Authors: Susan Finden,Linda Watson-Brown
Tags: #Non-Fiction, #Biography
My affinity with animals is an integral part of me, and my husband Chris accepts that. He never laughs when I stop in the street to move a worm out of harm’s way, or if I rant at people on holiday when I see them being thoughtless or cruel to strays. Chris takes it as part of me, and I will always be grateful to him for that. When we married we couldn’t imagine the struggles we would face, but I believe that his understanding of me from the start allowed us to build such a strong base as a couple that we rose to the challenges with greater strength when they came.
I enjoy watching the cats grow with each other as much as I love getting to know them myself. What they’ve taught me about patience and care is immeasurable. No pair did more in that regard than Clyde and a cat called Gemma.
We got Gemma from a couple who’d broken away from the official Cats Protection branch where we lived and set up an independent cat rescue group. I befriended this couple and kept in touch with them even when I wasn’t looking to add new kitties to my life. I always enjoyed visiting Ted and Rosemary, so one beautiful summer afternoon I’d cycled over to see them in their cat centre. Chris was going to meet me there when he’d finished work.
When I arrived, Rosemary called out, ‘Just have a wander round, Sue, and I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’ She always had her hands full, attending to all the residents, but I was quite used to spending some time on my own, happily looking at who was there and what they were all up to.
I was pottering around, checking all the pens and making sure that the cats were fine, when this lovely creature came straight up and looked at me in such a strange way. It was almost as if she were looking into my soul – I felt quite spooked. I wasn’t in the market for another cat, so I tried to put it out of my mind. Chris and I met up later at the centre and we had a chat with Ted and Rosemary before we headed off. I hadn’t realized that, when we visited, he’d also taken to wandering around and looking in all the pens, so when he told me what he’d been up to, I was quite surprised.
When we got home, he kept chatting about all the cats and finally said, ‘Did you see the white one with the grey bits on her by any chance?’ I knew he was talking about the same little girl who’d stared at me, so I said I had and was shocked when he told me that the same thing had happened to him. ‘She stared at me so hard, for so long, that I felt as if I’d known her before,’ Chris told me. ‘Isn’t that funny?’ he said. ‘I felt a connection there – we just sort of gelled.’ It was odd. Chris loved animals by now, but this was the first time I’d heard him talk like that. This little cat had really got to him.
We didn’t say anything else about it that night, but as I was dropping off to sleep, Chris whispered to me. ‘You know, Sue, that little white and grey cat? If you want her, that’s absolutely fine by me.’ That was as good as him asking for her.
The next day I called Rosemary and she was delighted that we were going to be Gemma’s new carers. She brought her round that very afternoon and told me a little of her story. ‘The poor thing has been housed twice already,’ she said. ‘People take a rescue cat and expect it to come into their lives and settle immediately. It doesn’t happen like that – it takes a lot longer than one day.’ She told me that Gemma had been housed with a dog and another cat and she was too scared of both of them to fit in instantly, so she’d been brought back almost immediately. The same thing happened the next time: she was given hardly a moment before that family decided she wasn’t right for them either.
When Rosemary left, I made a vow that it would be third time lucky for little Gemma now that she was with us. There was no way I was going to dump her again. She eventually came out of her shell, and by the time that had happened, Rosemary had told me a little more of her story. She’d been found in a transport yard, covered in diesel. The men in the yard had tried to do their best for her, by making sure she was fed, but she was a nervous, twitchy thing. They contacted Rosemary, as they were worried about her. There was a suspicion that she had jumped a lorry, as she had no collar or chip, but, really, we knew nothing about her.
Gemma was hard work – even harder than Casper. Settling her took six months. I didn’t know much about what had happened in her past but she must have been forced to fend for herself at some point, as she was incredibly defensive with the others, hissing and spitting, especially around food. It was as if she always felt she had to fight for it, and there would never be enough.
As we were her third attempt at re-homing, I felt that we owed it to her to keep trying. The poor thing had been passed from pillar to post, and it would have been unfair to give up on her quickly. However, there was always the worry that the other cats would get overwhelmed and possibly even leave if the attacks went on for too long. Gemma eventually responded to love and care and became the most beautiful cat. With grooming and a little help with her hygiene, it transpired that she was a stunning Maine Coon.
Her main delight was being outside in the warmth – what a sun worshipper that cat was! When I took her to the vet for the first time, I was warned to be very careful and protect her from sun exposure because the white patches she had would make her more susceptible to skin cancer. I got a big floral parasol and propped it up in the garden for her to sit under once we knew her habits. This protected her from the brilliant sunshine, but she sneaked out from under it quite a lot to lie in other patches.
After she had been with us for a while, I noticed she was getting a scab on her ear that I knew hadn’t come from a cut. I took her back to the vet and received the sad news that she did, indeed, have skin cancer. He also noticed that she had a sty under her eyelid – this was also cancerous. The vet was absolutely brilliant and performed plastic surgery on her face, but he had to amputate her ear. However, the disease spread and, within a month, Gemma started walking in continuous circles. The vet believed that she was having terrible headaches and this was her way of coping with them.
Gemma still sought out the sun, no matter how tiny the spot. The amazing thing was that Clyde, who was not a sun worshipper, started to sit with her. The more ill she became, the more dedicated he was. Gemma was never alone; she always had her friend beside her. I swear he knew she was poorly and he was trying to offer her some comfort. I had a lump in my throat every time I saw them together: Gemma getting weaker and Clyde diligently keeping watch. When she got up from her spot and started to walk round in circles, he’d wait until she tired herself out and came back to him It was incredibly humbling to witness such patience and consideration.
As time went on, her walking in circles got worse and I knew the time had come to make a decision. In my heart, I knew she’d have to be put to sleep. I was on my own the day I went, as Chris was working abroad, and I felt such loneliness and sorrow Every time I’ve been in this position, I’ve done it by myself, and it is a great burden to carry. Many people say that animals are lucky: they have us to make the decision for them and help them to cross the rainbow bridge. I appreciate and understand that way of thinking, but it doesn’t stop the loss from hurting.
When poor little Gemma was being prepared for her injection, I swear she held out her paw towards me as if to say ‘bye bye’. I cried my heart out – as I have done with all of them, and as I’m sure I’ll continue to do. All the cats touch me so deeply that I can’t help but be affected.
I don’t feel guilty about making the choice to help them pass over, but I’m a little sad my decision does, in effect, betray my animals, even when I’m trying to do the right thing by them Gemma wasn’t the first pet I’d had to do this for, and she won’t be the last. All I could do as I said goodbye was promise her that I’d never forget her and make a commitment to do all I could for any other cat who crossed my path. It would be my life’s work and a privilege.
After a while, we moved from Frome to Crewkerne, an old-fashioned market town in Somerset. Unfortunately our new house was on a busy road. I knew for certain that Casper was a wanderer, so I had many worried moments. I didn’t know many people to begin with, so I had no idea whether the residents and workers here would be as tolerant of Casper as they had been in our previous location. He was a very trusting cat and I felt he was willing to assume all humans were good. I shuddered to think what might happen if he put his faith in the wrong person, but I kept my fingers crossed that all would remain rose-tinted for my lovely cat.
Casper was obsessed with crossing the road outside our house. I used to say to Chris that I had no idea why, as there was absolutely nothing of interest on the other side. It was as if he had a nosiness gene. I’d sometimes watch him from my window with my heart in my mouth as he narrowly dodged a car. He was behaving the same way he had in Frome: always trying to nip out, always trying to be at the heart of things.
It was bad enough when he ventured out during the day, but when he started disappearing overnight, it was even worse. This was a new development in Casper’s wanderlust; perhaps he was just spreading his wings (or paws). His travels had all been so successful in the past maybe he thought it was time to try a few night-time excursions. I never knew if he’d be there in the morning when I came down, though eventually I did manage to piece together a few things to get some idea of where he’d been.
At the bottom of our garden was a building where the sails for HMS
Victory
, Nelson’s famous flagship, had originally been made, but it had been converted to a block of offices. One day I got chatting to a lady who worked there. As we talked, I saw Casper boldly trotting down the road to the offices.
‘Oh, there’s Casper,’ she remarked, as my eyes popped open wider.
‘How do you know him?’ I asked.
‘He’s always hanging around where I work,’ she said. ‘He’s like our little office mascot.’
Is he, now? I thought to myself.
‘We all like to have a little cuddle with him when he pops in, give him a few treats and suchlike. He often hangs around all day and the girls in the office just love having him around.’
Well! It hadn’t taken Casper long to return to his old tricks. He may not have found a pharmacy or a doctor’s surgery in which to while away the day, but he’d still managed to access attention. This lady told me he was very popular among the office staff and brightened up their day. They looked forward to him coming in as a break from the monotony of their routine. On the days when he found something better to do, there was general disappointment that their little visitor hadn’t appeared.
The office block wasn’t his only new hangout. There was a family a few doors down the road from me who had actively been encouraging Casper into their cottage. When another neighbour told me about this, I was quite confused – he was clearly someone else’s cat, as they could see from his name tag and disc, but perhaps, like me, they couldn’t resist any visiting cat even if it had a perfectly good home. I felt it was asking for trouble with this cat in particular though, and it probably contributed to his wanderings. I plucked up the courage to go and speak to them and, lo and behold, when I got there, who should be lying in a basket by the fire but Casper.
The woman who lived there had bought it especially for him, but when I asked her whether she thought he was homeless, she admitted that she knew he lived with me. It felt as if he were a tug-of-love cat and I was going to have to fight for him – my chances were good, as the lady was heavily pregnant. I had to ask her to stop making her home quite so attractive to him. Casper was a clever enough cat but he was bound to be confused with the house move, the new roads and now a complete stranger inviting him in to a nice new bed. I asked her if she could please stop doing this and, if he visited again, to encourage him gently to return to his own house.
He continued to wander, and I suspected that he was still visiting his nice other bed, but I couldn’t keep haranguing this woman, who was only being kind. However, there was a lingering feeling, perhaps some sort of sixth sense, that made me concerned about those particular trips.
One day in March 2005, Casper had his breakfast as usual and then went out after about ten minutes. From what I can tell, he then wandered down to the car park beside the office block from where he could often get over the wall into the house and garden of the family who’d bought him his new basket. However, instead of disappearing for the day, he came back within the hour. As I was standing in the kitchen, tidying away the breakfast things, I heard a strange snuffling noise, like hedgehogs make. I opened the back door only to see my darling Casper covered in blood.
His face was almost unrecognizable. All I could do was grab him in my arms and run to the vet. The news was awful but it could have been worse. I was told that he had definitely been hit by a car and, although he had no apparent fractures, his jaw and mouth were both very bruised and he was extremely lucky to be alive. As he was cut and shaking with shock, he had to stay in overnight.
For the rest of his days, Casper’s lower lip area always had a black mark where he’d been hit and he dribbled slightly whenever he ate or drank. I had to keep an eye on him in case he developed sores on his lip. I couldn’t help but think that he had used up one of his nine lives with this accident. He was very lucky to have got out of it with only a few scrapes. ‘Oh, Casper,’ I whispered to him one night when he was safely at home, ‘you’re always going to give me sleepless nights, aren’t you? I don’t think I’m ever going to be settled with you around, young man.’