The fox sits down like a dog, watching me. His fur is in perfect condition, fiery red-gold and white. He’s a creature of the wood, and he doesn’t go hungry. He doesn’t give up and lie in a hole with only his memories, like I am doing. In a way he’s teaching me something.
I glance at the tiny white tuft of Jessica’s fur. And I can hear her sweet voice in my head, and she’s saying, ‘It’s no good just sitting there. You’ve got to go at him. Be a dragon.’
I don’t know where the strength is coming from but suddenly I am on fire. I charge out at the fox, right up to him. I scream at him and slash his nose with a paw made of iron. Again. And again. He yelps like a puppy. He turns and runs away. I stand there like the king of the wood.
It is morning now, and I’ve been awake all night watching for the fox. Hunger echoes through my body, but I so need to sleep in the morning sun. I am very, very lonely. I want Ellen. I want Jessica. I want the amber velvet cushion. I must be the coldest cat in the world, and the saddest.
Another day dawns.
The snow is melting now, and at midday the sun shines for a while. I venture out looking for food and find a crust of white bread that a bird has dropped. It is mouldy but I eat every single crumb. I go to look at the caravan. Will Ellen be there? In my mind I hear her sweet voice cry out my name and welcome me back. But the door is closed, the curtains drawn over every window, and there is tape over the cat flap. Sadness fills my being and I mooch about, my tail down, hoping to find something that will comfort me. Underneath, behind one of the wheels, I discover a very old dead mouse that Jessica had stashed there. Too exhausted to eat it, I carry it back to the badger hole in my mouth. It will do for my breakfast if nothing else turns up. In the evening I can see the sunset between the trees and I watch for Jessica’s star. It is there like a bright spirit shining in the twilight. I watch it rising behind the ash trees until I fall asleep.
It is moonlight outside and I can hear music and lots of footsteps coming down the lane. Something is different. I peer outside and see a lantern bobbing above the hedge. The music gets louder. I sit up. I remember that song.‘Silent Night, Holy Night’. Ellen used to sing that. Perhaps it is Christmas. Oh I loved Christmas. I used to get given a catnip mouse and a ball with a little bell inside. Jessica and I had one each and we played for hours. Then Jessica would shred all the wrapping paper and drag it under the sofa. I try to go to sleep, but in the middle of the night I hear the church bells ringing.
Another morning, another dawn, and it is frosty. Yes, it must be Christmas Day. I know because I hear those bells ringing again and the sound of carols being sung. And the distant village smells of roast potatoes. I used to get given a plate of chopped-up turkey with gravy. But this Christmas is the worst week of my life. Surely a cat shouldn’t be all alone on Christmas Day? I’m getting angry. And where is my angel?
The day passes into night. Then morning. The hunger is deep and painful now. I am listless and weak, but I am still managing to wash. It’s not fun because my fur is coming out. It’s all over the place in the badger hole, and I’ve got some bare patches on my back and along my tail. Today the weather is still and I could go out, but I can’t be bothered. I’d rather lie in here and die.
Where IS that angel? I close my eyes and purr for a while, and think hard about my angel. What did she look like? I begin to visualise the haze of shimmering light, I imagine the tingle of her stardust through my fur, I listen for her voice, and suddenly she is there. She has been there all the time; I just haven’t been using my psi sense.
‘Please help me,’ I say to her. ‘I’m dying. And I’m only a young cat.’
There is a silence. My angel is sending me energy and love. But it’s not helping my wretched cold and starving body. It’s not healing my troubled mind. Then she answers, and she says something I did not expect.
‘You must help yourself, Solomon.’
She says no more. I lie there, angry, processing this information. Help myself indeed. But I’m a smart cat, and maybe I can figure out what to do. I can’t do a big thing. But I can do a small thing. I’ll do it. I’ll stop this diary of self-pity and help myself. I’m going to start meowing, as long as I can, for as long as I have to.
[Êàðòèíêà: img_12]
IF CATS COULD CRY
At first the meows I did were a bit modest, but once I got into it, they were LOUD. I tried to make them more like a cry than a yowl. I sent the cry echoing through the winter landscape, into the caravans and the cottages and the lanes. Now and again I paused to listen.