Paw Prints in the Moonlight (6 page)

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Authors: Denis O'Connor

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This was often the pattern of our evenings during the winter months as Toby grew from strength to strength and we became irrevocably attached to each other.
W
ith the coming of spring a whole new world opened up for Toby Jug and me in the northeast of England. In this part of the world, springtime brings more than just relief from winter, awakening the earth around us again in ways that more southern European climes enjoy for most of the year. The first greening of the trees and the bursts of vitality from crocuses, snowdrops and then daffodils in the gardens and woods are always welcome. I wanted Toby to enjoy to the full this first spring of his life. This particular springtime was especially anticipated because it would signify not only the passing of a severe winter but hopefully also mark the end of Toby Jug's life or death traumas. It was a time heralding hope that both he and I could take advantage of sunny days outdoors.
At first I didn't let him outside alone in the garden because I was afraid something might attack him. There were hawks and crows about, as well as weasels and foxes, and I was very much aware that Toby Jug wasn't big or strong enough to protect himself, nor was he at this stage sufficiently aware of danger or mobile enough to run away.
I had become accustomed to taking him almost everywhere
I went in the cottage. Sometimes I just carried him in my hand or stuck him in the pocket of my wool cardigan with his head peeping out, so he could see what was happening. At other times I would place his jug near to where I was working, whether it was in the kitchen preparing food or at my desk in the study, so that he could keep me in sight. It was most important to him that he was able to see me wherever I was in the cottage – if he couldn't he would set up a rumpus which was out of all proportion to his size. His wails were no longer so feeble that they could not penetrate walls, even walls as thick as those in my cottage. Therefore, when I was at home I tried not to aggravate him by leaving him alone. It also made me feel guilty whenever he became distressed. I felt totally responsible for him and I liked to have him with me anyway.
He was not as yet physically robust enough to be given the freedom to run around the cottage on his own. There were lots of places that I was sure would attract the attention of the kitten when he was in his actively curious mode. There were cracks in the old skirting board and holes near the water pipes where spiders dwelt and where an unwary miniature kitten might disappear. It would take no end of ingenuity to retrieve him without demolishing part of the cottage. I consequently decided that until he achieved a decent size and weight I would restrict his access to certain parts of the cottage.
With the improvement in the weather now that spring was here I felt that it was warm enough to allow Toby to venture into the garden, but at first I judged it better for safety's sake to only take him out in his jug. The garden of the cottage was extensive and varied and for Toby Jug it promised to be a cat-wonderland of scents and sights. When he was capable of exploring the garden he would discover a multitude of natural delights which were the products of my time and effort.
When I first bought the cottage in 1964 it was much in need of renovation and the garden was grossly overgrown. Two years later, when Toby Jug came into my life, I had succeeded in clearing the lawn of weeds and the shrubbery had been cut back to manageable proportions. As I reworked each section I concentrated on planting roses and plum trees near to the house. The latter had a special significance for me. On a working visit to Hong Kong some years earlier I had been introduced to the ancient Chinese art of plum-tree painting, which dates back over a thousand years. In keeping with my interest in gardening I bought a famous book on the subject and discovered that plum trees flower with fragrant and fragile blossoms and the trees grow into extraordinary and aesthetically pleasing shapes which are quite unlike other fruit trees. According to Chinese folklore they are said to endow a garden with spiritual blessings for joy and health. I became so enthralled by what I had read about the beauty of these trees that I made up my mind to buy and plant some of
them when I acquired a garden of my own. Now my plum trees, although still young, were beginning to assume what promised to be fascinating shapes and their blossoms, true to my expectations, were fragile flowers of sublime beauty.
In addition to plum trees I also planted a small orchard of apple, pear and cherry trees. I had also discovered a greengage tree in a local garden centre which I planted beside the plums. This veritable plethora of fruit trees meant that in early spring there was a display of blossom marvellous to behold. I also made a patio garden near to the back door of the cottage. Here I planted mulberry, blackthorn and some small crab-apple trees. In the centre of this small garden area I planted two dozen roses of various kinds selected for their perfume. This ensured that in both springtime and summer the garden adjacent to the cottage had plenty of colour and on a still evening the air was filled with sweet perfume.
Further into the garden I embarked upon an ambitious tree-planting project. Alder, white hawthorn, maple and old English oak were planted to border a winding gravel path leading up to the back fence where I had erected a summerhouse. The spaces between the trees were given over to lawn and plantations of bulbs of all manner of spring and summer flowerings. Behind the stone-built double garage I dug a vegetable plot, which was bordered by a stone slab patio, complete with a masonry barbecue. Around the entire perimeter of the huge garden and drive I had painstakingly erected a
seven-foot wooden fence. My intention was to create a private garden paradise. I imagined that when Toby Jug was eventually able to roam the garden he would have a whale of a time. He was a lucky cat because all of this was his to share and enjoy.
On evenings in late spring I loved to wander through the garden of fruit trees in blossom simply to gaze at their delicate flowers filled with coloured pollen dust and to feel at peace with life and the universe. Listening to the calming sound of their leaves as they stirred in the breeze was, for me, an insight into the splendour of creation. As the evening became night I liked to linger in the garden, especially when the sky was clear.
Later in the year, when Toby Jug was a mature cat, he loved to share my night-time excursions and surprised me by wanting to play games with me. He would disappear and then suddenly reappear from out of the darkness, charging at me, and then crouch in the grass before he reached me, inviting a chase. When I made a mock dash towards him, he would race away to leap up the garden fence and station himself on the top in his lord-of-the-manor pose. It was interesting to see how his cat nature emerged so strongly at nightfall. I was intrigued that he seemed to want me to play with him as if I was also a cat. But this was still in the future because for the present Toby Jug had a lot to learn about the garden and about the feast of wonderful experiences it had in store for him.
Whenever the weather permitted being outdoors at night, I was astounded at the countless stars I could see above me. The sight of this timeless universe always filled me with such wonder that it put my life and Toby Jug's into a very brief and insignificant perspective. At Owl Cottage, for the first time since childhood, I actually saw some shooting stars. The sight of them was a thrilling spectacle. I remembered to make a wish whenever I saw one.
Together Toby Jug and I could see all of this from the cottage garden, our window on the cosmos. To be here in this cottage garden and to experience all this was like a dream come true for the city boy who hated the enclosed boredom of school and played truant to wander through the woods and along the river banks (and was soundly beaten for it). Now I could indulge a keen delight in the freedom to enjoy nature as I wished. The prospect of sharing these wonders with Toby Jug gave my enjoyment of these simple pleasures a heightened perspective.
The daily happenings in the surroundings of the cottage had a prime quality about them which I stored in my mind. These included images of pipistrelle bats erupting from the eaves of the cottage and winging their dizzy flight-paths across the garden in the softening light of dusk. Or in the autumn twilight, a tawny owl calling from a nearby woodland copse whilst in the garden an adult female hedgehog, followed by two young ones, scoured the lawn, hunting for snails and
slugs. I was always amazed at how rapidly hedgehogs could move.
When I bought the cottage I was intrigued by its name, Owl Cottage. It was only when I came to strip away the thick canopy of overgrown ivy and Virginia creeper that choked the stone walls at the back of the cottage that the reason became apparent. On the end walls of each of the three gables there were stone-sculptured owls of Victorian design. One of them was a fat brown owl of benevolent countenance, while the one on the highest gable was a tall thin owl with a look of the hunter. The third owl was the smallest of the three and bore the finely chiselled melancholic expression of the proverbial wise owl. I became very fond of this feature and made certain that the concrete around their bases was in a good state of repair to ensure that they would not be blown down in a storm.
All of this – the old stone cottage, the cottage garden with its trees, flowers and the shrubs – Toby Jug inherited in his role as the house cat. It was his garden as well as mine. Cats love a garden because it reminds them of their natural habitat: a place where they can pretend to be a wild animal again but with the option to lead a domestic life of civilized comfort when they wish.
I was fortunate to have a home where I felt at one with the wild Northumberland landscape. Owl Cottage amply fulfilled most of the conditions I had in mind when I was first searching
for a rural property. Firstly, I had to be able to see trees from all of the windows and open doors. I have always loved to be near trees and to sense their living presence. In pagan times it was believed that each tree was governed by a spirit, something I don't find that hard to believe. When I'm gardening or sitting out in the garden, either in the early morning or late evening, I am always aware of each tree as a living presence. And as in the lyrics of the song from the musical
Paint Your Wagon
, I find it only natural that I should talk to them.
Another condition I had when I bought the property was that it had to be old and in this respect Owl Cottage suited admirably since it dated from the late eighteenth century. However, there must have been dwellings on the site before that because the road that passed outside the front of the cottage had been built over an aged horse-and-cart track linking the port of Amble to the many rural hamlets inland. There is a tale recounted from local folklore that Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson travelled on horseback along this track from his ship moored at Amble to meet up with his beloved Lady Hamilton at Linden Hall where she stayed as a guest of the Blackett family, who were important landed gentry. It is a romantic notion to think that the heroic admiral rode past my cottage door for his not-so-secret assignations. The local history of the area abounds in such tales, which serve to promote the aura of mystery that, traditionally, characterizes the Northumberland of bygone days.
One of the many selling points of the inside of Owl Cottage was the bathroom. It was an extension built out from the roof with a splendid wide-tiled windowsill spanning the whole width of the wall. Plenty of space here for toiletries and perhaps a houseplant or two, I thought when first viewing the property. Although I didn't know it at the time, plenty of space too for a certain cat to lounge in comfort. I also guessed that I would have a panoramic view of the sky when lying in the bathtub. But the best was yet to come. When I opened the window there was a breathtaking view of the Coquet Valley stretched out below. Over the tops of the huge trees, that would hide the river in summer, I was able to see far beyond to the hazy outline of the Cheviot Hills.
Further exploration of the cottage revealed a cramped attic bedroom which had an oval window facing east from which on a clear day I could just make out the blue outline of the North Sea about ten miles away. To my city-weary soul it was a sheer delight to consider the prospect of living in a place of such outstanding natural beauty. I set about buying it straightaway. When the deeds of the cottage arrived I was intrigued to read that it was forbidden to butcher a beast on the premises and that using the grounds for duelling would not be tolerated. Interestingly, though, I had noticed that some of the stones of the outside walls of the cottage were deeply scored as if they had been used to sharpen swords. Yet another romantic notion from the past!
Once it was mine, everything I discovered about the cottage enchanted me even though it required a lot of attention and much hard work and money to refurbish. Everything I did to improve it was a labour of love. The mysterious circumstance in which Toby Jug came into my life, I decided, was a good omen. It marked the end of the early years of professional striving and the solitude that usually goes with living in rented city flats. It also gave me a pet to care for and love. In return Toby Jug loved me with all the devotion of his being and filled an emotionally sterile gap in my life. An act of fate had brought us together and his struggle for survival helped me to evaluate what was of most importance in my own life.

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