GRAND OLD LADY

                                         for Tess

        I never wanted her inside         self-centred animals, cats

        always scratching the furniture        infesting the pile with fleas

        never did like the smell of cat in a house

        besides  there was a bolt-hole in the garage wall

        & a roll of old carpet     she’d be right

        One summer evening it chucked hailstones thick as lychees

        the old girl was hunkered by the flattened tommies           

        wearing that seedy look, head slumped on paws

        a black bedraggled sourpuss

        Probing about, I felt her jaw mangled, saw snaggled teeth

        She must’ve bellied along that ledge to the garage eaves

        taunted by chirpy sparrows nesting

        and over-reaching out of curiosity

        pranged onto the workbench, then concrete floor

        The vet wired her broken jaw, stitched her up.

        Home she came, groggy but with a peculiar half-grin.

        And Muggins took her in.

        But age took her by the scruff. 

        Raising herself grimly on tottery front legs,

        her hindquarters locked to the floor.  Spraddled she was,

        compelled to drag along on front legs and rump.

        Kidney malfunction, diagnosed the vet, it’s not uncommon

        in cats of fifteen going on a hundred    in our terms, of course

        It’s vital we inject old leatherneck here with steroids

        every month.  No more dry-biscuit treats.

        Otherwise . . .

        She knew her limitations.

        No longer able to spring and arch and tear blue wrens in a frenzy,

        the residual sphinx, claws balled beneath,

        imperiously surveyed her domain through gilt almond slits,

        the resident blackbird jaunting by.

        At moontimes, now doddery and particular for an escort,

        she summoned a curdled miaow to excuse herself.

        Muttering curses, I’d throw on a robe, and bare-footed

        wire-walk up the dewy, slug-trailed path,

        watching the grand old lady attend to her toiletries,

        front paws scrabbling between tomato stems.

        Squatting on thin haunches, straining and quivering,

        usually catching the rim of the hole, or missing completely.

        Unmiffed, she’d sniff her business,

        Then, with peremptory air, decline to cover over.

        Biding her time, she’d stare at spectres invisible,

        Nibble stems of grass to regurgitate, paddle brittle claws on scratching-logs.

        Deigning to re-enter, she’d request a pre-dawn snack –

        Farm Fresh Milk.  A clean saucer, if you don’t mind.

        At first light she would act the alarm,

        scrambling onto the bed, back legs struggling to grip,

        sometimes splaying out in an unladylike horizontal stretch-kick,

        mewling for lambs liver or crumbs of bleary affection.

        Attenuated over my nape, purring sweet nothings,

        she’d suddenly spray mucus from a monthly sneezing fit,

        then rub moist nose against my shock of hair.

        Even at dinner-time, she’d strike out for my trouser leg and claw up,

        hooking onto my shoulder, precariously perched,

        sniffing portions of meat or fish tastier than her own Ocean Platter,

        batting at forkfuls of pumpkin and peas that she would never eat.

        Inclined to read on the settee upon a wet-sheet to catch leaks from her incontinent slumbers, 

        I’d feel her burrowing into book or newspaper,

        surfacing to nuzzle her forehead under my chin, ronronning all the while,

        or bump against my glasses, kneading jumper unravelling.

        Of course, she was never really fit these days:

        her kidneys shot with protein; deaf even to the clunch of fridge door;

        ears eaten away by mites; licking her food slowly, rather than lashing gulps;

        heaving up a spittleblob of grass and furballs or a surfeit of offal.

        Sometimes I had to wipe her bottom and gungy tail

        with wettex, warm water, a dash of Pine-O-Clean,

        holding down her frail, bony side as she yowled.

       The kitchen often kicked with a pungent snort of urine.

        For the discharge of mucus, I’d prise her mouth to pop

        orange chloramphenicol pills twice a day that she’d resist tooth and claw.

        Her walk deteriorated into a wobble:

        instead of turning corners, her hind legs trotted straight on,

        her tail curving away to one side, like a limp cucumber.

        On New Year’s Eve, family duty called me to Warrnambool.

        But how could I enjoy my stay, how to relax into social ease?

        Would the old lady cope with the heat, the isolation, the outdoor life?

        I took my leave homeward bound prematurely,

        anxious for her trill of welcome at the humming of my car,

        her rolling gait as she hightailed down to insinuate her arched back,

        her desperate clambering to cling onto my shoulder for a garden stroll.

        Too late - some blasted neighbours had shovelled her up,

        dumped her in my garbage bin.

        bloody flies everywhere        we had to do summat

        not very hygienic, I know        we did what we could

        nuh, mate, never stopped         bastard never stopped  

        least the native birds'll get a fair go, eh?

                                                                                            Michael Small

         December, 1990, Mont Albert North, Victoria