After Cleo (22 page)

I wasn't sure it was a good idea to feed his vanity, but at the core of every vain person there's usually a soft-centred blob of insecurity. Perhaps if we flattered him he'd grow into a confident cat who didn't have to bother impressing others.

Smart as he looked, Jonah wouldn't be attending the wedding. I phoned the cattery but they were fully booked. Fortunately, I still had Vivienne's number. She remembered Jonah and when asked if she'd visit him at home during the wedding weekend quickly said yes.

There was one other small problem. Ferdie had nowhere to go, either. Vivienne said she'd be more than willing to look after both cats at our place. A cat bachelor pad. It sounded a breeze.

Dysfunction

A taste of liberty is better than none

‘He eats rubber bands?
And
merino wool?' said Vivienne.

Jonah arched his back sensually as she ran her hand over his spine. She was the first female visitor he'd really approved of. Watching how she handled him, allowing him to make the advances and give affection on his own terms, I liked her even more than the first time we'd met. Her hair was dyed purple and scraped back in a ponytail – not a look that would suit many women over thirty-five, but purple was her colour, and a perfect match for her brown eyes. There was softness in those eyes, especially when discussing animals – a sparkle of humour, too.

‘He likes alpaca wool as well, but more for sleeping on than eating,' I replied. ‘Though come to think of it, he did chew holes in my alpaca cardigan.'

‘That's pica,' said Vivienne.

‘Like what pregnant women get when they want to eat lumps of coal and stuff?'

Vivienne nodded.

Uncertain I could trust her diagnosis, I asked if she had a cat. Her eyes lit up. She had nine.

‘
Nine?!
' I echoed, barely able to conceal the fact that my opinion of Vivienne had just changed from ‘unusual' to ‘mad cat lady'. I'd seen a television programme about women who couldn't stop collecting cats. It's a psychological disorder.

She asked if I'd like to see photos. While I had no desire to inspect pictures of poor mangy things clambering all over her house, I didn't want to cause offence. Vivienne reached into her surprisingly organised purple handbag to retrieve a pocket-sized photo album.

‘These are your cats?' I asked, turning page after page of glossy coated, well-fed felines. Every one of them was a supreme example of a loved and pampered animal. ‘How do you do it?'

‘Not always easily,' Vivienne laughed. ‘They're all rescue animals. Zoe was left on the side of the road when she was a kitten. Igor lost one eye and his owners didn't want him anymore. Sally was abused. They've all had a rough time.'

I felt humbled. Any frustrations we had wrestling with one cat's lion-sized ego evaporated alongside the challenges of nine live-in felines. Vivienne might be mad about cats, but she was no mad cat lady. No wonder she hadn't been perturbed when asked if she thought she could look after Jonah and Ferdie at our place for the wedding weekend.

Intrigued, I poured Vivienne a glass of wine and delved discreetly into her background. Not only was she a qualified cat behaviourist, she was an animal activist. Having never met someone who fought for animal rights before, I realised my prejudices were just as inaccurate as they'd been about mad cat ladies. I'd always imagined animal activists were on the loony side. But when I learned about the work Vivienne and her friends did, I was abashed.

One of Vivienne's friends had recently received a tip-off that the council was planning to trap some wild cats in an old bus depot and take them away to be destroyed. In what sounded like an action movie adventure, Vivienne and her friends broke into the depot around midnight and collected the cats themselves.

‘A lot of the cats weren't feral at all,' she said. ‘They were quite friendly. They were just family pets who'd been abandoned there.'

She and her friends transported the felines to a no-kill shelter, where efforts would be made to find good homes for them. Rescuing animals from death row required enormous commitment and funding. It was heart-warming to learn that animals had human guardians like Vivienne and her friends.

While she was talking, Jonah crept along the back of the sofa behind her and toyed idly with her ponytail. The game soon became vigorous. He rolled on his back, snared a bunch of purple curls between his front paws and ran them like dental floss through his teeth.

Apologising, I untangled him from the nest he'd made of her hair. As I lowered him back on to the rug, I became aware of Vivienne's watchful gaze. I waited for the usual ‘Isn't he cute!?' comment, but her expression was serious.

‘It's the breed,' she said. ‘Orientals are high-maintenance. How old did you say he was when you got him?'

‘I'm not sure. At least a couple of months, possibly older. He was certainly the largest kitten in the shop.'

‘Hmmm, that would figure,' Vivienne said as Jonah scampered off to claw the stair carpet. ‘He was probably a reject.'

‘What do you mean reject?' I asked, affronted on Jonah's behalf.

‘Because he was older than the other cats, somebody could've bought him before you did. They probably decided they didn't like him for some reason and took him back to the shop. Do you have any idea why they might've done that?'

I wasn't sure how to answer.

‘The pet shop man said he'd had conjunctivitis, so they'd had to keep him a bit longer.'

‘You shouldn't believe everything a pet shop man tells you,' said Vivienne as a streak of chocolate and cream sprinted between us meowing loudly.

‘Well, he is a full-on cat . . .' I said, as Jonah bounced on to the window ledge and promptly fell off in a muddle of legs and paws. ‘But he's very affectionate. And he helped me recover from a mastectomy and write a book. He's just so . . . funny.'

‘He is funny,' she said, smiling warmly as Jonah tugged at the lace of her purple shoe. ‘But he's also dysfunctional.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Well, there's the pica, the separation anxiety and he strikes me as obsessive compulsive too,' said Vivienne. ‘Did you notice when you opened the front door he ran to greet me then went straight down the hall to scratch the stair carpet?'

‘In all honesty, no,' I said, thinking that I hadn't experienced such defensiveness since crouching on a dwarf-sized chair at parent–teacher interviews (‘My child is not disruptive/a slow reader/hopeless at handwriting. You just
think
he is'). No way was I going to tell Vivienne the really deranged things Jonah got up to: stealing hats and gloves from people's wardrobes, collecting socks and key rings, hiding in the rubbish bin cupboard.

‘We're all a bit crazy here,' I added. ‘Jonah fits in.'

Vivienne suggested some of his problems stemmed from boredom. I asked if she meant we should let him be an outdoor cat, but she was quick to say no. With Jonah's jumpiness, an encounter with a dog, let alone a car, could be disastrous.

She asked if the scratching post in the corner was the only one we had. If we wanted him to stop destroying the stair carpet, she said, he needed more scratching poles, and taller ones.

‘Isn't that one tall enough?' I asked, worrying that the house already resembled a pet shop.

‘See how long his body is?' Vivienne said. ‘That pole isn't nearly tall enough for him to stretch out properly against and have a good scratch. And have you thought about getting an outside enclosure for him?'

‘You mean a
cage
?' I asked, even more dispirited.

‘I've seen some amazing cat runs,' Vivienne said, scribbling phone numbers on our kitchen note pad. ‘Take a look on the web, or try some of these people.'

Which is how, a week before the wedding, Jonah became the luckiest cat in the neighbourhood. A fresh delivery of scratchers, balls, puzzles and an infrared torch for chasing red dots made us look even more overrun by a cat.

When the world's tallest cat scratcher was delivered, Jonah circled it first with curiosity, then delight.

Vivienne's assessment had been spot on. Not only did he relish stretching his body out against the length of the ridiculously tall pole, he loved sitting on the platform at the top, which put him at the perfect height to preside over family meals. When the girls were cooking or doing dishes, they slid Jonah on his pole into the kitchen where he inspected their activities with the authority of an Egyptian slave-driver overseeing the construction of the pyramids.

Soon after (and despite Philip's fear it was going to be ugly) an elaborate cat run was erected in the back garden. From a cat door inside a laundry cupboard, Jonah emerged into a wire mesh tower that led him through several metres of tunnel above the iceberg roses which ended up in a larger tower near the olive trees. The second tower was a substantial enclosure containing several wooden ledges and two cat hammocks. To complete the luxury lodge, the girls and I planted bunches of cat grass under the hammocks.

I was relieved Mum was no longer around to witness this spectacle of feline worship.

Joy

A mother's greatest moment is to see her child happy

Enamel sky arched over the pre-wedding barbecue in our back garden. With Jonah safely inside his run, we threw open the French doors. It was a perfect evening, if a little hot.The drought remained so severe I didn't bother apologising about the dusty patch where grass should be.

Guests gazed curiously at the new cat run and its handsome inmate while Philip cooked up mountains of prawns, steak and designer sausages. The girls laboured over salads in the kitchen. I was secretly proud of Lydia's skill in the kitchen these days. Like all top chefs, she could rustle up a curry or a batch of melting moments without any signs of effort. She was practically a domestic goddess, apart from a tendency to leave the bench top in a mess. But that was a minor quibble.

It was great to see Mary again, along with her husband Barry and their grown-up children. Our old friends and neighbours from Wellington, Ginny and Rick de Silva, arrived in a blaze of laughter. Ginny, Rick and their son Jason had been such a source of strength to Rob and I after Sam's death, having them at Rob's wedding brought a sense of completion – and a reminder to open another bottle of champagne.

When Rob and Lydia's father Steve arrived with his wife Amanda and their daughter Hannah, it was good to be reminded my ex-husband had moved on and found contentment. His response was offhand when I thanked him again for paying for Lydia's return to Australia while I was in hospital. He probably thought it an inappropriate subject to mention just now.

Sitting alongside his lovely fiancée on the circular seat under the tree, Rob looked so happy. I was touched, too, that so many of his school friends had travelled thousands of kilometres for the occasion. Among them were the boys Rob had gone on a road trip into the outback with not long after his surgery. Most of them were grown-up now and married to good-hearted women. From that group, Rob had chosen his oldest friend, Andrew, to be his best man.

Music, laughter, dreams and reminiscences. As the sky faded to pink, only one individual made it clear he wasn't enjoying the celebration. Standing on the top ledge inside his five-star cabana, Jonah yowled to be let out.

We rose early next morning and hurled clothes into suitcases. A country wedding sounds simple. We'd been so intoxicated by the notion of celebrating in a hilltop convent, we hadn't realised how obsessive we'd need to be about details.

A lot of overseas guests had arrived crazed with jet lag and with no idea how to get to Daylesford. Philip did the maths and allocated them into available cars. Lydia opted to travel with Steve and Amanda. Katharine squeezed in with the de Silvas and us. Rob and Chantelle had made arrangements with their friends.

The responsibility of transporting the bridal gown from my study cupboard to the country was so great only the bride herself was willing to take it on. When she arrived to collect her gown, she deposited a cat-carrying case on the family room floor. There wasn't a sound from the carry case, or from Jonah, who was casting a steely eye over it from his tallest scratching post.

All of a sudden the carry case burst open and a silvery creature rose into the air. We watched open-mouthed as Ferdie flew like a genie out of a bottle, straight at Jonah's face. Jonah sprang back, locking wiry limbs around the invader. The young cats tumbled to the floor and rolled over each other.

We didn't have time to work out if they were playing or fighting. Ferdie was the larger and stockier of the two. If they were enemies, Jonah was bound to come off worse. I hoped Vivienne would sort them out.

Just when it looked as if everything else was under control, the wedding cake was delivered. We'd assumed it would be in three separate tiers that could be farmed out to sit on obliging passengers' laps. But the cake's tiers were firmly glued together with icing roses. There was no room for such a lofty creation in any of the cars.

After several panicky phone calls we found out Chantelle's aunt, Trudy, had space in the back of her station wagon. It was fitting for Trudy to be bearer of the wedding cake since she was the one who'd arranged Rob and Chantelle's first date to a footy game nearly a decade earlier.

Ginny and Rick squeezed into our car and we joined a convoy of vehicles packed with wedding guests heading to the country. Wedged in the back with Katharine between us, Ginny and I reverted to the outrageous banter that'd sealed our friendship all those years ago while our men gazed good-naturedly at the scenery.

We stopped at Mount Macedon, where we'd arranged to rendezvous for lunch with other wedding cars. Dry wind blasted like a fan heater through the tree-lined street. There were extreme fire warnings throughout Victoria and the temperature in Daylesford was predicted to be in the high 30s. When we first moved to Australia, hot weather had distressed me. Though it didn't worry me much anymore, I did wonder how anyone survived before air-conditioning. Maybe those who weren't tough simply melted. I hoped our visitors from temperate climates weren't going to faint inside the chapel tomorrow.