Mr Pussy In Midwinter
At Midwinter, I publish this favourite tale of my beloved old cat, Mr Pussy
It is Midwinter’s Day, and tonight – the longest night of the year – Mr Pussy will not stir from the chimney corner. Warmed by the fire of burning pallets, he has no need of whisky to bring him solace through the dark hours, instead he frazzles his brain in a heat-induced trance. Outside in the streets, Spitalfields may lie under snow, the paths may be coated in sheet ice and icicles may hang from the gutters, but this spectacle holds no interest for Mr Pussy. Like the cavemen of ancient times, his sole fascination is with the mesmerising dance of flames in the grate. And as the season descends towards its nadir in the plunging temperatures of the frozen byways, at home Mr Pussy falls into his own warm darkness of stupefaction.
Mr Pussy is getting old. The world is no longer new to him and his curiosity is ameliorated now by his love of sleeping. Once he was a brat in jet black, now he is a gentleman in a chenille velvet suit, and tufts of white hairs increasingly fleck his glossy pelt. Toward the end of summer, I noticed he was getting skinny, and then I discovered that his teeth have gone which meant he could no longer crunch the hard biscuits that were always his delight. Extraordinarily, he made little protest at his starvation diet, even as he lost weight through lack of food. Now I fill his dish with biscuits and top it up with water, so that he may satisfy his hunger by supping the resulting slush. And through this simple accommodation – plus a supplement of raw meat – his weight is restored to normal and he purrs in gratification while eating again.
Once Mr Pussy was a wild rover, ranging over the fields in Devon, disappearing for days on end and returning proudly with a dead rabbit in his mouth. Now he does not step beyond the end of the alley in Spitalfields and in these sub-zero temperatures only goes outside to do his necessary business. Sprinting up the stairs, and calling impatiently outside the door of the living room, he is ever eager to return to the fireside and warm his cold toes afterwards, sore from scraping at the frost in the vain attempt to dig a hole in the frozen earth. Like a visionary poet, Mr Pussy has acquired a vivid internal life to insulate himself against the rigours of the world and, in the absence of sunlight, the fire provides his imaginative refuge, engendering a sublime reverie of peace and physical ease.
Yet Mr Pussy still loves to fight. If he hears cats screeching in the yard, he will race from the house to join the fray unless I can shut the door first and prevent him. And even when he has been injured and comes back leaking blood from huge wounds, he appears quite unconcerned. Only two small notches in his ears exist as permanent evidence of this violent tendency, although today I regularly check his brow for tell-tale scratches and recently he has acquired some deep bloody furrows that have caused swelling around his eyes. But I cannot stop him going out, even though it is a matter of concern to me that – as he ages and his reflexes lessen – he might get blinded in a fight one day, losing one of his soulful golden eyes. Since he is blissfully unaware of this possibility, I must take consolation from his response when he could not eat, revealing that Mr Pussy has no expectations of life and consequently no fear of loss. His nature is to make his best accommodation to any exigency with grace.
And be assured, Mr Pussy can still leap up onto the kitchen counter in a single bound. He can still bring in a live mouse from the garden when he pleases and delightedly crunch its skull between his jaws on the bedroom floor. If I work late into the night, he will still cry and tug on the bed sheets to waken me in the early morning to see the falling snow. When the fancy seizes him, he can be as a sprightly as a kitten. Come the spring, he will be running up trees again, even if now – in the darkest depth of winter – he only wants to sleep by the fire.
Alone here in the old house in Spitalfields tonight, Mr Pussy is my sole companion, the perfect accomplice for a writer. When I take to my bed to keep warm while writing my stories, he is always there as the silent assistant, curled into a ball upon the sheepskin coverlet. As the years have gone by and Mr Pussy strays less from the house, I have grown accustomed to his constant presence. He has taught me that, rather than fear for his well-being, I need to embrace all the circumstances and seasons that life sends, just as he does.
You can read more about Mr Pussy here
Love and hugs to you Mr. Pussy.
Lovely. I shared my home with an 18 year old, a 17 year old and a 15 year old cats, who continued to have moments of kitten like behaviors until each passed on. I now have a 7 year old male, 3 year old female and 8 month old male tabby, all rescued from the pound, and brought into my home 3 months ago. The amazing thing is how well they all get on. Not a howl or hiss has occurred. They clean each other, eat together, chase each other and generally enjoy life. They are the delight of my life.
Wishing you and Mr. Pussy the happiest Christmas and a joyous New Year. Thank you so much for sharing your life with us, your happy readers.
Lovely – Wishing both you and Mr Pussy a Warm and Merry Christmas and a Peaceful New Year.
An evening dozing by the fireside – he has good taste. Valerie
Whrrrrr …..
Merry Christmas Mr. Pussy and also to you, Gentle Author.
A good piece of descriptive writing today by GA. I am sure there is enough material already amassed to make a good book with world sales appeal. I understand the Wells Cathedral cat Archie is 19 years and is still on the staff active list. He has a dedicated cat basket and sometimes sits on the sales counter the visitors love him. I saw him last year. Poet John PS working into the night is not uncommon for writers I know sometimes a word-flow appears, get it down or its lost by morning.
What a delightful piece to read amongst all the sad world news we have today. We have our own identical Mr Pussy here, same sort of character too!
Best wishes for Christmas and the New Year, Ros
This actually reminds me of my own dog who’s aging, and starting to have problems with his legs too. Thank you for posting this, and may you both have a happy holiday season.
I love this seasonal tale. We now have the female equivalent of Mr P, Susan. As I type, she is trying to entice me downstairs to play with her, since she has decreed the daily timetable and I will be powerless to resist. There is something very different about black cats; I can see how they have earned a reputation. May you both have a cosy, happy Christmas beside the fire.
Gorgeous story about Mr Pussy this morning – lovely start to my day. It is good to be reminded of what our pets give us in return for a regular meal of soggy biscuit, a warm hearth and a roof over their heads Mr Pussy has been loyal and totally devoted to our gentle author. Long me he reign over all the other moggies in his own, and his owners, now famous territory.
Happy Christmas both, Paddy
such a lovely tale of dear old mr.pussy, a comfort & joy… Merry Christmas
Love and Merry Christmas to you and Mr. Pussy . . . .
A very poetic post – Mr Pussy has the right philosophy of life!
This is perfect. Anyone who has owned a cat into their dotage will recognize every line as truth.
A lovely story. May you and Mr. Pussy have a Peaceful and Warm Chruistmas and a Very Happy and Healthy New Year.
A Merry Christmas to the G.A. and Mr. Pussy . . .!
Love & Peace
ACHIM
“Like a visionary poet”! Indeed, it takes one to know one. That well-furnished interior life allowing for endless distraction from the darkness of the world today! How I fear for your little poet as he defends his territory as a self-respecting cat must! I’m afraid I would try to detain him from his duties, a greater coward than he.
Merry Christmas to you and your brave friend! And may you both enjoy many more warm nights by the fire. I think of you now and then, always with a wishful embrace.
Mr Pussy is looking great! So healthy now compared to his pics from July when he was quite pathetic. He is such a sweet boy. We too have a black cat. Shady who growls when strangers pull up outside!! Hope you both have a warm and contented Holiday!
They own us.. We don’t own them.. They tease us and taunt us and play on our emotions.. Sometimes they’ll stay and sometimes they leave, but when they stay and on that final day… They take our broken hearts with them……
A touching post, Gentle Author. I wish you and Mr. Pussy all the blessings of this Christmas and many others to come. Thank you for the delight of reading your posts this year.
Lovely seasonal pictures and tale. Wishing you and Mr P the best for 2017 too.
This one has been, for me, your best yet.
In the bleak midwinter Mr Pussy is snug by the fire. All is well.
Happy Christmas gentle author and Mr Pussy and a peaceful and healthy new year to you both! Thank you for your wonderful daily posts… a veritable modern day S Johnson and Hodge! Anne x
Ooh I do so cherish a Mr Pussy tale. Thanks oodles for this!
A stunning piece of writing. Like Mr Pussy, as I age I too have acquired “a vivid internal life to insulate myself against the rigours of the world. ” Indeed the vicissitudes of life make venturing out, both physically and emotionally more demanding.
Wishing you well for 2017.
A truly delightful post Gentle Author and a lovely start to the New Year, thank you.
Sending warm wishes for you and Mr Pussy for 2017 – good health and peace.