Yorick Goes Underground

In keeping with the explorer theme Yorick has developed a burrowing instinct, although on reflection this is more a prospecting theme. Our sofas are covered with loose cloth – throws I think they are called. Yorick has taken to burrowing under these and their attendant cushions. If you dare to uncover him his look of rebuke is one of a gold prospector who has just struck a mother-lode of mint quality and of sufficient quantity to ensure untold wealth for his descendants for hundreds of years to come. The trouble is that having tunnelled his way to whatever valuable seam (sorry!) he was seeking he then promptly curls up and goes to sleep, and the only sign of his presence is a barely discernible undulation among the cushions. And my fear is that the fat lady is going to sit on him.

" . . tunnelled his way to whatever valuable seam . . . " An
exhausted prospector.

This is you understand the generic fat lady. Not the American one that sings, but the jolly one who is homely and ample. The one who with hands on bended knees, crouching slightly, adopts the sitting position and rolls unstoppably back into the chair with a ballooning explosive sigh of satisfaction. The one who is heavy enough to irrevocably smother a cat in the seconds between hitting the chair, and lumbering back to her feet as we all mouth “there’s a cat under your bum”. How I dread Book Club.

We are plagued with moles. Thank god we are not green keepers because what is laughably called our lawn would be a Putter’s nightmare. Tyke the Staffie cross, being nearer to the ground than most of us has a special interest in moles.

I swear she can hear them burrowing away. But equally I think they can hear her hearing them.

“’E’re; ‘ow you doin’ Eric?” 

“I 'aint Eric, I‘m Ernest. 

“Oh sorry, bit dark down ‘ere – thought you was Eric” 

“Well I 'aint – Eric’s doin' the next mole hill. Who‘re you?” 

“Errol.” 

“Cool” 

“Is that bl**dy dog still up there?” 

“’Corse – never gives up” 

“How’dyou know?” 

“Got a dreadful wheeze” 

“Oh, sorry ‘bout that” 

“’Bout what?” 

“Yer wheeze” 

“Not me stupid. The dog. The dog wheezes; wheezes something terrible, obviously asthma” 

“Oh” 

“My God!” 

“What is it?” 

“Back up – back up - back up!” 

“Okay, okay . . . What is it, what is it?” 

“Oh, ‘tis ‘orrible!” 

“What? What?” 

“. . . . . . . long white leg with claws on the end” 

“No, can’t be the dog, ‘s got very short legs” 

“Of course not, it’s the – its the – the – the – cat!”  

“O . . . M . . . .G . . .!”  

“Save yer’self young’un. Run!, Run for the hills!” 

”Which ones?”

“Eric’s of course! Run like the wind! Run fur yur life!”

And this is of course all true. There he is in the middle of the lawn. Yorick with his arm stuck down a mole hole.

Mole hunter extraordinaire.

So much for subterranean behaviour, but Yorick has also exhibited another underground trait – identity subversion.

It is difficult to chart when a curious phenomenon started exhibiting itself. Was it the first left hook round Seth’s ear, or the first undercover raid on Hamlets food while he was eating? Ever the gentleman Hamlet actually stepped back in unfeigned surprise before re-engaging with his bowl. Ever the idiot Seth actually turned tail and fled.

It might even have been as a consequence of some rather irregular sleeping habits during his formative years with the Tyke the fat Staffie cross.

" . . some rather irregular sleeping habits . . "

I suspect however it has got more to do with the utter contempt that the two elderly and irascible cats have shown to Yorick.

But whatever the reason Yorick has, at an early age (and well beyond his years I might venture) concluded that his identity is not as you would expect. And lets face it on examination of the evidence there is little to dissuade him from this belief.

Exhibit 1 - The goldfish clearly live in a different medium, have very restricted conversational skills and extremely limited life experiences.

Exhibit 2 - The humans also appear to be floating round in a different medium. They have their heads in the clouds and have to use sticks rather than eating properly. They tend to insist on picking one up at the most inopportune moments, slobbering all over one and then getting irritated when you object, AND they never seem to feed one on time, ever.

Exhibit 3 - The cats are either always asleep or snarling at each other or the world in general.

". . . snarling at the world in general . . " Two witches
familiars taking a breather.

Exhibits 4 & 5 - The moles are clearly subversive characters and the Eagle Owl (small kittenuseatus) has a very annoyingly lofty attitude towards the world in general.

Exhibit 6 - At least the dogs run around aimlessly make lots of noise and crap on the kitchen floor.

It’s a no brainer really.

The fact of the matter is that Yorick thinks that he is a dog . . . . . . in fact further Tails of Yorick learning how to be a dog is a whole other story . . . .

You got a problem?

Yea. You got a problem?

But before that can be told there is the curious mystery as to where Yorick actually comes from.

Yorick - A Kitten's Progress

It is a dark and stormy night. Lightening flashes across the sky and the gods roll gigantic marbles from one mountain to the next.

One of the dogs is shivering in the shower and the other two wished they had got there first. The two elderly irascible cats are huddled together, precarious on top of a sofa. The two remaining goldfish are chatting amiably under some nameless aquatic weed shielded from the glare of life (and lightening) by a nauseous smudge of green algae on the side of the fish tank. And Yorick is trying  to flick an emery board off the TV room window cill into the waste paper basket below.

We sit, idly glancing at the TV, expectant that at any moment there will be a power cut that will bring a merciful end to some ghastly American repeat series about cadavers, human innards, mysterious organisms. You know the ones, thoroughly unbelievable plots carried off with little panache by plastic, two dimensional characters; but in actual fact we are watching Yorick catapulting an emery board off the window cill into a waste paper basket.

Much seems to have happened in the months between finally accepting this uninvited house guest, giving the world the “Tales of Yorick” and the present. For all of us. Dogs, cats, fish . . 

  . . . . . and of course the ever patient Zodwa.

Not to forget sundry friends, visitors, hangers on, café society, the man-in-the-street; in fact anyone who has been forced to listen to the latest frolic and adventure of the dear little chap.

I did not take him for his operation. Far too busy at work, and besides I was not convinced that his head had out-grown the bars of his travel cage and the thought of bumping into a Daschund with four nostrils was too much. Anyway he was returned from the vet groggy, confused and emasculated. Although this time he was not perfumed with surgical soap. I had actually asked if we could have his little knackers bronzed but I don’t think that this request was passed on to the vet. We did not even get them in a bottle of formaldehyde.

The after effects of the anaesthetic lasted for half a day and I don’t think he really noticed any difference in himself . . . . .

"I don't think he noticed any difference in himself . . . " 

Hang on a moment . . 

Yorick has slipped joyfully from kitten-hood into catalesence.

In homo sapiens “adolescence” is that strange and indefinable part of growing up where the victim becomes indescribably moody, knows everything, hates everybody, suddenly develops very long limbs with hands and feet that are misconnected to the rest of the body and have acne blossoming on every available public area of exposed skin, and develops nauseous sweat glands.

. . . walking around on flexible stilts cunningly connecting a

steadily elongating body to gigantic walking pads . . "

“Catalesence” is much more fun. The only real parallel is the development of absurd limbs. Suddenly, in days it seemed, Yorick was walking around on flexible stilts cunningly connecting a steadily elongating body to gigantic walking pads. While acne is not so far, touch wood, a problem, (some of a more PC bent would say a challenge, but I would say acne in a cat, were it to occur, is definitely a problem) the occasional little fart is an issue. A passing juvenile trait I can only hope.

It is late afternoon and we have been out much of the day. We had left early morning and returned mid afternoon, long after lunch time. The animals are wild with hunger. Barks, meows and bubbles rent the air. (No hang on, surely the fish were fed first thing?)

But wait! Someone is missing!

The others are fed and with a rising sense of panic we search the house, but to no avail. I even - and this I hesitate to admit - check the toilet pans, harking back to earlier paranoia’s when the kitten was truly toilet bowl sized and couldn’t swim.

We start a detailed garden search. Visions of a white lifeless rag-doll being tossed from one canine mouth to another flit across my mind as I peer over the hedge next door into Alfred Sipho’s garden at the distant pack of snarling dogs.

Finally a thought is struck, “I did go out to the cabin before we left, I’ll just check . . .”. I wait with pounding heart and nearly faint with relief as I hear a cooing “ . . . . and what were you doing in there all alone for so long . . . ?”

And there, in an admittedly extreme form, is a telling character trait. At any time of the day, often mornings, I catch myself idly thinking - I wonder where Yorick is? Like the cravings for an illicit drug once this thought crosses the mind, it won’t go away. Without being too obvious, or when I am alone with frantic dedication, I check out likely locations.

This is in itself difficult because like any explorer, or terrorist, he is constantly changing his routes and habits. For days he will sleep happily on the chair in the study – and just when you know with certainty where to find him, he’s moved on. I will walk out on to the stoep – no sign. I go out into the kitchen yard – no sign. I check out the bedrooms - nothing. I make myself a calming cup of coffee and return to the stoep – still no sign. On the point of resolving to ring a friend for reassurance there, at the bottom of the garden, is a singular, silent and very white figure intently stalking god knows what unsuspecting locust, lizard, furry creature or large leaf. Or there he is aloof and comfortable atop a bush framed against the mountains. Who knows where he sprang from?

" . . . .stalking god knows what 

unsuspecting locust , lizard . . "

" . .  comfortable atop a bush framed 

against the mountains

The other day with the same sense of rising panic I was checking out the kitchen yard and some sixth sense made me look down at the foreground and there against the shadow of the roof line was - the shadow of a cat. Yorick had taken to inspecting the gutters. I went out and looked up.

Hot Cat on a Cool Tin Roof 

He meowed.

I said “Well I’m not helping you down.”

He meowed again

He looked at me as if to say “well I wasn’t asking you to, I think I’ll just go and clear the gutters out at the front of the house, they’re in a terrible state.”

Hell Lynds . . . .  you ain’t heard nothing yet!

Yorick The Foundling

This is a sad tail of self administered offspring separation therapy, and it all started when I was home alone.

A lot of things go wrong when I am home alone. A month long period of separation resulted in a bad case of food poisoning, a very painfully stubbed toe, and something else that my mind has since rejected. But these were minor temporary traumas. The food poisoning passed – explosively from every orifice, the stubbed toe turned a wonderful electric mauve and the nail valiantly stayed in place, and the other thing clearly righted itself because I remember nothing of it. But the latest mishap has had a much greater and longer lasting result.

It was a dark and stormy early afternoon and something at the gate post was exciting the dogs. An active something that was not allowing them to get too close. The immediate thought was snake – this from a previous similar experience where “snake” in dog language was simply not understood, with potentially lethal consequences. Closer inspection however revealed a pair of large liquid, iridescent eyes framed with grey hair and punctuated with a heart melting little pink snub nose, and a savage spitting mouth that said – “touch me buddy and you are toast”.



“ . . . a large pair of liquid, iridescent eyes framed

with grey hair and punctuated with a heart melting

 little pink snub nose”



In a household of three excitable dogs and two elderly irascible cats a kitten is not a bankable proposition, so I did the heroic thing and decided to take the dogs for a walk. This cowardly action was supported by the logic that if the thing had found its way to our gatepost surely its mother would find it and usher it back to the maternal nest. Let nature take its course I reasoned.

We went, we four. We walked and swam. We chased sticks and Dassie. We drank some beers and returned home three hours later, bushy tailed and rosy cheeked and slightly drunk; generally refreshed and well prepared for an evening of idle TV grazing.  Around 8 o’clock Zodwa (our home help) introduced herself with a gentle knock at the door and said,

“Steve”?

“Yes” I replied

“Can I have some cat food?” she asked.

Quick as a flash I guessed that she was not trying out another Jamie Oliver recipe, because through the fug of more postprandial beer my mind was shrieking – kitten! The bloody mother gave up her search too early - and my stomach felt hollow.

“Kitten?” I asked.

Yes” Zodwa replied.

“Oh, Damn”, I sighed.

We shovelled some of the food normally meant for elderly irascible cats into a bowl to tempt the little mite from the wheel arch of the Hearse (don’t ask). It was suitably tempted and attacked the food with delicate gusto. With trepidation I picked the animal up and said to Zodwa with what I felt  was exemplary generosity,

“Here you are Zodwa, you’d like a cat”

She said nothing.

“I'm sure you’d like a cat”

She said nothing again.

“We'll pay for the cat food”

Her third reply was as expressive as the previous two, and the hollow in my stomach deepened.

So we bonded. Me and this forlorn foundling, and I vowed to capture this moment, this beginning, on camera. Several self portraits later the idiocy of this endeavour became apparent as the only one I can reproduce amply illustrates.



“So we bonded” Classic example of a reason

not  to “capture the moment”



“Put it in the bathroom”, Margaret said on the cell phone.

“I have done, but it might get lonely”

“Well make it a bed then”

“I have. I’ve given it a blanket”

“A box? Give it a shoe box”

“Oh, right. It fell into the bath and couldn't get out, so I've made a ladder out of the shower mat.”

The muffled response on the other end of the phone was difficult to interpret.

“I’ve made a ladder out of the shower

mat”

Clearly I had much to learn, and this was going to be a long journey . . . . .

Yorick goes to the Vet

I suppose that for any parent the first kill must be a defining moment  – and for us that was certainly the case! Although I have to say at this point that I feel that the mother of my kitten is taking less of an active interest in his development than I would have liked – anyway - an unashamedly, unabashed, emotional excerpt from my diary -

“Yorick has made his first kill! This was after having closely observed Shadow getting on the outside of a middle sized gecko. So the other day there he was - bless - dismembering a particularly aggressive looking piece of grass which he had both stalked (sorry!) and dragged under the outside seats for the coup de gras (sorry again!). What a mess. Grass seed everywhere, but how we cheered this new right of passage! Shadow, who watched from a distance was suitably po-faced and, I regret to say, I tad disdainful”

Yorick in hunting mode. Well actually Yorick in snail 

kissing mode

But every silver lining has a cloud; for every golden moment there is at least another of supreme embarrassment.

It was a dark and brooding Friday and it fell to me to take the youngster to the vet for his second round of shots. During his previous visit (I was not present) it is alleged that he had managed to get his head through the gaps of the extremely robust cat transporter. The one with titanium hardened bars designed to keep elephants out. We made it to the  surgery without any problems. Clutching the cat carrier in one hand and his dear little medical card in the other:- 

• Name of Cat - Yorick; 
• Breed - DSH (what does that mean? “Foundling” would have been fine.); 
• Date of Birth  - dunno, some time in October; 
• Weight - very very light; 
• Description - scraggy.

It’s a rather fetching yellow - the card that is - not the cat.

Deluxe Cat Transporter. Titanium bars and bomb-proof floor

As we sat patiently waiting for Barry (the vet) to deal with some random American pedigree dachshund, Yorick started to make agitated "get me the hell out of here you double crossing bastard" sorts of noises and pushed his head through the bars of the cat carrier. Inextricably pushed his head through the bars of the cat carrier. "Barry?" I said in a pitch that barely concealed my sense of panic. Taking in the unfolding drama in an instant and with the benefit of years of intense training he said "Oh dear" in a calm veterinary sort of tone. "Don't worry we'll sort that out in a moment" he enjoined and continued to carry on with the owner of the spoilt brat daschund! 

So there we sat, head through cage while  embarrassment was heaped on further embarrassment as another client arrived in the surgery. The world did a half degree tilt as I noticed that the newcomer was not only another daschund, but this one had two noses. I kid you not. It was a congenitally deformed daschund. Not so much challenged as over supplied in the sniffing department.

Well as you can imagine they had lots in common and lots to talk about. Picture it. The vet cheerfully engaging with an American with a pedigree dachshund safely ensconced in a deluxe go-faster travel hamper with CD plates, and an Asian gentleman with fractured English with a double nosed dachshund sitting vacantly on his lap; and me with a frantic kitten of no previous abode but now with its head firmly and permanently trapped between the bars of its bullet proof kitty carrier.

With a cheerful "Well lets see what we can do about this" from the vet, we ushered ourselves into the thankful privacy of the surgery. While I tried to pacify the rear end, Barry attempted to angle Yoricks' head diagonally to push him back through the bars. Yorick was hugely unimpressed by this manoeuvre. "I think I'll get some pliers," said the vet. "Thank god the kitten does not understand English," I thought, "Don't you worry now young Yorick," I soothed with forced jocularity to the victim - who I could swear muttered - "eF Orff"!

Well the pliers didn't work - elephant resistant titanium bars you see. It would have taken the jaws of life to have widened those bars. So as a last resort (god knows what the last, last resort would have been) it was a soap job. The front end of Yorick was lathered with liquid surgical soap. After much pitiful meowing and screeching, and encouraging and at times exasperated commentary from Barry along the lines of "well it went through this way so it has to go back the same way" ears were flattened and the silly sods' head was finally reunited with the rest of his scrawny little body.

And then he got the injection.

We returned exhausted to the waiting area to the very sympathetic Asian gentleman and a dachshund with 4 nostrils who looked just as vacant as when it had first arrived.

I put the kitten and the cat basket, separately, in the car. I kept the kitten on my lap and drove home. He purred loudly all the way and I wonder what was going through his mind as I was reflecting on the vets’ parting words which were "Well, see you in three weeks time, after Christmas, gosh is it that time already? How time flies", and hoping that in three weeks time the head will have grown large enough not to get ensnared again and that the planned de-knackering procedure can be carried out without undue stress - except for me of course.

On getting home the dogs were of course most curious about this fragrant apparition; this Yorick. "This Yorick?" they said, sniffing suspiciously, "This Yorick, for we knew him?" 

"Na" said Hamlet "Never smelled 'im before."

"Two slightly embarrassed dogs wondering who the

 intruder might be" OR "Meester Yorick ? 

You wanna see heem? Who wants to know?" 

And so a life of discovery continues.

I am hugely pleased to report that Yorick is demonstrating admirable concern for environmental affairs, and is – in the biblical sense always willing to lie with the lion (or is it the bear).

Yorick lying (in a biblical sense) with the lion - 

or more correctly a rather fat and very comatose small dog

For us (well me - to be truthful) it has been a fulfilling journey. I feel that the dogs have benefited from our new family member. If the other two cats have felt threatened or somehow pushed out, had their noses disjointed then so be it – tough shit! I can take their scorn!

My only concern is Jaws – our only remaining goldfish. What is she thinking about this new white furry thing that keeps  . . . what is this new white furry thing that keeps patting . . . is this new white furry thing that keeps patting its . . . . this new white furry thing that keeps patting its paw . . . . new white furry thing that keeps patting its paw against  . . . . . the glass of my world . . . . oophs lost me train of thought again  . . . bugger . . . . .

 . . . . . . with a 3 second recall this contribution could be an awfully long time in coming, but life outside the tank must continue.

Yorick striking up an utterly pointless and one sided 

conversation with a couple of goldfish - or is it one? 

The World Meets Yorick

The kitten was kept secret from the two Collies – Hamlet and Seth, Tyke the oddly shaped Staffie, and of course the  two elderly irascible cats.

By the time Margaret got home the next day it was clear, in my mind at least, that the kitten was here to stay.

Tiger incidentally is a cat who has perfected territorial protection to a fine art – and that embraces intrusive humans as well as other cats, dogs, birds, cows  . .

The fact is that ever since we “got” Hamlet and I was banned from calling his brother “Yorick” I vowed to name the next animal “Yorick”. Goldfish seemed not to fit the bill – and after all who the hell gives Goldfish names anyway? So it was pre-ordained that Yorick would become, well - Yorick.

A reasonable demand.

 . . . . . and banged on about the whole story of finding the little chap and so forth and was able to report that the vet had declared the kitten a chap and not a chapess! (Thank god for that because we had have been fighting of potential suitors for years to come.) And I was also able to report on our efforts to find its original owners which were to put up some half hearted notices on local telegraph poles advertising his loss -
"Found. Scraggy flea ridden small cat with halitosis. Clearly the offspring of badly interbred parents. Will only accept obscenely large reward in return for information of its current whereabouts" with a fictitious cell phone number on the bottom. 
I also put a photo of Tiger on the notice in the vain hope that someone will recognise her on the street and take her off our hands instead.

Naturally as concerned and responsible parents we were monitoring all bodily functions closely –

Obviously things were not always as smooth as one would like, but I felt strong enough to report some misgivings about interpersonal relationships as they stood at that point in time, although I must say the disdain of the senior felines was something of a relief.

I went on to report that we were currently fighting off the unwanted attentions of Hamlet and Tyke who both seem to relish the prospect of kitten burger (without the extra chips), and that the other two cats seem to be broadly unfazed. I remarked that it is amazing what old age can do to one.

Kitten Burger without chips but with lashings of salad

On reflection the phrase “amazing what old age can do to one” seemed to be taking on a new and rather disturbing dimension. I can say this with the benefit of hindsight because I rounded off this very long and descriptive email with some guff about keeping everyone informed about his progress, “if not hourly then certainly daily” and admitted that this had got absolutely nothing to do whatsoever with offspring substitution . . . . .

Within days this elicited the obvious response –

Well at this point in Yoricks’ career he has been voted the cutest Kitten ever by everyone who he has met - excluding Tiger who can't work out what all the fuss is about. Tyke is  absolutely besotted. She cannot get enough of the little mite. She stands (or sits) all a'quiver making alien epiglottal mewling noises, trying to nuzzle the Yorick tail. Even by Tykes undeniably odd sexual orientation this would be an odd mount so it has to be something strictly platonic. A most interesting relationship! (As an aside Tyke has taken to trying to hump my gear-changing arm while I am driving. Why this should be I cannot fathom - and it is certainly not encouraged on the highway, or anywhere else I hasten to add.)

“ . . . all a'quiver making alien epiglottal

mewling noises, trying to nuzzle the

 Yorick tail” Hamlet is thinking – 

“This is really odd behaviour"

Who me? Portrait of a dog in serious

 need of psychotherapy, and Hamlet 

is still thinking – “This is really

odd behaviour”

By now of course the curse of Yorick has taken hold. In response to an insistent, not to say demanding email from Youngest Daughter “Yorick update .......?.” I continued to deliver the goods:-

"I bet I can hold it longer than you can!"

I went on to explain that –

"Otherwise - his journey of exploration through the underbelly of life continues with some rather risky Shadow tail chasing and some very dangerous larger dog tail chasing. (Shadow being the larger of the two elderly irascible cats)

Yesterday Yorick, Hamlet and I watched with fascination as Shadow noisily chomped his way through a medium sized helping of Gecko on the lawn. He (Yorick that is) has graduated from eating and defecating (in a large plastic plant tray) in the bathroom, to eating in the corridor and crapping in the loo in a bespoke (although admittedly plastic) cat-litter tray like any grown up human being - oops sorry - cat.

I have to admit that my only real concern is a Spotted Eagle Owl (Smallkittenus eatus) which has been hanging around in a benign sort of way for a year or two; and is now hanging around in a very threatening sort of way. I am trying to teach Yorick to keep looking up while he is outside - but he keeps falling off the edge of the verandah - especially at dusk when the risk of being grabbed by hungry talons and whisked to some grim nest is at its height.

I have given the night guard written instructions about - well frankly "guarding" the kitten. I am not sure if he fully understood them first time round - perhaps his English is not too good - but he did raise his eyes skywards in concentration so I think he has caught on.

Having just invested in a couple of GPS units for a project I was thinking of strapping one of them to Yorick so we can keep an eye on his movements, but I feel that his dear little back would bend under the weight, and that my colleagues would baulk at R5,000 of equipment being wasted on one so small"

"Oi You! Yes You! Who you calling cute?"

The time however was looming when Yorick was to visit the vet. Little did I expect what a trauma that this would turn out to be for me.