Ailurophobes look away now: this one is about cats. And queens...
You don't have to be a monarchist to admire a woman who took on a job she didn't ask for and did it with such extraordinary diligence, dignity and warmth for over 70 years - and without, so far as I know, ever once thumping some infuriating politician, minor royal or head of state. I like to think of Queen Elizabeth now, feet up, glass in hand and ghostly corgis by her side, enjoying her well-earned rest while previous wearers of the crown queue up to congratulate her on doing the job a damn sight better and longer than anyone else.I can't say I ever saw a picture of the Queen with a cat, but then, we all have our failings - not that I dislike dogs and horses, but for me the cat has always been the ideal writer's companion: beautiful, mysterious, comforting and silent (unless hungry) and they don't have to be taken for walks. Nor do I go out of my way to collect cat books, but much like the animals themselves (and with a little help from my friends) they tend to accumulate.
I can't remember now who gave me this cat diary, but in it I've recorded the lives of all the cats I remember, from long-ago South African childhood pets to the most recently-deceased. Cats quite often use up their nine lives sooner than expected, and the deaths of some of mine still haunt me, but they brought me comfort in the worst of times, and drawing and writing about them has always been therapeutic.
Ptolemy, who came to us 3 months ago, is curious, gentle, a friend to all; and a regular visitor to a nearby house that's home to members of the Camphill Community, who would love a cat of their own. The other day one of the residents knocked at our door. She cannot speak in words that we can understand, but she can paint, and it seems that Tolly had been sitting for his portrait, because she handed me the picture, framed and ready to hang - an unexpected, deeply moving gift, proving that one small cat can spread a lot of joy.There's some terribly sad writing about cats (Paul Gallico and Colette both traumatised me in my youth) but there's so much more that is gloriously funny - Wodehouse, Thurber, Lear, Twain and Eliot - as well as a wealth of wonderful children's books: Mog, Orlando, The Cat in the Hat. And then there are poems, like Yeats's Cat and the Moon...
'Minnaloushe creeps through the grass, alone, important and wise,
And lifts to the changing moon his changing eyes.'
But my all-time favourite, and ultimate role model, has to be that great survivor, the immortal Mehitabel, creation of Don Marquis, and friend of Archy the typing cockroach...
i was several
 |
| Tolly and portrait |
ladies my little
insect says she
being cleopatra was
only an incident
in my career...
but wotthehell
little archy wot
thehell
its cheerio
my deario
that pulls a
lady through
exclamation point...
...always my luck
yesterday an empress
and today too
emaciated to interest
a vivisectionist but
toujours gai archy
toujours gai and always
a lady in spite of hell
and transmigration
once a queen
always a queen
archy
period
He ends with this: 'her morals may have been mislaid somewhere in the centuries boss but i admire her spirit'. Me too, Archy, me too.
