living with these three cats I learned many things, including how to appreciate subtle energy forms. They taught me to respect body language, to read the light around animals and people. To demand something of a cat is to invite disaster. It’s far better to soften your heart and let the relationship evolve.

I’d never imagined cats had a sense of destiny, but years after Cleo died, when I was recovering from cancer, my sister, Mary, took me to a pet shop. A crazy clown of a Siamese kitten scrambled up the wire, reached out his paw, and touched my hand. In that moment, I knew he was telling me to take him home.

Jonah is a writer’s cat. He’s been doing his job for ten years now, and he takes it seriously. After his morning pill and it’s just the two of us, he trots around after me. If by mid-morning I’m still wandering the house with piles of laundry and other excuses not to work, he cuts in front of me and, with the expertise of a sheepdog, herds me into my study.

Once I’ve settled in front of the computer with a coffee, he emits a satisfied meow and leaps on my lap. Jonah snoozes there for the rest of the day, occasionally interrupting me to stroll over the computer keyboard, or wrestle with the printer cables. Whenever I’m writing, I prefer to shut myself off from the world, but Jonah won’t hear of it. If there’s a knock on the door, he scampers down the hall to find out who’s there. He welcomes workmen, neighbors, and religious salesmen with equal enthusiasm. He’s not so keen on younger visitors. One glimpse of a child and he’s off to hide in his cat run.

We have long and vocal conversations. He has opinions about everything. In the evenings, Jonah isn’t satisfied unless I’m sitting in the brown armchair and Philip’s in the red one. If we break the rules and swap, our obsessive cat yowls in our faces until we exchange seats. He adores watching television, especially wildlife shows viewed from the best upholstered lap he can find, which is usually mine.

Living with Jonah has taught me to reconsider reincarnation as a concept. He’s a human trapped in a cat’s body.

The fifth significant cat in my life is Bono. My fantasy about fostering a dozy old tortoiseshell was laughable. A little rock star lion was the cat I needed. We found each other at a time when we were both a bit washed up and doubtful about the future. Bono reminded me that no matter how patchy the past has been, it’s essential to greet each day with an arabesque and a purr. He introduced me to extraordinary people, and taught me that no matter how desperate a situation, there’s a place for miracles.

From Bono I also learned that sometimes love means having to say good-bye.