Smudge has been a source of solace, fun, fascination and sheer pleasure ever since she arrived in our family. They say you're either a dog or cat person, but I'm entirely at home with each or either. Both Sheila and I have had cats around us all our lives, and so no surprise that cats, Smudge included, is her own person, and entirely different in character from Tinker, Bonnet and Gizmo.
She of course has paid no heed whatsoever to the First Minister's insistence that lock down means lock down. She has come and gone, slept and eaten, sunbathed and hunted, adhered to social distancing and invaded our space, and has been less than impressed by the face masks.
But she has been a source of comfort and distraction through these long and often lonely weeks. There she is bemused by millions of floating dandelion seeds while prowling her marches, and showing us easily bored humans the health benefits of staying curious.
More seriously, the therapeutic effects of pets are well enough known. That story in Genesis when Adam names all the animals is one of those great humanising moments captured in the imagination, and deeply embedded in the human consciousness of our responsibilities towards those creatures who share our planet.
Over these weeks of lock down when it has not been possible to be with family and friends, and social interaction has been minimal and distanced, Smudge has been there. Now cats don't really do the selfless altruistic thing; they tend to know how to push the right buttons for food, doors opened, and the softest warmest seat. Amongst the blessings that enrich our lives are those bonds with animals that grow into a mutual dependency of long established trust, and a sense of home shared. Smudge is all of that. Her capacity for finding soft places in the house and sunny places in the garden is both instinctive and strategic. I swear Smudge is a post-graduate problem solver when it comes to her own personal comfort.
As an example of such innovative selfishness the way she hijacked the foam kneeling pad when I turned my back to go into the garage for pruners, or shears or some other human implement – who cares, he left the mat without a towel on it, it's sunny, so I'm having it. All of this is clearly discernible from the unmistakable body language of indifferent proprietorship, and uncontested ownership adopted by my cat Smudge.
Like all cats, Smudge is predictable much of the time, but it's those occasional try-ons that make life with a cat a chronic low-key battle of wits. To finish the story, I needed the foam kneeler, which she gave up with that superior nonchalance of the cat whose point has been made with minimal fuss – this time.
Over nine weeks I only took a few pictures of her, though if I trawl through the years she has been with us an entire album could be compiled. The ones I have taken are reminders that we share our home with a remarkable animal. I don't say that only of Smudge; think about it, the creation of a safe place for an animal that costs money to keep, that claws the stair carpet mercilessly, that has an unerring sense of what can annoy you, and that has woven bonds of affection and loyalty such that you actually care for the blessed thing. And its presence soothes, amuses, gives the day a shape, and its look confers acknowledgement that you exist and that's OK.
There are countless poems about cats. Kit Smart's "For I will consider my cat Jeoffrey" is the all time platinum bestselling poem about a man and his cat. I recently came across 'Magnificat' by the Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa.
The title is very clever. Magnificat. The poet is in a deep place of questioning about his own existence, what he is for, where he is going and why any of this matters anyway?
The cat embodies the enigma of each life drama played out against a cosmic vastness that is by turns threatening and welcoming. The poet's double self-assuring command to smile with which his poem ends, pushes the reader towards the hopeful thought with which we go to sleep, trusting the darkness and hoping for tomorrow – "it will be day."
In the days of a pandemic lock down, that kind of hopefulness is an essential corrective in the face of much that disturbs our peace and disrupts our plans. Sometimes it isn't the cosy and comfortable poems we need, but the more astringent words that face the mysteries without explaining them away, while yet insisting with equal force, "It will be day."
Magnificat
When will this inner night – the universe – end
And I – my soul – have my day?
When will I wake up from being awake?
I don't know. The sun shines on high
And cannot be looked at.
The stars coldly blink
And cannot be counted.
The heart beats aloofly
And cannot be heard.
When will this drama without theater
– Or this theater without drama – end
So that I can go home?
Where? How? When?
O cat staring at me with eyes of life, Who lurks in your depths?
It's Him! It's him!
Like Joshua he'll order the sun to stop, and I'll wake up,
And it will be day.
Smile, my soul, in your slumber!
Smile, my soul: it will be day!
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