This was published 7 years ago
What dinner with a stray cat taught me about communicating
By James Hughes
I live near a lost-dogs home and sometimes meet a volunteer walking a motley mass of faces, all straining and lusting for life. Those volunteers, usually young women, are the salt of the earth. And the dogs, if there is any justice, will inherit a patch of earth in some other world.
Strays can be hard to snub. About a fortnight ago, I began a relationship with a stray cat – all black, with traffic-light green eyes – helped by a dysfunctional kitchen door.
After sharing sardines with a local stray, James Hughes learns they can be hard to snub. Credit: Stocksy
On really cold nights, my kitchen door requires a full body-slam to shut – it's simpler, if not exactly safer, to leave it ajar. From this fortuitous breach, the scrawny, collarless cat eyed me with such anxious ambition only a robot could have said no.
On the concrete outside the door nobody shuts, by a wonky aluminium rack stacked with shoes nobody wears, I fed the cat sardines on a saucer, using the tin's lip as a masher.
The cat reappeared two nights later. Hastily, I dished up John West tuna fillets. The cat went to work, pausing every so often as if to check that this really was happening again. This, I assured myself, is The Last Time.
On the next call, I gave it a series of unsympathetic glances. As I cooked my mushrooms and parsley, with extra turmeric for a creaky knee, the cat loitered under the kitchen table by the therapeutic foot-board nobody uses.
I said the jig was up, said that even if there was tinned fish, it wouldn't get any. The cat sensed a chill but hung around. Eventually I yielded and cracked an egg on a saucer.
By the shoe rack, the cat sniffed the raw egg and shot me a look all but stating: Go inside, come back with something suitable.
I added a knob of butter. But even presented with the enhanced dish, those exceedingly green eyes said: You are dishonouring the terms of our arrangement.
I went through the cupboard, rifled through everyone's food. In the fridge was an unopened tray of mince. I took the plunge and pierced the plastic.
Ten minutes later, the cat sat on the kitchen table by the CDs nobody plays, licking its paws. I waved it outside. Under a huge moon, from the garden table nobody sits at, the cat saw me at the window and transmitted a thought wave: When I next return, I would prefer you to not make such a song and dance.
Two nights later, it arrived on schedule. The cat obviously knew my late-night cooking routine, the harried sounds of saucepans and steamers and chopping-boards and kettles and the big broom nobody but me ever wields.
This time, I flat ignored the cat. It hung about, as if it were only a matter of time. I absconded upstairs; four times I came down to find the cat in the kitchen, biding its time. Each time I made tea, each time I snacked on bread and honey, it watched, unable to fully conceal its edginess.
At some point that night, the cat left the building. In the morning, I made my way outside to the washing machine to get the clothes hung on the line. I found myself stepping around feathers: the whole garden was strewn, inexplicably, with feathers.
When it comes to joining the dots, I am a naive, sluggish man. Indeed, the penny did not drop until I was making oatmeal with kiwifruit and cinnamon. You brat, I thought, you churlish, vengeful ingrate. I will not feed you again – I will not be blackmailed with blackbird feathers.
The garden became a killing field. Leaving for work, and coming home in the dark, I found myself scouting the street. A new housemate, from Germany, asked why there were very often feathers in the kitchen. Feigning ignorance, I picked up the broom.
Two nights ago, the cat returned. Feeling conciliatory, I gave it one-third of the smallest tin of the cheapest tuna. And instead of a saucer, I served it on an inhospitable takeaway container lid. The cat savaged the compromised portion, vacuumed the juice, re-entered the kitchen, and waited for the rest.
Nope, I said, from now on our relationship goes no deeper – you will learn to appreciate scraps.
The cat's stance seemed to say: We've heard this kind of thing from you before. You'll come around, and we both know it. Caving in exacts a psychic price. Then there's the price of fish.
The cat remains bullish. It imagines our meeting is providence. It imagines a long, fruitful relationship. As I type these words it is downstairs, backing its intuition, banking on its ancient and mysterious appeal.