I cannot imagine a home without animals.
In our house, who owns who is always debatable.
When our fluff, Booboo, perches on Kitta’s knee when he is marking a hundred
university scripts; when Pepper, my cat, complains as I move my legs in bed (My
legs are solely for her to sleep on at night.); when the mutt, Lily, nudges my
daughter’s legs aside on the sofa so that she can curl up in her lap, the
answer is crystal clear.
I often
wonder how it is that some families love animals and some don’t. Genetic, or
exposure to pets early in life?
Next to our
house in Thalassery there was a Chayakkada. Men going to work at
building sites or factories stopped there, on their way, to get a hot cup of
chai; my aunt said they probably never bought tea leaves or milk for their households, the morning drink
generally being yesterday’s conjee. The chayakkada was a tiny roadside
veranda and a small room with two rickety benches in it. It was run by a man
called Kumaran, and when he washed his tea-pan out, he swung the dregs on to
the road.
He had some
saving graces. Every six months he would have another litter of kittens to give
away, all fluffy-tailed and long-furred. They went quickly; in passing our
household got one or two. Achan disapproved of cats saying they caused asthma,
but he was on a losing wicket. When he was near we hid the kittens under the
gatherings of our pavadas (long skirts) or later, my sari. Sometimes the
kitten gave the game away by purring on my stomach.
My first
cat was named Sundari. She was all white and had a beautiful face. The next one
was Beauty, which meant the same thing. They had pretty faces and plentiful
fur. They disappeared often down the road, scavenging at houses where fish was
being scaled and finned, but returned to puke on our doorstep. Eventually, they
would disappear into cat paradise – I would call their names without a miaow in
reply.
The last
one was Mimi; when I got married and left, my father, who maintained he
disliked cats, arranged for the fisherman to feed her daily.
In my
husband’s home, no animals were allowed. My husband’s parents did not like them
either. So, it was not until I became single again that I got another animal.
Leone and Makeni, the two dogs were named, after my favourite places – Makeni is
in the north of Sierra Leone. I had to give them to friends to keep when I left
Uganda for good. It broke my heart and I vowed never to get another animal.
Next year,
in Zambia, (1993) I got Inji (Malayalam for ginger)– a majestic ginger tabby.
By now, I could afford to take my cat with me, so Inji went with me to Malawi.
Meanwhile my daughter, who was also in Malawi, had acquired another kitten –
Ammu. A boy was holding some kittens up at a roundabout; predictably, she fell
for it. Ammu drove Inji mad cavorting all around her and got frequently
swatted. She came with us to England. Inji died of a kidney disease in Malawi,
and Ammu became road-kill in Croydon.
In Croydon
we got Tyson and Louis, (we never learn) forever fist-fighting as kittens. My
little granddaughter called them Tyson and Nui-nui. Two road-kills again. I
vowed I would never get a kitten again, but my daughter came back one day with
Booboo and Pepper, two tiny kittens that hid under a cupboard in the kitchen,
until they were really hungry, and came out to eat. They are still with us, now
five years old. Pepper sleeps on my bed and Booboo pesters my son.
There was
also Keeri, whom I got in Kochi, and I brought home to England with me. She was
adorable, intelligent and followed me around. She slept on my right shoulder
generally, and would scurry up to bed with me. She also got run over in 2015.
Now, my daughter won’t let me get another kitten. ‘They all die,’ she says.
We have
Lily instead, a long-suffering, loving dog that does not recognise that she is
not human. She is also thoroughly spoilt. We are right suckers for animals.
I’d love
another Bengal-kitten like Keeri.
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