While we are staying
in the house, its owner is away, in Ireland. So we are looking after the house itself, her garden, her cannabis plant and both the cats. They are longhairs, brother and sister, though resembling one other in little but name: to distinguish the two, we have called the tom Mimi Blanco
after his white coat and his sister, smaller and half his weight, Mimi Pequeña
. They get on better than other pairs I have known
, restricting themselves to an exchange of jabs every couple of days and other than that not quarrelling about food or territory. Blanco is the braver of the two, though he will not let himself be picked up: Pequeña will
pick up, light and small enough to fit comfortably in one hand, but will not visit the darker parts of the house on her own.
She will have to, soon. Cats hate changes in their environment. They do not want new people coming into the house, but once those people have arrived, they are made nervous if the people leave. They do not want the temperature to rise, and if it rises, mew and whine, complaining that you let it happen, wanting it changed back to what it was before. But after it has risen they will mew and whine if it begins to fall. They do not want the furniture to move, and least of all they want their feeding-place to change. But now the feeding-place, alas, must move, has moved, and the change has made them nervous.
We are away, back in England collecting my life
, until almost the end of the month, and the job of feeding and watering, both cannabis and cats, will pass to an elderly woman who lives across the street. Pequeña mostly lives on the first floor, where the people mostly live as well, the ground floor being to all intents and purposes a basement, a floorful of things apparently unused. But the old lady is not agile and to make it easier for her, the food bowl has to move from the first floor kitchen to a ground floor room adjoining the front door. We have moved it already, so that they are used to it before she comes. But although they know it is there and although they have mostly ceased to stand in the kitchen and make mewing, mimi
noises, Pequeña cannot get used to it yet. The bowl stands at the foot of the staircase, but although Blanco, with a little encouragement, will bound down the stairs, with more ease than he can bound up them, Pequeña needs to be carried, or she will not go.
It is on the furthest side of the room from the street, but there is still light, through the gaps around the edges of the door, and hence and outside which she knows nothing about. There is an inner courtyard, where both cats get light and air and room to run around, but they do not know the street except as a hidden world of noises: dogs and people and their cars. They may make of them, for all I know, what Plato's cave-dwellers made of the shadows on the wall, but while Blanco is sometimes at the door when we arrive, curious to find out whether how close reality is to his perception, Pequeña is afraid of the noises, or whatever she has made of them. She is afraid of the light around the door: she is also afraid of the dark, the quiet, unlit rooms on the other side of the staircase. When I first carried her down the steps to show her where the food was, she looked one way, towards the light, then the other, towards the dark, and finding neither brought her comfort, she struggled free and ran up the steps again, crying mimi
as she went.
Between the light and the dark, the monster in the corner. The water tank is next to the front door. It hums, gurgles, roars, depending on what function of the sink or toilet has been carried out upstairs. Pequeña need not use her imagination to give this monster shape. It is there, menacing, crouching, watching her. She looks at the bowl - and looks straight back at the monster, unable to eat for fear that it will make her move while her head is busy with the food. Even if it falls silent, she glances at it constantly, unable to trust its silence, fearing that the monster will wake up.
But she will eat, now, sometimes, provided that I take her down myself and make sure the monster is kept quiet, no using the sink or bathroom before I carry her to the bowl. When she eats, she takes one mouthful and then looks to her left, like a swimmer breathing, checking that there are no noises, checking that the monster has moved. She eats, but nervously, quite likely losing as much energy in her nervousness as she accumulates in eating - and I must stay by her side while she is eating, being with her, making reassuring noises. But in a couple of days I shall be gone and she will be on her own, only her desire to eat preserving what remains of her much-dwindled courage, only her and the food and the monster in the corner, without me there stroking, waiting, standing by her, telling her that everything is going to be all right.