Portia, my six-month old female kitten, had her tubes tied yesterday. Bringing her to the vet in the morning was heart-breaking. She kept on sticking her paw out of the cage to touch me for reassurance while we were in the taxi, expressing such misguided trust in me that I felt like a monster. I was apprehensive because her mother had died under anaesthetic, and I had grave suspicions that such things were hereditary. But in the evening I collected her, and she had survived.
She was very dopey, and slept it off in the travelling basket with their blanket thrown over it for security. Every so often I lifted it up and checked that she was OK; she looked blearily out at me, rubbed her nose against my finger, and then let her head drop down again.
What I hadn t counted on was the state her brother would be in when we returned. He d been on his own all day for the first time in his life, and he hadn t eaten a thing. He was freaked out, and wouldn t leave me alone.
This morning I m a bit weary, for Portia began demanding to be let out of her convalescent home at three in the morning. She slowly clambered out, made her way over to the litter tray like a drunk octogenarian, and daintily relieved herself. Then she plodded towards my bed, normally out of bounds at night to two kittens on their madcap night shift. She settled down, but I had a fitful sleep, as her brother amused himself under the duvet, waking me up by nuzzling earnestly into my bodily nooks and crannies.
But his sister is fine. As I write, both of them are sitting on my lap, with their front paws resting on the edge of the table. It s a scene that is so chocolate box cute that I was reluctant to share this titbit of information with you, but I cannot tell a lie. Kittens are irredeemably cute, there is no escaping it.
Portia is a little less than her normal glamorous self, however. Her left flank is shaved bare in an artless rhomboid, glaringly grey and skinny against her luxurious dark chocolate fur. At the centre is a tiny neat scar with four little stitches. She s not worrying at it; she s ignored it completely, as far as I can see. It is reassuring; cats are very quick to let you know if something is wrong or painful.
It seems the success of the whole exercise depends on the confusion created by the anaesthesia. By the time the animal s thinking straight again, the pain is gone. One can almost pretend that no harm has been done, if you ignore the chemical and physical assault, and the indignity of being shaved. This is the condition in the conditional love that humans offer to domestic animals. I may have an excuse in that I was required to sign a contract obliging me to neuter my animals by the Cat s Protection League, who gave them to me. But voluntary or not, it means that my animals are deprived of the characteristic that is most associated with being animal raw, uncivilised, instinctive sexuality.
When her brother gets the snip in a few months time, this household will become a beacon for the movement to defy nature s tyranny. And on the whole, I think we ll be content with our lot.
It s hard for me to imagine what life was like before these two bundles of warmth entered my life, that there was a time when I didn t start my day with a stereophonic purr. But it s on record somewhere that it s true, so I suppose it must be so.
What s also true is that my animalistic instincts are at bay at the moment, and look like staying so. I mention this because this column s agenda was originally sex-centred; and I seem to have moved away from all that. The illness in August was a factor, but not the only one. I think something has clicked inside me, finally rejecting the emphasis on sex as a means of making new friends, which is so much part of this gay culture. As to what I replace it with, I have not the slightest idea. Answers on a postcard, please.
In the meantime, there are always angels. One appeared last Friday in the office, masquerading as a BT salesman on a courtesy call. He was short, slightly overweight, with 70s length black hair and coffee-coloured skin, and deep brown eyes. He wore an ill-fitting Marks and Spencer grey suit, white socks with a tennis racket motif, and pull-on moccasins. He entered, he talked, he charmed, he conquered and he left.
After he d gone, my colleague and I both stared open-mouthed at each other, not knowing why he d been so special. She said if we were to ring BT there and then, they d probably say that they d never heard of him. There was something about his manner which was so calm and still, it was mesmeric. We dismissed at once any suggestion of salesman s tricks, for he only left us a few forms to fill out, and what we were agreeing to was something we had decided to do anyway.
The fact is that, in about ten minutes, he had won us over, and we would have both rolled over and allowed him to tickle our tummies. His gift was to offer extremely good advice on the subjects dear to both our hearts, without being preachy; it was practical stuff, where you could buy this, what you could do with that. The interest this stranger showed in our lives was strangely welcome; we didn t want him to leave. He left with a chorus of good wishes ringing in his ears, and I still don t know what to make of him. He just had it, whatever it is.
An unlikely angel, I know, but it is kind of hopeful. You never do know who s going to ring your bell next. n