Cleo

Resuscitation

Cats are willing to take into account the fact that people are slow learners.

The moment my old school friend Rosie heard we had a kitten there was no stopping her. I put her off the first time she phoned. That was like a bowl of sardines to a starving stray. A couple of days after the inquest she broke through the invisible barricades around our house. Notorious for her ebullience and lack of tact, Rosie wasn’t everyone’s favorite person. Steve suddenly remembered an important appointment he had in town.

“Poor itty-bitty baby Cleo,” she crooned, examining Cleo through giant red spectacles. “Fancy having to come and live wid a whole lot of humans who aren’t cat people.”

“I didn’t say we’re not cat people, Rosie.”

“So you can honestly say you are a cat person?” she asked, peering at me over her crimson horizons.

“Yes. Maybe…I’m not sure.”

“Then you’re definitely not a cat person,” she said. “You’d know if you were. It’s like being a Christian or a Muslim. You just know when you are one.”

Rosie didn’t have a Church of England background like mine, where you could mumble the Lord’s Prayer, sing “There Is a Green Hill Far Away” and slurp tepid tea while avoiding conversation with the vicar before going home free from any sense of allegiance.

Rosie was a cat lover extraordinaire. She’d adopted six strays she’d named Scruffy, Ruffy, Beethoven, Sibelius, Madonna and Doris, though it was impossible to guess which one belonged to its name. Adopted wasn’t exactly the right word. More accurately, Rosie had invited a sextet of four-legged thugs to invade and decimate her property. Ungrateful to the core, the fur balls shredded her curtains and splintered her furniture while sprinkling her house with the unmistakable stench of ammonia. When they weren’t indulging in gang warfare and raiding rubbish tins they were murdering local wildlife. Whenever humans dared venture through Rosie’s gate, six sinister shapes skulked under her bed. None of which, she said, stopped them having fabulous personalities and being unbelievably cute and adorable.

There was nothing Rosie didn’t know about cats. Her radar was bound to suss out a member of the kittyhood that had been condemned to life with us on the zigzag.

“She’s not exactly the prettiest kitten, is she?” Rosie continued. “I’ve seen more fur on a golf ball. She looks like she’s been in prison camp. And those eyes. They’re so…bulgy.”

“Nobody’s perfect,” I said, riding an unexpected surge of loyalty. “She’s a work in progress.”

“Hmmm,” said Rosie doubtfully. “Part Abyssinian, eh? Famed for their love of water and high places.” Rosie used every opportunity to show off her knowledge. “Even taking into account that she’s related to the short-haired Asian cats that are lightly built and therefore able to tolerate warm climates more easily than their more sturdy European cousins, she’s pretty skinny. What are you feeding her?”

“Cat food,” I sighed.

“Yes, but what sort of cat food?”

“I don’t know. Stuff from the pet shop.”

“Vitamin supplements?” she asked in courtroom tones.

“Of course,” I lied, changing the subject. “Do you want to see her play sock-er?”

I held a sock above Cleo’s nose. Cleo pretended she’d never seen such a thing before.

Rosie shook her head. “Cats don’t play fetch,” she said. Her ginger curls tumbled forwards as she reached into her red handbag. I felt a twinge of remorse. Even though she could be irritating, she deserved a thousand brownie points for turning up. So many of our friends had found excuses to withdraw.

Rosie hadn’t changed her manner since Sam’s death. Her behavior was mercifully dictatorial and cheerful as ever. What’s more, she wasn’t speaking to me in that hushed, now familiar, tone that implied the house had some kind of curse over it.

“You’ll need these,” she said, thrusting a pair of dog-eared books at me. Kittens and How to Raise Them and Your Cat and Its Health. “Oh, and I thought this might be helpful.”

Bossy, crazy, sweet Rosie. For all her quirks and her conviction I had Cleo’s worst interests at heart, her deep-down goodness was undeniable. Why else would she present me with On Death and Dying by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross offhandedly along with the kitten books?

I knew about the five states of grief Kübler-Ross put together to help people deal with grief. There was a lot I recognized.

1. Denial. Definitely during those initial shocking moments after the phone call at Jessie’s house. A big chunk of me continued to be in denial. On street corners and in shopping malls, I still saw Sam running and laughing. They were all blond-haired impostors. Something in the dungeon of my subconscious clung to the ambulance man’s words that Sam would have been a “vegetable” if he’d survived. Several nights a week I dreamt everyone had decided to hide from me the fact that Sam was still alive. Suddenly aware of their lies, I’d sprint through a labyrinth of hospital corridors to find him attached to machines in a darkened room. He’d then turn his head and fix me with those blue eyes, just as he had when he was born. I’d wake up, heart thumping, pillow saturated.

2. Anger. It would’ve been helpful if, after a few weeks of Denial, I’d faded recognizably into Anger. Every cell in my body raged at pigeons scattered like pieces of torn paper in the sky, women driving Ford Escorts, in fact, women drivers in general, and Sam’s school friends who had the effrontery to still be living. If only I could be assured the Anger stage would pass. Trouble was I was angry and in denial all at once. And yes, there had been a few pathetic…

3. Bargaining Sessions. Sometimes, in the bathroom or be hind the steering wheel, I conducted one-sided negotiations with God asking Him (or, if Rosie was to be believed, Her) to please wind the clock back, so the events of 21 January would unfold five seconds earlier, so the car rolled down the hill before Sam’s foot touched the curb, the pigeon was delivered safely to the vet and we all sat down around the kitchen table for Steve’s lemon meringue pie. What was a little time shuffling for someone (or something) as omnipotent as the Great Creator? In return I’d do anything He (or She) required, including join a nunnery, take up women’s rugby and pretend to enjoy sleeping in tents. All of which would save me from…

4. Depression. The wardrobe of sorrow houses many out fits. For casual daywear there’s plain old self-pity, which sufferers sometimes flippantly refer to as depression. Postnatal depression is slightly dressier. For full-blown formal occasions (complete with attendant psychiatrists and pills) there’s clinical depression, suicidal sadness and, ultimately, insanity.

My uncles returning scrambled as eggs from World War I were said to be depressed, possibly crazy. One of them was incarcerated in a mental home. A maiden aunt didn’t speak for years after my grandparents insisted she put an end to her affair with the local postmistress. With the compassion and understanding typical of rural 1930s New Zealand, the wider family called her Creeping Jesus. As far as I could understand, my aunt and uncles had logical reasons to be depressed.

Even though all these variations of sorrow are shoved into the same closet, they seem to have as much in common as flax skirts and Dior gowns.

The word depression wasn’t big enough to describe the ocean of melancholy I’d slipped into. There was no shoreline. The sea had no floor. Some days I fought to stay afloat. On others I was suspended lifeless, like a broken willow branch, drifting in its infinity. For Kübler-Ross to label this mere “depression” and a “stage” was outrageous folly. And then, to imply there would be a final stage of—

5. Acceptance. No way was I ever going to say it’s okay for a beautiful nine-year-old boy to die. Kübler-Ross missed a few other stages while she was at it, including guilt, self-hatred, hysteria, loss of hope, paranoia, unacceptable confessions in public, a powerful urge to open the car door and hurl oneself onto the motorway.

I thanked Rosie for the books and flicked through Your Cat and Its Health.

“You will read it properly, won’t you?” she said.

“Look Rosie, we might not meet your standards, but we’ll do our best. We’re not going to kill her, at least I hope not…”

“Never mind, baby Cleo,” Rosie said, putting on that silly voice again and burying the kitten between the steamed puddings of her breasts. “Itty-bitty kitty can come and live with Auntie Rosie any time.”

Cleo writhed between Rosie’s sweltering mounds. Then, in a split second that seemed to be happening in slow motion, she flattened her ears, rolled back her lips, hissed and swiped a fully armored claw at Rosie’s face.

“Ohmyyyygoooodddd!” wailed Rosie.

“I’m so sorry!” I said, dabbing the blood on her cheek with a paper tissue that had been doubling as a table napkin. “I’m sure she didn’t mean…”

Clutching the tissue to her cheek, Rosie glared down at her assailant.

“This kitten…your kitten…has fleas!” declared Rosie, rearranging her spectacles.

“Really?” I said, scratching an ankle. Steve and Rob had complained of being “itchy” over the past few days. I’d dismissed their complaints as neuroticism. It now dawned on me I was itchy, too. An archipelago of miniature volcanoes encircled both ankles and stretched up my legs.

“Yes, look,” she said, parting the sparse forest of Cleo’s underbelly. “Dozens, possibly even hundreds…”

The sight resembled one of those shots taken by helicopter over Manhattan. Oblivious to us staring down at them, an entire city of fleas bustled through avenues of Cleo’s hair. So engrossed were they in their flea workday, so confident that whatever they were doing was the most important job on earth right now, not one paused to glance up at a pair of horrified human giants.

“That’s a serious infestation,” said Rosie, awe verging on admiration in her voice.

“How do we get rid of them? Do I get some powder from the pet shop?”

“Too late for that,” pronounced Rosie. “What this kitten needs is a bath.”

When I pointed out cats have a natural loathing of water, and that immersing a kitten would surely be close to animal cruelty, she shrugged. “Well, if you don’t want to take responsibility for your kitten’s health…”

Rosie had me cornered. If I didn’t obey her she’d report me to some kind of committee of animal protection feminists. They’d plant burning crosses on our front lawn and glue posters around the neighborhood.

“But we don’t have a kitten bath,” I said, almost certain I’d never seen such a household item, not even in a pet shop. “Or kitten shampoo.”

“The bathroom vanity will do,” she said. “And mild human shampoo is fine. Now, find me a hand towel, please.”

The closest thing we had to a hand towel was a faded blue rag that had enjoyed a previous life as a beach towel until the boys and Rata tore it apart during a tug-of-war. With the efficiency of an Egyptian embalmer wrapping up a cat mummy, Rosie wound the cloth around Cleo’s shoulders. With her legs (and claws) tucked against her body, Cleo was defenseless. Her startled, furry face emerged from one end of the towel. The other end was wedged deep in the folds of Rosie’s T-shirt. I desperately wanted to rescue Cleo. But, immune from any more scratch attacks, Rosie had taken control.

She instructed me to fill the basin with warm water, then tested the temperature with her free elbow. When the depth and temperature were ideal, Rosie swiftly unwound the cloth and passed Cleo to me.

“I thought you were going to do this?” I said, wrestling with legs and tail, which were moving in opposite directions simultaneously.

“You’re the mother,” Rosie replied, taking a step back towards the safely of the towel rail.

Our kitten relaxed in my arms. I took it as a huge compliment. Staring down from her dry vantage point, Cleo was fascinated by the water, and expectantly watched it glistening in the basin, as if it might house a school of goldfish. I unwound, too. Maybe Cleo had inherited the famous Abyssinian love of water and was going to enjoy her bath.

Inhaling deeply, I lowered her into the water. Swift handling combined with respect for feline pride would be required. Cleo seemed to understand the procedure. She kept still as a statuette while I massaged baby shampoo into her coat. The kitten was soon wreathed in a cloak of bubbles.

I was proud of her nestled in the basin. Fortunately, Cleo couldn’t see what a bath was doing for her looks. With her fur slicked down and whiskers pasted against her cheeks, she could’ve been mistaken for a rat. Nevertheless, Rosie had to be impressed with Cleo’s understanding of hygiene requirements.

“Good girl,” I crooned.

“See? Nothing to it,” Rosie said. “Every cat needs a bath now and then.”

Cleo suddenly let out a primeval yowl. It was a shocking noise that penetrated my maternal genes as instantly and powerfully as the cry of a child lost in a supermarket. Cleo’s little head drooped sideways and, to my profound horror, she went limp as a dishcloth in my hands.

“Get her out! Get her out!” Rosie bellowed.

“I am getting her out!” I bellowed back. As I lifted the little creature from the water, her head and legs swung lifelessly. “Oh…!”

What was Rob going to say? His heart had already been shattered. He wouldn’t be able to take another blow. I’d already proved myself a failure as mother. No way should I have been given command of something as small and helpless as a kitten. I was barely capable of putting my clothes on.

Snatching the towel from Rosie, I engulfed the lifeless form.

“Oh Cleo, I’m so sorry!” I cried, rubbing her with the towel and hurrying her through to the living room. I flicked the gas heater on, held Cleo as close as possible to the flames, and massaged her frantically.

“You were right, Rosie. I’m hopeless with cats. This is terrible!”

Rosie towered over us disapprovingly. “The water was too cold,” she said.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I thought it would probably be all right. Or it could’ve been the wrong shampoo…”

The tiny body lay lifeless in my hands.

“I’ve killed her, Rosie!” I sobbed. “She’s the only thing that cheered things up around here. Now I’ve drowned her! I know you don’t think I’m a cat person, but I was starting to love this kitten.”

So this was going to be my life from now on. Everything I touched was destined to shrivel up and drop dead in my hands. For the sake of the world I’d have to climb a mountain at the bottom of the South Island, crawl into a cave and wait for things to end.

Then, to my astonishment, the rag on my lap emitted a single, demure sneeze. A shudder of life rippled through her body. She raised her head, climbed unsteadily onto her paws and shook herself indignantly, showering me with water.

“Oh, Cleo! You’re back! I can’t believe it!” She hardly needed the additional rinse of my happy tears.

The kitten fixed me with eyes the size of satellite dishes and bestowed a lick on my finger, as if she’d woken from a pleasant dream and was wondering what was for breakfast. Jubilant with relief, I rubbed her precious fur until it was nearly dry. Not since the boys were born had I felt so ecstatic to see a creature alive and functioning.

“Listen, she’s purring!” I said to Rosie. “Do you think she forgives me?”

Rosie didn’t look convinced. “Just as well she has nine lives,” she said. “One down, eight to go. That poor kitten’s going to need every one of them in this house.”

After Rosie left, I kissed Cleo, thanked her for coming back to life, and held her close to my chest to keep her warm.

From that moment on, Cleo and I had an understanding. Baths, as far as she was concerned, were strictly for the birds.

Cleo was turning out to be quite a teacher. Like all good educationalists, she adopted her techniques according to the abilities of her students. Her near-drowning experience demonstrated I wasn’t doomed to destroy everything in my path, after all. For the first time in my life I’d actually revived a living creature. And Cleo was giving me a second chance.