Once again, Jeoffry the ginger cat was determined to help walk Jed the old collie. He has thought for a while that this is his job, and that Jed needs a one year old cat to make sure he is okay. When Jed dawdles and sniffs too much, Jeoffry stops and waits, runs to him to coax more speed, and won’t return home without his dog. Coming out of the little wood on Friday evening as it was getting dark, we met Sam, our neighbour’s bouncy, lolloping pointer, filled with enthusiasm for a snowy evening sledging expedition and wearing a flashing green collar.
Maybe it was the flashing lights that spooked Jeoffry. He leapt back off the track into the little wood – followed by Sammy, who proved he could move with astonishing speed. Sam is trained strictly to point at wild birds and not chase things – his master is a wildlife ecologist and that’s Sam’s job. Quite soon, Sam lolloped back out and continued his evening. Jeoffry didn’t emerge, but he was close to home, with multiple route home options, in familiar territory.
When he didn’t appear for his tea by 9pm, Jed and I went back to the wood with a torch. No sight, no sound, no cat in this wood, I thought. Next morning he still wasn’t home. I should say at this point that Jeoffry is a silly little cat, prone to adventures and worrying people. His twin brother, Lucretius, is a measured stoic, with a kitten face but a wise head, who is more inclined to stay close to home. Nevertheless, I had a strong feeling Jeoffry was in trouble. So Andrew and I spent all morning searching. We both independently searched the little wood again, calling, looking up into the trees the kittens loved to climb and romp in. Then, all the adjacent and nearby fields and the other woods. It was slightly milder than the previous week, but still bitter; all the tracks were frozen solid and stumbling through the snow-buried ruts of old potato fields wasn’t pleasant. When it became clear that old Jed had had enough, and we’d raked the verges of the fast and furious A9 from the bridge through binoculars, I turned to take the dog home. I bumped into Simon and Sarah, friends from the village, who were full of sympathy, having lost two beloved pets this year, and said they’d look out for Jeoffry. Andrew went on to the tangled wood over the dual carriageway.
Passing the little wood, I scanned the trees from the track – for the fourth time. And high up – 15 metres up – a spindly tree not far from where he was last seen, was something ginger.
He was watching me, making silent (thus useless) miaows, lifting one paw at a time to relieve the cold. He had been there all night, and was not able or confident enough to find his way down. I called, he looked at me, didn’t move. What to do? The fire brigade tore through my head…. but not only was I uncertain they would respond anyway, the road and weather conditions were bad, and drivers on the A9 can be even sillier than ginger cats. How could I risk diverting the fire service from potential life-endangering incidents? I phoned Andrew. I phoned the vets, who said try the fire brigade. I googled, not an action that often ends in reassurance. I learned that, contrary to widely-held beliefs, cats cannot come down vertically from great heights. Their claws are designed only to take them up. Which Jeoffry’s had so spectacularly done. They can sometimes survive a fall, but cannot remain up a tree indefinitely without food, water or warmth. They grow weak and fall badly, and don’t survive.
That is why you don’t see cat skeletons in trees. They are on the ground.
Andrew returned. Although an ex-tree surgeon, he suffers mild vertigo and doesn’t climb these days. I googled tree surgeons. None of them were local, nor did they offer cat rescues as a sideline. I raked my brains. All I could think of was a long ladder. Our next door neighbours live in a tall, Victorian villa, and have a long extending ladder for maintenance. I trotted home to see if they were in, and if we could borrow it.
John – who I later recalled is very allergic to cats – immediately said, “Oh right, where is he? Give me a moment, I’ll get the ladder and be up there.” There was no hesitation, no question. Help was needed, it would be given. Soon, both John and Catriona joined us gazing up a tree and calling a distressed but immobile cat. John had brought 2 sections of the ladder, but had to go back for the third. The tree had several narrow trunks, some dead branches, and was slippery. Even with the third section, Jeoffry was out of reach, and (being a silly little cat), did not have much of an opinion of jumping down onto the top rung and using the ladder as a human might. “Who knows a tree surgeon?” I asked the air. “Mmm, Simon might know someone,” mumbled John.
I phoned Simon, still out walking, and asked him. Again, there wasn’t a second’s hesitation when I explained the situation. “We’ll just swing by that way, and see what we can do. No, not a problem, be there in a bit.” And in due course, we became six humans and a cat, for Sarah came as well. But in my fixation that we needed a tree climber I had forgotten something. Catriona, John, Simon and Sarah are expert rock climbers (Simon is particularly accustomed to mind-rottingly scary frozen Himalayan precipices. I’ve been to one of his talks and was scared to open my eyes to look at the pictures). Simon and Sarah came with all their lightweight climbing gear, and John went back to the house for his. Politely, all four rejected Andrew’s ancient and long disused heavy tree climbing rope that he’d fetched in case it was useful!
After much testing of surfaces, discussion and planning, a plan was laid. Andrew cut away some dead wood and branches which were in the way, providing the now fully extended ladder with a more secure base. Simon went up and tied-in the ladder itself so that it could not slip away from the tree. Then he went up again, with John on the ground with the rope, and secured himself to the least spindly junctions of the tree. From the very top of the ladder, he could just reach Jeoffry and talk softly to him. Jeoffry began to purr encouragingly. My sole usefulness was to provide a large IKEA type bag with a soft light blanket in, together with a sprinkling of Jeoffry’s favourite cat treats, and to hold Andrew’s tarpaulin with Catriona to catch him if – when – the cat fell. The bag was carabiner-ed to Simon’s belt.
By now, the light was already fading and Jeoffry had been up the tree for nearly 22 hours. I was disturbed by the thought that this operation was putting Simon at risk, and the longer it went on, the greater the risk would be. If this didn’t work, I couldn’t let this go on. In my mind, I formed the final plan – for Andrew to go for the chainsaw and part-saw through the trunk. hoping it would come down slowly enough for the cat to jump clear. There was a strong risk to Jeoffry, but not to my friends – and I was pretty sure from my googling that with temperatures set to go well below freezing again, the cat would not survive a second night anyway.
However, Simon relishes a challenge, and wasn’t to be beaten, even when his first attempt to persuade Jeoffry (normally the most placid and gentle of cats) into the bag was rewarded by a nasty scratch on the cheek. I was horrified by the blood dripping on the snow, but Simon shrugged it off. “I always bleed a lot!” More coaxing, more careful reaching and nudging. Then:
“The cat is in the bag!”
What came next was a careful descent, me hustling a bag of still, silent cat along the frozen track, trying not to slip at this late stage, offering thanks I scarcely knew how to articulate (though bottles of single malt whisky hopefully helped), and the fall off in adrenalin that preceded a long sleep – for Jeoffry and for me. No damage to him – and his big brother Luca soon took charge of sorting the wee ginger so and so out! Jed may or may not have been pleased to have his kitten back – but is very tolerant…..
For me, I am humbled, and set to wondering. It is the season of goodwill, but that doesn’t account for that fantastic, immediate, humane response, unasked for but so, so appreciated, from my neighbours and friends. It made me think that, actually, humans can be pretty wonderful animals themselves sometimes. That there is great goodness to be found, that gratitude is a feeling we should acknowledge and that love should be the tune that plays throughout our days, not just at Christmas.
May all beings – including humans – be well and filled with loving-kindness this festive season.
The fire catches. It spreads through the pile. Over the tracery of sycamore against the night sky, the smoke billows white and tenuous into the dank, chilly air of midwinter. Brilliant flames shoot skyward. The year, this year which promised and gave so much loss and so much gain, turns slowly, creaking out its bewildering, blistering, beguiling existence through the night, as the fire burns steadily, in spite of the wet, unsuitable fuel. 
It burned on through the following day as well. I tended its last hour as dusk fell, turning in the straggling twigs and prodding the embers buried in the ash back to life. I watched the light fade, and soft rain start to fall, suppressing anxiety as I waited for children to arrive for Christmas, heart aching. And though no returning light is yet discernable in these misty, damp days and nights, for sure the year has turned.
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