CLEO. Helen Brown E.
the kitchen reverberated through the wall, reminding us it was time for Cleo to meet the lady of the house.
I instructed Rob to let Rata out of the kitchen while I held on to Cleo. But what if the dog lunged at the kitten and tried to eat it? Adult muscle strength would be needed to restrain the dog. The only option was to instruct Rob to hold the kitten carefully while I brought Rata in.
Overjoyed to be released from kitchen confinement, Rata showered me with saliva. She was seemingly oblivious of my prison-warden’s grip on her collar.
“Now girl, there’s someone we’d like you to meet,” I said, sounding like a dentist introducing a first timer to the drill. “There’s nothing to worry about, but you’ll have to be very gentle.”
The golden retriever knew exactly where we were going. Like a jet boat with a water-skier in tow, she dragged me into the living room. Rob stood by the window anxiously clutching Cleo close to his chin. Rata took one glimpse of the kitten and tightened every muscle under her collar. Cleo’s eyes widened to become a pair of glittering jewels. The kitten puffed her patchy tufts of fur out to double her size, though she was still hardly big enough to intimidate a chihuahua. She arched her back and flattened her ears. Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, Rata barked, puncturing the air like gunshots. The poor little kitten was going to die of terror.
Any normal animal outclassed in size would have recoiled into Rob’s arms, but Cleo was no common beast. Glowering down from her human fortress, she shrank her pupils to pinpoints and lasered out enough malevolence to intimidate the entire canine empire. She then peeled back her mouth, exposed two parallel rows of fangs—and hissed.
Rob, Rata and I froze. Frighteningly primeval, Cleo’s hiss was something a python would emit before swallowing a rabbit, a hiss worthy of Cleopatra herself. It was an imperial hiss, one not to be argued with.
Rata fumbled under her collar and collapsed on her haunches. Shocked at the kitten’s ferocity, the retriever hung her head and studied the floor. The old dog seemed disappointed, confused.
Then it struck me. I’d been misreading Rata’s signals all along. Her jumping at Lena by the front door had been a welcome, not an attack. The growl just now had been one of friendly excitement, the bark an invitation to play. Rata’s feelings had been wounded not only by me misinterpreting her intentions but by a stroppy kitten not much bigger than her front paw.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Bring Cleo over here.”
Nursing Cleo in his arms, Rob walked cautiously to our side of the room. Rata gazed up at the kitten with an expression so soft and kind it could have been stolen from Mother Teresa. Nevertheless, I maintained the grip on her collar.
“See? Rata doesn’t hate the kitten. She’s just not sure how to make friends. Put Cleo down and see what she thinks. I won’t let Rata go.”
Rob took several steps backwards and lowered Cleo to the floor. The kitten stood on all fours and blinked at her monumental housemate. Rata tilted her head, pricked her ears and whined tenderly as Cleo advanced steadily towards her. When the kitten finally reached Rata’s front paws, Cleo stopped and glimpsed up at the monstrous dog face towering above her. She then turned around twice, curled up like a caterpillar and snuggled between Rata’s giant feet.
Our retriever trembled with delight at being recognized for the super nanny she was. Not since the boys were babies had I seen her so bursting with maternal instinct. In the way she’d been utterly protective with our children, I knew Rata would be equally trustworthy with the kitten.
Ours weren’t the only hearts that had been mashed to pulp. Whatever dog-deciphering system Rata had access to, there was no doubt she knew what had happened to Sam. In some ways Rata’s grief had been more consummate than ours. Without the release of language and tears, she could only lie on the floor and will the hours away. Pats and tender words from us seemed to provide only momentary comfort. But the kitten had rekindled something in the old dog. Perhaps Rata’s heart was resilient enough to open up one last time.
As I let go of her collar her tongue unfurled like a ceremonial flag. Without a twitch of uncertainty, the young intruder succumbed to being lovingly slurped over from tail to nose and back again.
“Where’s Cleo sleeping tonight?” Rob asked.
“We’ll set up a bed for her in the laundry. I’ll fill a hot-water bottle to keep her warm.”
“We can’t do that! She’ll be missing her brothers and sisters. She’ll have nightmares. I want her to sleep with me.”
Rob hadn’t mentioned the words “missing” and “brother” in the same sentence since 21 January. Nevertheless, the Superman watch stayed glued to his wrist. During daylight hours Rob gave a surprisingly good impression of a child enjoying a trauma-free life. Nights were a different matter. Tortured by dreams of being chased by a monster in a car, he slept fitfully on the mattress in a corner of our bedroom.
“There isn’t room for all three of us and a kitten in our bedroom,” I said. “Besides, Cleo’s probably going to make a fuss the first few nights while she’s settling in.”
“I don’t care,” he said. “She can sleep with me in my old bedroom.”
The bedroom Rob and Sam had shared still sat empty. We’d bundled up Sam’s clothes and toys and dumped them in a school charity recycle bin on an afternoon so surreal in its hideousness I’d felt like a figure in a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. After that we’d done the expected thing and set about giving the room a makeover. Steve painted the walls sunshine yellow. I sewed some Smurf curtains and pinned up a Mickey Mouse poster. Steve nailed together a kit-set bed and stained it red. I bought bright new covers. But for all its primary-colored dazzle the revamp hadn’t made a cat’s hair of difference to Rob. I’d envisaged him sleeping in the corner of our bedroom until his twenty-first birthday and beyond.
“You’re ready to move back into your bedroom, Rob?”
“Somebody has to look after Cleo at night.”
Ensconced in his new/old bedroom that night, Rob looked almost as disoriented as his new kitten. The smell of fresh paint spiked our nostrils. The bedcover had an almost neon glow. The new sheets were crisp and cold.
Adding to the uncomfortable sense of newness was the acid-dipped bathroom door that had been delivered and fitted back in its frame that afternoon. Even though the house was piecing itself together around us, we in no way shared its confidence for the future.
Certain favorite bedtime stories had to be avoided these days. Green Eggs and Ham was out because of the character Sam I Am. I couldn’t face The Digging-est Dog because it featured a boy named Sam Brown who was devoted to his dog. With Cleo curled between us we settled for One Fish Two Fish, so familiar and comforting in its rhythms I could recite it pretty much from memory.
As we reached the last page, I could sense Rob’s anxiety swelling like a wave on the horizon. “Are you sure there are no monsters in here?” he asked, glancing anxiously under the bed.
“Absolutely.” It didn’t seem the right time to tell him where the worst monsters hide. They conceal themselves cleverly inside our heads and wait for the moments we’re at our most vulnerable—bedtime, or when we’re sick or anxious.
“Will you check for me?”
“I looked under the bed before.”
“Can you look again?”
“Okay,” I said, bending to reexamine the battalion of fluff balls in hiding from the vacuum cleaner.
“What about behind the curtains?”
Picking up Cleo—why did I make excuses to hold her all the time?—I peeled back a corner of the curtains. For the first time I detected a glint of hope in the city’s sparkling lights. Or was it? More likely, they were playing a cruel trick, laughing at us for even wondering if tonight might be a little easier.
“No monsters,” I said, tugging