Lion Called Christian (3 page)

On December 15, 1969, we received a telephone call to say we could collect Christian unexpectedly a few days early because Christian and his sister had escaped into the adjoining carpet department in the middle of the night and destroyed some goatskin rugs that were part of a Christmas display. We collected Christian the next day, walking him out through the staff exit on a leash. The staff waved good-bye, no doubt relieved that their responsibilities were over. With Christian sitting majestically and deceptively still on the back seat of the car, we drove off toward the King's Road, extremely happy and nervously excited, but with an unvoiced suspicion and fear that we had committed ourselves to something that could prove just too big for us.

I
t is a short drive from Harrods in Knightsbridge to Sophistocat in Chelsea, but after months in a cage, Christian's world must have suddenly assumed the most enormous proportions. Frightened and confused in the car, he scrambled all over us, and we had to stop frequently, having no idea how we could begin to control him. We tried to placate him with a huge teddy bear that we had bought him as a welcoming present, but his total lack of interest in it left us helpless. Eventually we arrived at Sophistocat, where friends waited impatiently. We carried him into the shop, and Christian, now much calmer, padded around investigating everything and cleverly evaded all the hands that tentatively and incredulously reached down to pat him. He seemed only mildly disoriented and focused most of his attention on us, for having played with him at Harrods after hours, we presumably represented the only link with his immediate past. We spent most of the night playing with him. Christian was ours.

A resident lion in the King's Road, Chelsea, was not too surprising. In the 1960s London had become a Mecca for designers, musicians, artists, photographers, writers, and many creative people and hangers-on, who were all part of "Swinging London." The Beatles, David Bowie, and the Rolling Stones were familiar sights around Chelsea. Fashion designers of the time included Mary Quant, Barbara Hulaniki at Biba, Zandra Rhodes, Ossie Clarke, and Michael Fish. Exotic animals were part of this quite glamorous mix. In addition to Margot, the puma, we knew of a serval cat that lived nearby, while the casino owner John Aspinall kept tigers and gorillas. For a mile from Sloane Square, the King's Road was scattered with trendy clothes shops, restaurants, clubs, and antique markets. The facade was ephemeral, but the basic character remained the same--superficial and pretentious, but great fun and not without attraction. Every Saturday the road was blocked by a self-conscious parade of people and expensive cars. Tourists came to watch, while the others, in beautiful or flamboyant clothes, came to be watched. While the clothes were fun to wear at the time, in retrospect most of us were fashion victims, and we view the more recent revisiting of 1970s retro fashion with amused embarrassment.

Sophistocat sold antique pine furniture and was situated in a curious area called the World's End, which historically marked the point where King Charles II's Road and protection from highwaymen ended. A raffish tradition that lingered on. A long way down the King's Road, the World's End was becoming part of fashionable Chelsea, and the locals resented the growing intrusion of a few smart antique and clothes shops, which included Nigel Weymouth's Granny Takes a Trip and Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren's boutique then called Seditionaries, later Sex, and now World's End. Punk music and clothes would soon emerge from our grungier end of the King's Road.

Within two days Christian seemed to have fully adjusted to his new surroundings. Any initial inhibitions had vanished, and the teddy bear was already in a million pieces. He obviously enjoyed his greater freedom in this large two-level shop, and was much less boisterous without his sister. There was no indication that he missed her; perhaps we were some form of substitute, and having none of the indifference common to most cats, he wanted to be near us. Lions are not as disdainful as other cats, and are more doglike in their sociability. Lions simply
know
they are number one and just assume superiority. Now four months old, thirty pounds, and about two feet long, he was a larger-than-life teddy bear. He loved being carried and cuddled, and his paws would gently reach around our necks and his tongue lick our faces. He had soft, tawny-colored fur and was surprisingly heavily spotted. Although he was well coordinated, his paws, head, and ears were disproportionately large for the rest of his body, giving an indication of the size and strength of the animal he would grow into. But it was his beautiful, round, rust-colored eyes that dominated his appearance. He had a delightful, placid nature, and was so easy to manage that we felt we had over-dramatized the problems of owning a lion. He was even housetrained. With the fastidiousness of all cats, he and his sister had used the same corner of their cage at Harrods, so we were optimistic. In one of the rooms in the basement we had installed a heater and put blankets for him to sleep on. In a corner we placed an improvised lion-size kitty litter tray. After two days of making indiscriminate puddles and messes, which we followed each time by a smack and then carrying him to the tray, this problem was solved. He quickly learned his name, and "no." It all seemed too easy.

He was adaptable and responsive to routine. His day began about 8 A.M. when one of us came downstairs. Although it seemed unnatural, quite often he had to be woken, and a sleepy, blinking little lion would affectionately greet us and walk unsteadily over to squat on his tray. Then it was time to be fed. His first and last meals of the day were a mixture of baby foods: Gomplan, Farex, and milk, with Abidec drops for additional vitamins. Sandy Lloyd, the assistant at Harrods Zoo, had adored the cubs and looked after them extremely well, and she provided us with a carefully balanced diet for Christian. Two main meals, given to him late in the morning and in the early evening, consisted of three quarters of a pound of raw meat, a raw
egg
, and a spoonful of bone meal to prevent a calcium deficiency. We varied the meat and occasionally gave him an unskinned rabbit. Christian always carried the skin around Sophistocat for several days until it finally disintegrated or the smell was too overwhelming. And he enjoyed having huge bones to play with and gnaw, and as there was no competition from other animals, we could safely handle his food as he ate.

We were to find that people's preconceptions about lions were often proved wrong. For example, it is a fallacy that it is dangerous to give an animal such as a lion raw meat, which supposedly would turn them into "man-eaters." We rather enviously eyed the delicious fillet steaks that a French chef sometimes brought in for Christian. The chef loved lions and of course had access to plentiful supplies of meat. The quantity of meat Christian required increased weekly, and he became so expensive to feed that we regretted not making him a vegetarian!

He was inexhaustibly playful and had a variety of toys and rubber balls scattered all over the shop and in the basement. Wastepaper baskets were a great favorite, first to be worn on the head, totally obscuring his sight, and then ripped apart. We had to buy him hardy toys, for the average life of a normal teddy bear was about two minutes. He demanded our constant attention and it was impossible to ignore him. If one of us was reading a newspaper or on the telephone, Christian would immediately climb up onto his lap. Sophistocat was a jungle of furniture, and he incessantly stalked us through it, becoming expert at creating games. He knew we would not allow him to jump on us, but he would cleverly maneuver himself into a position behind a piece of furniture so that it appeared as if we were in fact temptingly hiding from him. Then with a clear conscience he would charge and leap at us. We developed a habit of glancing nervously over our shoulders. If we noticed him frozen in a crouched position with intent mischievous eyes, he would nonchalantly pretend to clean his paws, rather irritated that his fun had been spoiled, for the game was to stalk and catch us unawares. Very quickly we could usually predict what his intentions were from the expression in his eyes. He was always entertaining and amusing but very exhausting and demanding.

When we played with him we discouraged him from being too boisterous or over-excited, and we did not wrestle roughly with him or encourage him to chase us. We never let him realize the point at which he had become physically stronger than us and could harm us. We avoided and ignored any overt demonstrations of his superior strength. Sometimes while playing, if he had us in an awkward or dominant "alpha" position on the ground, he could instinctively sense his advantage and got a surge of energy and determination that would alarm us and seem to mystify him.

He looked forward each morning to the arrival of Kay Dew, the daily cleaner, for he was certain she had been provided for his enjoyment. He chased her brooms, rode on the vacuum cleaner, and stole or ate her dusters. She handled him very well, but warily watched the Farex and Complan smudges grow higher on the windows and glass doors.

When Christian first came to the King's Road, he was small enough to run around the shop with our customers. They rarely took seriously our initial warning, "Do you have any objection to lions?" One disbelieving woman, on seeing one of Christian's bones, said, "That bone is at least lion-sized." "That's what we tried to tell you--look behind you." She watched incredulously as Christian ambled past to claim his bone. Usually it was good for business, and the owners of Sophisticat were incredibly tolerant. Even the English had to react to a lion cub stretched out on the antique pine table they were contemplating buying. Most people were delighted, and no one complained about the occasional laddered stockings or torn trousers. Many women customers returned with skeptical husbands and friends, and carloads of children on Saturdays, which were busy anyway with the usual King's Road Parade. Sophistocat suddenly acquired an unwelcome zoo or circus-like atmosphere. To dispel this, Christian had to spend most of the day in the basement, and only the particularly disappointed, or the particularly attractive, could persuade us to take them downstairs to see him.

Every afternoon he went to the garden in the nearby Moravian Close for exercise. Harrods had given us a collar and leash for him, and while the collar looked incongruous, it was necessary as it made it easier to hold him, and he quickly forgot about it. At first we tried to walk him to the garden on his leash, as it was only three hundred yards away. But he never walked, just sprinted for a few yards and then resolutely sat down. He was frightened of the traffic, and people crowded around him. We dreaded meeting other animals, for although he did not appear very interested in them, they were still a diversion. For the first few weeks we could just pick him up and carry him, but he soon grew much heavier, and the short walk became an ordeal. While it would have been easier if he had walked on a leash, it was unfair to expect such unnatural behavior from a lion, so we did not persist, and resorted to driving him there in the car, or in the Sophistocat van. He was always manageable in both, but restless, as lions can never fully accept any form of restriction.

The garden was ideal. No humans, no animals, and it was surrounded by a high brick wall. This wall dates from the seventeenth-century Tudor period, and the present studios and the old Moravian chapel in the garden are built on the foundations of Sir Thomas More's stables. After a succession of eminent owners, Sir Hans Sloane sold the property in 1750 to Count Zinzendorf of Saxony, who bought the land to found a Moravian settlement in England. The Moravians, who were among the first independent Protestants, formed their brotherhood in 1457 when they protested against the moral corruption and political activity of the Roman Catholic Church in Bohemia. They take the name Moravians, rather than Bohemians, from the group of refugees from Moravia who settled on Count Zinzendorf's estate in Saxony in 1722. The Count's son, Christian Renatus, Count of Zinzendorf and Pottendorf, is buried in the garden. Actually it is a graveyard, but the Moravians bury their dead very unostentatiously--vertically, with modest horizontal headstones--so this was not at all obvious. Looking back, we do feel a little guilty about playing in a graveyard.

There was a large area of grass for Christian to play, and trees and hedges to hide behind. Interestingly, it took several weeks for him to adjust to all the space, and initially he would not go out into the center of the garden, away from the protection of the hedges. But then the garden became his established territory, and he adored it. He loved chasing and jumping on us, but we thought this was an inadvisable habit to encourage in a lion, so we kicked soccer balls for him to chase instead. He was remarkably fast, and beautifully coordinated. He would run after the ball, pounce on it, and dramatically roll over and over with it. The few times it snowed, he loved skidding through it and was not worried by the cold. We spent about an hour each day at the garden, which seemed adequate, for he was rarely reluctant to return to Sophistocat. Besides, it was time for his favorite entertainment.