For our holiday, we brought our city cat, Thomas, along to the countryside. Out in the village, Thomass own brother, Leonard, lives as a local. Leonards got bulging, almost comically wide eyes, which is why hes earned the nickname Bugsy. In the village, people arent exactly careful with words.
At first, poor Thomas had a rough time settling in. Despite being a rather small cat himself, Bugsy was very much the boss, bullying him away from the larder and hissing like some angry contestant on a chaotic daytime talk show.
One day, Bugsy made the common mistake of a petty thugbelieving himself invincibleand launched a full-on attack on Thomas. Thomas, thoroughly uninterested, lazily swatted at Bugsy with a regal indifference, as if waving him away with a fan like a bored lord. By complete accident, he managed a solid right hook, and after that, we had to rescue Bugsy from inside the kitchen bin. So, in an utterly unremarkable turn of fate, Thomas found himself at the top of the food chainjust like most things that happen to him, quite by accident.
In the countryside, cats are very much seen as working animals, not pets. The only reason Thomas escaped a career as a mouser was the fact it was winter. Meals here were a sporadic, almost artistic event. Thomas took a long time to adjust, since city life had him dining on porcelain, at strictly kept times, and often called to his bowl by a butler.
The stress quickly triggered Thomass instincts. Many nights Id find him on the hob, head first in a saucepan. Bugsy, meanwhile, would perch on a stool, on sentry duty, sending frantic hissing signals to warn his brother of my approach. Thomas would barely stir, and murmur to Bugsy: Dont worry about himhes one of us; should have seen him raid the fridge in the middle of the night.
One afternoon we decided Thomas was ready to experience the great outdoors, so we popped him out into the snow. He turned to us, his entire face dusted white, his eyes full of tragic regret, looking for all the world like Al Pacino in Scarfacethe iconic moment of a life gone off course. We decided not to let him out again.
One evening, my son Olivers friendslocal village ladscame over. We were settled comfortably in the lounge, and I was reading to them May Night by Gogol aloud. Just as we reached the scene with the wicked stepmother turning into a jet-black cat and clattering across the floor, the lounge door creaked open ominouslyand in strutted Bugsy. As luck would have it, Thomas had finally taught Bugsy his specialty: the art of opening any door with a deft paw.
The lounge was tiny, but we all found a way to scatter. We eventually had to hoist one boy from the open window; it was only thanks to Olivers grandmawho kept the lad thoroughly well-fedthat he didnt tumble straight out.
Oh, and nows probably the right moment to mentionBugsy is absolutely, completely black.
Its not often that classic literature leaves such an unforgettable impression on modern children.
Reflecting on those days, I realise that animalslike peoplefind their own place if given time, and the countryside, with its rough charms and honest traditions, has a way of humbling even the grandest city dweller. As for me, I learned to appreciate the villages peculiar sense of humourand discovered, much to my delight, that every holiday brings a tale or two worth telling.
