Читать книгу Heart to Heart - Pea Horsley - Страница 10

All my life I have been a huge cat fanatic. As a young child I grew up with a cat called Pixie, a no-nonsense minute dynamo. Her beautiful swirls of caramel, coffee and chocolate fooled the unwary to believing she was gooey and soft, but in reality she was more Joanna Lumley in spurs. Her original owners, our neighbours, often left her alone whilst they went on holiday without arranging for her meals and care, and Pixie checked out my family while they were away and decided to adopt us. I remember my parents and the neighbours having a bit of a heated argument about it until finally my dad said, ‘Pixie should be allowed to make up her own mind where she wants to live.’ And she did. She immediately packed her bags and moved in with us. Not long after, her old family moved away. They didn’t even come by to say goodbye to her.

Pixie’s favourite sunbathing spot became the bed my mum made out of an old veggie box and some soft towels, positioned on the top shelf in the greenhouse. Years later, just before we buried her in our garden, my mum cut off a small piece of her fur, which I sellotaped into my ‘Favourite Things’ notebook, along with one of her whiskers. I was upset, but not distraught. Through her independent spirit and her fierce protection of her personal space, Pixie helped me to learn these qualities, and also, I feel, subconsciously, she taught me that we all have the right to be cared for and loved.

Then Winston, my second cat, entered my teenage life and promptly took it over. The first night he arrived home he draped his large butterscotch body over my lap and we fell madly and deeply in love. I was about 13 at the time and he was my first boyfriend. He was adopted from a rescue centre in Warwickshire, but he didn’t carry the marks of a mistreated cat, he was a laid-back kinda guy who gave off an air of Italian Romeo entwined with Mafia boss. I saw him a bit like a lion who was very comfortable in his own skin.

The hardest part about leaving home to attend Bristol Old Vic Theatre School was leaving Winston behind. He always knew when I was upset and would find me to offer affection and just be with me during my sadness. He’d also meet me from school, having an uncanny ability to know when to sit and wait for me at the top of the road. We developed a friendship where he was my comforter, my rock, and we grew so close, we had an unspoken understanding of one another, like an inner knowing.

As often as I could, I went home especially to see him and I thought about him all the time. When he began to lose weight and became sick, those trips back home were heartbreaking, for I never knew whether I would see him again. Then one day I received a call and my parents told me it was time to put him to sleep. Once I’d put the phone down I cried out loud in agonizing pain. It felt as if my stomach was being ripped out. When Winston passed over I was utterly heartbroken and it took a long time for the pain to subside. I was 29 before I was in a position to welcome a new cat into my life.

I never thought for a minute another cat would be able to touch my heart like Winston, but at that time I hadn’t met Texas. He captured my heart the moment he bolted out of his wired-fronted cage at London’s Battersea Dogs’ and Cats’ Home and rubbed his tiny six-month body slam-dunk against my legs. He was a miniature tiger with mellow gold, ginger and cream stripes, a soft pink nose, yellow-green eyes and gleaming ivory-white whiskers. He was stunning, really friendly and the sexiest cat I’d ever met – it was a done deal.

I now feel these cats were grooming me, teaching me and preparing me all my life for the moment when I would consciously realize humans and animals could communicate with one another using an intuitive language. But, to my surprise, it took a dog to make me understand inter-species communication was possible and that I could learn to talk to animals.