Fate can indeed lead us to unforeseen glories, ‘let’s see where this goes’, and ‘voila’ we have discovered something glorious about ourselves. When fate is our only criteria to decision making is there ever a destination and if no destination are we truly satisfied with where we are? After all we didn’t intend being here.
The Gorgeous Gwendolyne adores cats and I love them too except I’m allergic to them. For this reason we only acquire two kittens, yes two, for work duties. We live in a deeply rural idyll and these darlings are here to keep any vermin at bay. Trained killers that will seek out their prey and destroy. They are to live outside in their own stone mansion that the previous owner used to house a bull and a boar. Naturally it isn’t working out like this.
The kittens are collected from a horse trekking place where for the past eight weeks they have been living in a stable. Great, so they will be used to the outside. I post a picture of them on Facebook and to my horror this causes quite a stir. “What are their names?” enquire twenty-four of my friends. Really? They have been named by the children of their former residence, “Fred and Jesus” I reply. “Which one is Jesus?” I respond, “the tortoiseshell one”. “But all tortoiseshell cats are female”, they exclaim. “Oh, I say.” There’s not much that I can do about this now. I’m more concerned about having to find a lost cat by walking down the street asking neighbours, “have you seen Jesus?”
During the first week Fred, the black and white one, is ill. In fact, he’s very sick. His eyes are clouding over, he doesn’t eat and is very lethargic. He’s brought indoors for special care. We go to the vet, expensive tests are sent off to labs, and there’s no diagnosis other than an expression from the vet that suggests he’s not going to make it. Antibiotics are administered, we return home and offer him all the love and devotion possible. He’s so tiny and so frail, his pitiful face stares up at us as we hope beyond hope he survives.
Week three and following another vet visit and more antibiotics and the little chap begins to emerge from his illness. His eyes clear and he’s on poached free range chicken rather than the watered down very expensive food for sick cats, delivered onto the tongue by syringe. He gets up and starts to wander around, finding positions of comfort in a variety of different locations. Another week passes and he’s regained the kitten qualities of play and enquiry. He’s everywhere including jaunts outside where he resumes his friendship with his sister. You can see them swapping stories. Fred’s are obviously along the lines of, “underfloor heating is amazing” and “you only have to meow and they give you food”. Jesus decides she wants some of this too. She starts to sneak in behind Fred, cautiously at first so we don’t notice her taking up residence. She’s always out of sight behind the sofa or sometimes directly on the heat pump that provides all that underfloor heating she’s heard so much about.
Gwen makes attempts to resume the original contract and they are placed outside at the beginning of each day. Moments later they both are scratching the door to be allowed back in. The new door. To save the new door we open it and they are back in. This time they feel it’s not necessary to hide. Gradually over the next week or so the battle is lost and now we have two cats that live indoors. A new world order has been restored. Maybe Russia won’t invade the Ukraine after all. A status quo has been reached, I’m back on antihistamines. All is good for a few weeks then, quietly one night over supper, Gwen clears her throat in a way that says, I’ve got something to say and you are not necessarily going to like it. I look up in anticipation. “I think Jesus is pregnant”.