Tosh 2

 Continued from earlier post (about ten minutes ago!!!!)

Four weeks later we drove back to the corn maze to pick up the cats. In four weeks, the tiny little balls of bouncy podginess had grown a lot. Kittens they were still, but not mewling, miaowing and puking little helpless things. Instead, even though they were still very young (probably about 8 weeks), what we met were two young cats – quite leggy, slim, fit-looking, mistrustful, suspicious, alert, not friendly, wary, wild eyed even and possibly angry and I suspect they’d already killed or at least had live prey to play with. The farmer had tried to socialize them (which is probably why they did not direct their subsequent attacks on the jugular vein) but with about 20 kittens to try to socialize with these cats ‘being used to humans’ (I cant use the word ‘domesticated’)  meant more -  in the boy cat’s case  - that he didn’t bite as well as scratch when I picked him up,  and in the female’s case it meant that she only bared fangs, glared and hissed at us without actually attacking. Fortunately though, both responded very well to being grabbed by the scruff of the neck, going meek almost immediately – which I know think was the flip side of their wildness as the firm neck scruff bite is how older cats control younger cats - so we were able to put them in a cardboard box, bung them in the back of the car and take them straight home without even a stop at the excellent Timmies.

Back at the apartment we gently emptied the Wildlings (not kittens) out of the cardboard box, showing them first the water and food we’d laid on for them in the kitchen as a welcoming present,  and the little beds we’d bought and the litter tray , and then stepped back to give them a bit of space.  We’d prepared for the cats by reading assiduously and we knew this – stepping back – was the right thing to do and that we should’nt crowd them but let them come to us, which they would, probably by later that night. We knew this because we’d had a few good evening trips to Chapters (this was still the days when not all knowledge rested on the internet) and picked up a few books about cat care. We’d also consulted trusty friends and contacted a vet (to register) and picked up leaflets so we kind of knew what to expect – a cute but  tentative sniff round their new abode (because kittens are curious) then an exhausted and ultra- cute flop a bit later (because kittens get sleepy) on the cutest pillow in the house. So after placing them in the kitchen, we stepped back, as mentioned – a little distance away, into the living room and kind of half – watched waiting for the cuteness to begin. The cats looked at eachother, looked at the food, then looked at eachother again. Then they looked at us, sitting on the couch in the living room (it was an open plan apartment) with as much distrust as if they were Wittgenstein’s lions and we’d asked them to compose a limerick. Then they ran away down the hallway of the apartment and disappeared for two days. I have to say that although this wasn’t how things were supposed to ‘go down’, the ability they showed in totally disappearing over the next two days - in small two bedroom apartment - was impressive. Sometimes we found them in weird places – like they somehow managed to hide under a couch (we still have it) that is no more that 1” from the floor – but when it was obvious they didn’t want to come out, we didn’t try looking too hard.  My guess is wherever they were hiding they hid together because for most of the rest of their lives they’d sleep together. 

Quickly the Wildings grew. I wont tell Calli’s story here – that’s for another time and in fact I have already told of her time in the apartment on this blog – but Tosh grew and grew. He grew bigger and bigger and he grew more affectionate but only to us and Calli. He was never a particularly curious, funny/cute cat – at least in the apartment and my guess is he was a bit bored there. We got a real tree which we brought into the apartment and he would climb it but in the apartment he spent a lot of time lolling round. He liked wresting and fighting with us as we played so always had toys which he’d shred with his back legs but in Ontario he was the quieter of the two cats. This changed when we moved to England late in about 2007. 

When RHB got a job ‘back’ in England, there was never any question of whether the cats would come. The only question was the way they’d come which at the time was that they either would have to spend months in quarantine on arrival in the UK or that we got them a passport. Quarantine was by far the cheaper and less effortful solution but it was of course out of the question, so for half a year we took the cats to the local vets for injections and blood tests which certified them free of rabies, Feline HIV and other diseases. This animal friendly and humane approach to cat emigration all went very well until we actually flew to England from Toronto. We had engaged a company that described itself as ‘experts’ in international animal re-location, booked the cats on to the same flight as us (on their advice) and planned the journey to be as stress free as possible with water bowls, a favourite toy and a comfy lining to each cat’s box. All we had to do, on arrival at Pearson airport was take the cats to the cat check-in, hand them over then pick them up at Manchester. Or so we thought.

What actually happened that on arrival at cat check-in we were told that we had to deliver our cats to cargo handling where, we were told, we could drop the cats off at the pre-departure point, ready for the flight. As we followed directions, tensions rose as it became obvious that we’d been directed to a massive warehouse. Once there, there was no no dedicated pre-departure point for animals and no-one to speak to, just some warehouse guys in dirty overalls wearing ear defenders. For minutes, no one would talk to us – everyone we approached waved us away impatiently. Finally, one man listened impatiently for just long enough that he understood what we were asking, then told  tell us to put the cat boxes on the diesel covered floor of the echoing warehouse next to a pile of boxes. We put the cat boxes down, he nodded and walked off. Then another warehouse guy waved us out of the warehouse so we had to leave, looking back only to see and hear fork-lifts barging round belching smoke, men shouting, klaxons blaring and the harsh dirty glare of inadequate fluorescents throwing little pools of light onto the floor. And two little pair of eyes peering, terrified. The flight was – for us – terrible, although my fears that the cats had simply been forgotten were allayed by a solicitous member of the cabin crew assured us the cats were in the pressurized hold. Once assured, all I wanted to do was land and get to the new apartment (which we hadn’t seen) as quickly as possible.

In Hull, in the new apartment Toshack changed. The apartment was on the ground floor and had a window in the kitchen which let out onto the car park which in turn led out to a very large overgrown Edwardian garden, more like a park really which backed onto our apartment building. After the three requisite weeks of settling in, the cats were let out accompanied by us and we’d wander towards this garden and away from the road so they were introduced back into ‘the wild’ after three years of being cooped up in a tenth floor flat. When we were happy they would wander in the right direction (away from the road) , and for about a year, they’d go out the window on their own and disappear into the park, coming back hours later. This was the start of Toshack’s prime. He was about six, was very strong, dominant and – as I found out - utterly fearless. On one occasion I wandered into the overgrown garden to try to find him because the cats had been gone so long. The garden lay hidden, a kind of secret no-mans land inbetween the huge rear gardens of  massive, formerly-grand, three story Edwardian houses that fronted two parallel leafy avenues in Hull’s bohemian suburb where lecturers gardened organically and shabby chic was all the rage. With the overgrown garden and the local tendency toward the ‘natural’ in gardens, there were all sorts of nooks and crannies for a cat to explore. I – worried as usual – sat on the 8ft wall of the secret garden, hoping my cats were ok and that they’d just appear. Naturally they didn’t, so after a few anxious moments, I jumped into the secret garden, conscious that I was trespassing (it belonged to the biggest mansion in the Avenues). I crept along, trying not make noise while whispering their names, trying not to be scared for me (of getting caught) or for the cats (of an unimaginable fate) but mostly hoping they’d show up. They did, sort of. 

The first thing that happened was that I heard a horrible shriek, clearly cat and – I am convinced to this day – I immediately recognized the shriek as Calli. But I didn’t have time for feelings of dread because a little calico streak came flying through the grass about fifty feet ahead of me, running, unusually for a cat, in a straight line and full pelt. Hardly time to register that it was Calli because she whipped right past me, flew over the eight foot wall and disappeared. But all of this happened to my perceptions, at the same time as a beautiful fox came running from the same direction as Calli and a big pink streak exploded out of the grass to my right charging towards the fox. It was Toshack. There was no warning, no feint, no noise and no stopping. He just charged. The fox pulled up but Tosh carried on charging. He leapt at the fox, no hesitation, no arched back performance and with paws swinging, going for the face. The fox jumped straight up, there was a kind of mid-air scrambled twisting of both, which landed in a heap then the fox ran. Tosh – who’d landed facing the wrong way from his perspective (away from the fox) , twisted round faked-to-chase then stopped. He sat on the path, bolt upright, quivering, ears up (which was really weird). Then he hunkered down. His tail was massively puffed up and I was really wary of him, or maybe I was wary of approaching him, but I whispered his name. He looked round at the fifth whisper. I shook the treats I’d brought with me and he wanted over, lifted his paw and gulped down about six. Then we went home. 

A large part of me wonders whether what I witnessed was during a period of (for me) stress so that I mis-saw things or misremember them. It is very possible.  I was unemployed at the time, had stopped playing music and hated England. When I get stressed I do tend to do something which I now recognize as ‘dissociation’ so that the world becomes to a greater or lesser extent, unreal. And although afterwards I searched the internet (for hours) on cat behavior, this behavior, not just of Tosh but also of the fox, seems really unusual. Cats and foxes usually do not fight. Cats almost never, as far as I can tell, launch all out attacks with no warning. So maybe, what happened was that Tosh was running away from something else and he and the fox met accidentally, both got a surprise, reacted then they put space between eachother. This seems the most plausible explanation. Except that on two other occasions, once in the same apartment building, then years later when we were very settled in Large Mansions, I saw him apparently attack again, only this time he attacked dogs. On both occasions I was with him from the start to the end of the incident. On both occasions, we came across the dog quite suddenly as all parties (me and cat, dog-owner and dog) converged ‘pon a corner from different directions. On both occasions, he hunkered down, hissed and bared his fangs then attacked, straight at the dog’s face without much time between phases of the attack. 

 I'm going to nearly end this now...I realise its a sudden end. But most of this and the previous post was written in the immediate aftermath of Tosh dying. I didnt post it at the time partly because of how self indulgent and boring to other people it had become. But also because my Dad's health has taken a sudden turn for the (much) worse. So trips to Liverpool have taken over - hospitals, bed-sides and the likes. And now we're well into a prognosis which gave my dad 3 months to live (a month and a half ago). That's kind of taken over..

But I do want to remember the last moments with Tosh so stop reading if this is upsetting or oversentimental for non-animal lovers...

Tosh was an old, arthritic cat by May 2019. He's lived and fought and killed well..he'd even tried to fuck his sister on a regular basis for a few years despite having a vastectomy (we didnt castrate him) until after getting seriously mauled by her for about the 987th time he stopped  - so  I dont expect cats would ask for more form life really. But by 2018 even, he was not a well cat. We (myself and RHB) eschewed vacations because we felt his care was more important ...so apologies to anyone who was expecting visits in this period but he needed looking after. Our expectation probably for about three months before he died, was that one morning we would wake up and he would be asleep permantently.  SO I suppose we should have taken him to the vets and 'made a decision' in either March, April or May of this year. But he was eating, he was playing, he was affectionate and vocal as usual and an enhtusiast for all his regular routines. He was just gradually getting thinner and doing things more slowly. Then, one weekend, Nel went away for a conference on Friday 24th May. Tosh was ok. I woke up on Saturday 25th May and he wasnt particularly ok but was still ok. he was eating and everything, just a lot slower. I woke up on 26th May and he wasnt ok. He really, really wasnt. 

He went outside in the pouring rain and crawled under a bush. I kind of knew. Actually I definitely knew.  I left him for a bit, panicking and walking roudn the kitchen crying. Then I went outside and dug him out of the bush. He could'nt really move. He lay on the kitchen floor, panting. His beautiful fur was soaked and bedraggled and he would'nt groom. His beautiful paws were filthy and he would'nt groom. I sat with him on the kitchen floor and cried my eyes out as I dried and groomed him. I begged him to eat. Begged him to eat some chicken and perk up. That was stupid of me. Then I took him to the emergency vet. There was no other thing to be done. He miaowed, almost angry, at the last minute - Tosh never liked being messed with and didnt like the vet, so despite the fact that he was sedated, when the vet attached the syringe to the cannula, he miaowed in protest. Just so Tosh - break my heart right at the end and make me think this was all a terrible mistake. The vet looked at me and I nodded and a beautifully coloured golden liquid left the syringe and he did , he really did, 'go to sleep' , peacefully, beautifully. 

I'm not religious. Which is why I mourn and celebrate and love Tosh's life as much as any other, including humans. We lived together, for eachother and with eachother.

Toshack

Tosh in Ontario as a barn kitten

 I wanted to write this somewhere and I dont care if anyone is interested ...Facebook seems to be the place these day to record things but although I might post on FB, it is not the place for this post.

Toshack died on Sunday 26th May about 2:30pm. He was my cat and I want to remember him.

In his prime - about seven years old

About four - still a kitten with his sister Calli, who, as I write does not really look any different. 

For Tosh cat (about 2005 to June 2019)

Toshack was – quite literally – born in a barn. More precisely, but not that precisely, he was born in a barn on a farm in Ontario, about 40 minutes west of London, Ont. How Tosh came to be living with us was accidental. Our little nephew Ethan, who was seven at the time, was visiting us from England with his mum Sue. To be honest, Western Ontario (or maybe London, Ontario) isn’t that great a place for kids to visit for a holiday. The Great Lakes are hours away, cottage country is hours and hours away and the hinterland of London is a flat, flat, flat boring scruffy landscape, criss-crossed by boring, flat straight roads. There is almost nothing of interest – at least to us and our tastes – ‘to see’. We know this because Nel and I used to – when we first arrived – pick a point on a map and head out for a drive to see what’s out and there you have to drive to go anywhere in Ontario. This technique had worked - in the past - over four cities and two continents in the sense that practically everywhere else we’d lived we’d come across unknown (at least to us) gems like Rutland Water in Leicestershire, the Musquadobit Trail in Nova Scotia and  abandoned railway lines and hidden corners in one of  Liverpool’s numerous parks. Even when our ‘stick a pin in a map’ technique meant that where we ended up was shit, it was interestingly shit – the ‘boondocks’ in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia and Hornsea (now) in Yorkshire being examples. 

In Ontario, it  failed utterly. Everywhere was shit. This does’nt mean we did not have a great time in our five years because the people we met there were awesome – CCP, Jodie Culham, the Oxford Arms Scousers in Exile crew, my ‘cousin’ Maurice Sheenan (cousin by Irish rules), beautiful Ken and lovely Eric. We even had the requisite number of nemeses (at least I did) namely the Root family, Fatty Carpenter, the scag-head living down the hall in our apartment building and there were even fascists in the shape of an unhealthy number of Empire Loyalists who provided the necessary hidden enemy. So we ate, drank, talked and lived quite happily but really didn’t go anywhere. It was just not a good place for people to visit or for pootling about. This was especially the case when Ethan and Sue visited because Ontario is all about the money and because of this, ‘work’ means ‘work’, so employers took the hair-shirted ‘two week vacation’ rule very seriously and we could not get any time off. Because we had spent the whole two weeks visiting family in England the year when Ethan and Sue visited we were working so didn’t even have time to do a ‘quick’ 8 hour drive to somewhere interesting for an overnight stay. 

We managed to snatch a day out though, at the weekend probably, and this is how we met Tosh. We’d heard, from a friend, about a corn-maze ‘somewhere off the 401’ so one mid-morning, probably a Saturday and with a ‘how bad can it be’ attitude we pointed the car west. About forty minutes later we were at a corn maze. For a change, and for Ontario, it had promise. The sign at the gate was hand painted, a piece of 4’ x 4’ ply nailed wonkily to a post. There was no-one else there. There wasn’t a car-park, a shop, a rest room, safety instructions, flyers, information signage, guide books or any of the other paraphernalia which usually accompanies, and ruins, anywhere worth visiting. Instead, about ¼ mile down a track into some fields, there was a dilapidated house, a dilapidated-er barn and some corn fields. Outside the barn was a rickety table and nice young woman, who along with her partner, ran the farm. After a quick – to the point of visitor rudeness by Canadian standards – 15 minute chat and handing over of a few loonies (because me and Ethan were a bit anxious to get on with the maze) we plunged into a field of corn and wandered round for a while.  

I, of course, emerged victorious from the maze about ¾ hour later  having explored every single blind alley (and despite what anyone might say I definitely wasn’t utterly and hopelessly lost) and when I did emerge I saw my comrades – who all claimed to have solved the maze in fifteen minutes - near the rickety table. They were playing with, and looking at, about 26 kittens who were running and tumbling through hay, mud and through cubicles in the barn under the watchful eye of three dams. To this day I am unsure who - from encountering these kittens – then came up with a plan,  because in the half hour  the others - AKA the maze-slackers -  had been ‘waiting’ for me as I diligently mapped the whole maize maze, a  plan had been mooted, profferred, mulled, negotiated and agreed so that by the time I got to the barn we had adopted two kittens. My only role in the decision was actually a job which was  to stick my nose into some of the kittens to see if I experienced an extreme allergic reaction (I am generally severely allergic to cats) which was – according to the agreement that had been made in my absence – the deal clincher. Ever willing to experience acute breathlessness, conjunctivitis, skin rashes and flea bites in the interests of the greater good, I picked up one, stuck my face into its fur and took a long deep breath. As this was a scientific test (and as RHB is a scientist) the operation was repeated a number of times until the negotiating team were satisfied that a wide enough sample had been taken so that a severe allergic reaction would be inevitable if this variant of cat was the type I was allergic too. As I was more allergic than RHB it could be assumed that if I was hospitalized as a result of the field work, the kittens would not be suitable in which case no further trials were necessary, so after the test I was ordered to stand still for a few minutes so that the rest of the team could watch (they probably used the word ‘observe’) me from a slight distance while life threatening symptoms did, or did not, develop. 

The drive home that day was fun. I was alive and not in agony, two kittens had been selected for collection in a few weeks (when they had been weaned) and there was a good Tim Hortons en route. Also, sometime during the drive home, we hatched a plan for a wider scale kitten adoption programme because it transpired (during negotiations which I had not been party to on account of my maze-related heroism) that the farmers had admitted to having no need for 26 kittens, only for about 2 or 3. The farmer was trying to rehome the rest. Over the next few weeks we - mostly RHB – let friends and work mates know about the corn maze and the kittens and the farmer, and as far as we know, most of the kittens were eventually rehomed. That’s how we met Tosh..