This piece was prompted by someone I follow, and respect, on Twitter. In response to a casual remark I made about being adopted
by a neighbour's cat, he said, "Have you never experienced the unconditional love of a dog?" I replied, "Unconditional love tends to make me feel uncomfortable. I like dogs but prefer feline pragmatism."
That set me thinking......Quite an accomplishment these days......
As a nipper, I had a tabby cat called Whisky, an appropriate name in view of current developments. We acquired her when I was three and she died of kidney failure when I was nineteen, so she was an integral part of my childhood. My parents intended to
have her neutered but she beat them to it, and had five kittens. They gave four away and she devoted all her motherly attention to the remaining one, Toffee, who was devoted to me but absolutely clueless about the realities of feline life.
On one occasion, she was being menaced by an enormous ginger tom. I heard her cries of distress and flew downstairs, but Whisky was there first.
Lethally armed predators have, through evolution, developed strategies for avoiding physical conflict, but all that went by the board.
I shall never forget the sight. Whisky rounded the corner of the house at full chat, leaning into the bend like a motorcyclist, and literally threw herself at the agressor. There was a momentary blur, the ginger fled, never to be seen again, and Whisky emerged,
looking at me sheepishly, with blood and fur on her claws......
Toffee was run over by a car a couple of years later, and
thereby hangs a tale......
It happened on a Wednesday morning, when I was at school, and my mother, with the assistance of
a builder, buried her in the garden. For three days I called for her and my parents assured me that she would return. Then, on Saturday afternoon, as I changed out of my school uniform, my father came into my room and told me. When I asked why they hadn't
told me before, my mother said, "We didn't want to spoil the school week."
I loved my parents but I will NEVER
forgive them for that. NEVER!
Toffee's death seemed to cause a profound change in Whisky's personality.
She started to treat me as a substitute for her lost litter, and follow me everywhere.
This brings me to the title of the
piece. She started to meet my train when I came home from school. Her greeting was not warm, but scolding. "Where the Hell have you been?" Other commuters would laugh. It was embarrassing. She would then walk a few yards ahead, occasionally turning
her head to make sure that I was following.
The point is that I was not always on the same train. My arrival time
depended on various unpredictables. Was I in a cricket match? How fast could I reach Victoria Station? Was there a signal failure at Clapham Junction? My mother testifies that Whisky did not simply go to meet every train, and came to rely
on her to know when I would be home.
As I feel the cold breath of the Reaper on the back of my neck I grow more religious,
but still reject this kind of anthropomorphic mysticism.
Food for thought, though.........?
7/12/2014