As a family, we never much bought into the idea of keeping pets, at least in recent years. It was simply too much trouble. Why on earth would we put ourselves through the agony of carefully separating hair from upholstery fibres, keeping an eagle eye on the toiletry needs of the pet in question, and number of other tasks, the time spent on which could be used elsewhere.
However, cats don’t seem to care particularly for the opinions and preferences of humans. They have their own minds, and put considerable effort into training the sadly rather dim humans they encounter (or as Nilanjana Roy has named our species in her book The Wildings; Bigfeet).
Some years ago, a female cat had given birth to a litter of four. They took up residence in a nice shady bit of land, with plenty of trees, and far enough from the main hustle of the city. In other words, our garden.
The mother decided that she needed help in taking care of her litter. Asking for it however, was out of the question. The procedure she preferred was demanding it, and we hapless humans had no real choice but to obey. Milk she claimed regularly, and her displeasure was made clear if we failed to deliver. Aristocat, we named her.
Just for the sake of reference of course. They would eat, and grow, and leave. End of story. There would be no attachment.
The littlest one, the runt of the litter, got her leg jammed between two stones. It took us a whole afternoon to realise what had happened to her, and even longer to free her. After that, we started keeping a slightly closer look on that particular one. Just to make sure that she was alright after the accident, after all, she was limping after that.
Then she ended up climbing the amla tree (the small variety). As these things go, she couldn’t manage to come down on her own. We ruminated on whether we should help her down or not, wondering of our touch would cause the mother to disown her. Eventually her mother managed to guide her down. After this point though, we decided on a name for her. Sherpa. The first one of them to climb.
Despite growing up, she stayed the smallest of the litter. When we fed them (and yes-we had moved on from just milk to feed as well), she would be pushed to the side by her siblings, who had no qualms about muscling each other out. We tried to look out for her, but it was hard.
Eventually, the others left. The mother first, then the siblings (who we named as well).
Sherpa visited. Occasionally. Now that her siblings had left, we thought that she would be free of competition. But while it didn’t come from the siblings, there were other sources for it. Another cat had decided that our garden was a wonderful place to be in, and Sherpa was never very good at defending her territory. The other cat, a calico who looked remarkably similar to Sherpa, started edging her out of the garden.
Sherpa’s visits became increasingly sporadic, guzzling as much as she could in the few moments that she had while looking over her shoulder to see if the other cat was anywhere near.
Eventually, even these visits stopped, and where she went, or what happened to her, we don’t know.
The other cat continued to visit. We chased her off when we could, but that didn’t deter her. She had litters. Several over the years. We occasionally left milk but stopped bothering with names.
Every now and then a calico female will show up with brown and grey patches and a black tipped tail. If it is still the same cat, or one of her descendants, we aren’t sure. They have more litters in our garden.
A few weeks ago, one showed up and had two kittens. They have gone now, but maybe when they grow up, at least one of them will return.