The Cat who Walks by Herself
I love most animals (horses are beautiful but they freak me out for some reason) but cats are very special to me. I love dogs too but there's something about cats, especially when an unknown one is affectionate. Dogs can't help themselves... cats are picky.
As an early reader, I encountered Rudyard Kipling's Cat who Walks by Himself when I was about 6 and was immediately drawn in by the strong character. I see now that it mirrored how I felt about my family. I was the youngest by a long way, very emotionally immature, and was overly attached to Mum despite the fact that it was often an uncomfortable relationship. Yet I hankered after being that self-sufficient Cat.
About that time I met Ethel, an old lady (actually the exact age I am now) just along the road. Friends introduced us when I needed drying out by her fire after a snow-related incident, and she fed us hot buttered toast (which we toasted at her fire) and regaled us with stories of the 1920s. I was hooked. These days I would probably have thought I had 'found my tribe'. The amazing thing was that she seems to have felt the same.
The close-by Grandma had died when I was 2, the far-away Granny had a demented, shouty husband who hated my 'tantrums'. Ethel was the perfect substitute. Although I never saw her as a Grandma, but always always as My Friend Ethel.
She was a Cat who Walked by Herself, I suspect possibly with other female cats from time to time. But she had a circle of friends who were all similarly independently-minded women, some single by choice, others through wartime bereavement. They had been single forever, and they revelled in their quirky friendships. As an honorary pensioner I was included in sketching parties, picnics, swimming sessions and what seemed like infinite hours of afternoon teas in handkerchief gardens. I belonged. It set me up for a lifetime of not noticing age in my friendships. I've had to learn to be careful to remember I'm not the same age as my daughters' friends (it's pretty obvious when you think about it!)
For decades I have assumed that this early, intense friendship set me up for being eccentric. Now I realise that I sought her out because of my needs. How lucky I was to find her! I didn't see for many years that she felt lucky I found her, too.
It was this need to find a place for myself once I'd 'drunk the milk and enjoyed the warmth' at home which drove me. The Cat was always at the back of my mind. And, whereas we had a dog, Ethel had cats. Many of them. I loved to sit and watch them, have one on my lap perhaps and another within stroking distance. We grieved together when one died, she would tell me the story of how little Saucy had birthed the giant Bunty-Boy as we prepped vegetables for her pressure cooker (which she gently taught me not to scream at), I learnt how to clean a fight wound and clip claws. Ethel spoke to my innate sense of History. I was very aware that she was a living link to a lost world, that her tales of a carefree pre-War life really mattered and I held them in my head as precious little jewels from the casket of our friendship.
I'm conflicted as an adult. I love people. I love to be around them. I adore my family and I would happily be with them 24/7 but...
...I need solitude too. I wouldn't fear the Desert Island provided I had paper and pens. I'd be dead in a week, but still. I'd be content.
I think this is probably why I am single. I realised long ago that most of the men I've met (and perhaps I've just been unlucky) need to be needed. Perhaps we all do, really, and I am just oblivious. I don't think so, though. I am hugely attached to my children and grandchildren, and to my lovely brother and sister. I care very much about my Ex, and have helped him through a horrendously difficult patch of bad health this year.
But if I had to choose between this life and a huge compromise, of losing some of the Me I have fought so hard to discover, I would pick solitude every time.
Perhaps with a cat...
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