Remembering Mr Pussy In Summer
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In these dreamy days of high summer, I often think of my old cat Mr Pussy
While Londoners luxuriate in the warmth of summer, I miss Mr Pussy who endured the hindrance of a fur coat, spending his languorous days stretched out upon the floor in a heat-induced stupor. As the sun reached its zenith, his activity declined and he sought the deep shadow, the cooling breeze and the bare wooden floor to stretch out and fall into a deep trance that could transport him far away to the loss of his physical being. Mr Pussy’s refined nature was such that even these testing conditions provided an opportunity for him to show grace, transcending dreamy resignation to explore an area of meditation of which he was the supreme proponent.
In the early morning and late afternoon, you would see him on the first floor window sill here in Spitalfields, taking advantage of the draught of air through the house. With his aristocratic attitude, Mr Pussy took amusement in watching the passersby from his high vantage point on the street frontage and enjoyed lapping water from his dish on the kitchen window sill at the back of the house, where in the evenings he also liked to look down upon the foxes gambolling in the yard.
Whereas in winter it was Mr Pussy’s custom to curl up in a ball to exclude drafts, in these balmy days he preferred to stretch out to maximize the air flow around his body. There was a familiar sequence to his actions, as particular as stages in yoga. Finding a sympathetic location with the advantage of cross currents and shade from direct light, at first Mr Pussy sat to consider the suitability of the circumstance before rolling onto his side and releasing the muscles in his limbs, revealing that he was irrevocably set upon the path of total relaxation.
Delighting in the sensuous moment, Mr Pussy stretched out to his maximum length of over three feet long, curling his spine and splaying his legs at angles, creating an impression of the frozen moment of a leap, just like those wooden horses on fairground rides. Extending every muscle and toe, his glinting claws unsheathed and his eyes widened gleaming gold, until the stretch reached it full extent and subsided in the manner of a wave upon the ocean, as Mr Pussy slackened his limbs to lie peacefully with heavy lids descending.
In this position that resembled a carcass on the floor, Mr Pussy could undertake his journey into dreams, apparent by his twitching eyelids and limbs as he ran through the dark forest of his feline unconscious where prey were to be found in abundance. Vulnerable as an infant, sometimes Mr Pussy cried to himself in his dream, an internal murmur of indeterminate emotion, evoking a mysterious fantasy that I could never be party to. It was somewhere beyond thought or language. I could only wonder if his arcadia was like that in Paolo Uccello’s “Hunt in the Forest” or whether Mr Pussy’s dreamscape resembled the watermeadows of the River Exe, the location of his youthful safaris.
There was another stage, beyond dreams, signalled when Mr Pussy rolled onto his back with his front paws distended like a child in the womb, almost in prayer. His back legs splayed to either side, his head tilted back, his jaw loosened and his mouth opened a little, just sufficient to release his shallow breath – and Mr Pussy was gone. Silent and inanimate, he looked like a baby and yet very old at the same time. The heat relaxed Mr Pussy’s connection to the world and he fell, he let himself go far away on a spiritual odyssey. It was somewhere deep and somewhere cool, he was out of his body, released from the fur coat at last.
Startled upon awakening from his trance, like a deep-sea diver ascending too quickly, Mr Pussy squinted at me as he recovered recognition, giving his brains a good shake, once the heat of the day had subsided. Lolloping down the stairs, still loose-limbed, he strolled out of the house into the garden and took a dust bath under a tree, spending the next hour washing it out and thereby cleansing the sticky perspiration from his fur.
Regrettably the climatic conditions that subdued Mr Pussy by day, also enlivened him by night. At first light, when the dawn chorus commenced, he stood on the floor at my bedside, scratched a little and called to me. I woke to discover two golden eyes filling my field of vision. I rolled over at my peril, because this provoked Mr Pussy to walk to the end of the bed and scratch my toes sticking out under the sheet, causing me to wake again with a cry of pain. I miss having no choice but to rise, accepting his forceful invitation to appreciate the manifold joys of early morning in summer in Spitalfields, because it was not an entirely unwelcome obligation.
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This tribute to Mr Pussy is so lovely. Thank you for writing it.
I think it was Hilda Baker who said ,”She knows you know .”
This applies to Mr Pussy .
Oh dear Mr Pussy, how we all miss him! I am thinking of the long procession of cats that I have lived with in my current location, and I have counted to eleven. The first, jet black, like Mr Pussy, travelled from London with me. The most recent addition is similarly attired but has the addition of more claws – polydactyly as it is known. All the better to scratch you with. She too sleeps all day and ventures out at night to observe the creatures of that time.
I think that one of the things that I love best about cats is that, despite giving them freedom, they choose to come back to you. I had countless discussions with my late daughter, a sociology student who loved cats, about whether or not they bond with us. I believe yes, she believed no. The academic jury is definitely out. Whether it is just shelter and food that makes them stay, or, us, their human servants and companions who they adore, we will never truly know. In reverse, our love for them is real and our lives are the richer for it.
I love these little vignettes of Mr Pussy! What a character he must have been; so refined, and dignified. The Life & Times of Mr Pussy is a wonderful book. I have read it several times and enjoy it every time.
Is there a better and more empathetic way to describe a relationship with a cat? I only had the neighbour’s cat CHICO around me, who visited me every day. But my experiences and feelings with him were similar. I studied a cat psychology book at the time so that I could understand him better.
Two unforgettable anecdotes: he loved my 50s couch with its blue nubby fabric and the folded blanket on it from the same era. In an impressive ritual, he turned in circles on it, curled up and slept — for about 20 minutes. I read in the book: cats don’t need longer periods of rest. However, they do perform this ritual several times a day!
When I came home one day, CHICO was sitting in front of the letterboxes in an impressive sphinx pose — he had ‘caught’ a mouse and proudly presented it to me. In the book, it says: you MUST praise the cat for this ‘gift’ so that he doesn’t suffer any emotional distress… Oh, my beloved cat!
Love & Peace
ACHIM
I really miss my calico cat Susie who never left my side when I was being treated for cancer and very unwell. We’d watch TV together in bed and she’d snuggle up beside me when I needed to sleep, only leaving for food and toilet breaks. When my hair fell out she took to sleeping on my head at night as if keeping it warm.
Sadly she contracted feline leukemia at 15 and we had to do the right thing by letting the vet send her to sleep, he told us she would probably only live another 2 weeks and it wouldn’t be a good death. I have never felt so bereft as sitting with her in those last moments.
I sometimes dream about her and she’s happy.
Your wonderful recollections of Mr. Pussy are always such a delight to read.