Cat Women , livre ebook

September Publishing - Alice Maddicott

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136 pages

English

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A fascinating journey of discovery for independently minded cat lovers.One summer, Alice Maddicott was adopted by a beautiful tabby called Dylan, and together they shared six years of loving friendship. Alice collected second-hand photos - orphan images - and in her sadness after Dylan's death, she pored over the old photographs of women and their cats. Cats in gardens, cats on laps, cats in alleys and on steps, accompanied by women who were diffident and affectionate, fierce and whimsical, young and old.What did these cats mean to the women who cared for them? Why have cat-owning women always been viewed with suspicion? And where did the Crazy Cat Lady stereotype emerge from, when other cultures revere rather than fear this relationship?Examining these questions and many more, Cat Women is a moving exploration of wild natures and domestic affections.'This whimsical project is so satisfyingly of a piece with its subject.' Hephzibah Anderson, Observer

Sujets

Philosophie et théologie

Memoir

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Publié par	September Publishing
Date de parution	05 mars 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781912836215
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0450€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First published in 2020 by September Publishing
Copyright Alice Maddicott 2020
The photos on page 6 and 144 are the author s own. Other photos are orphan images, sold in shops and online without any copyright or subject details. If you have any information about them, please contact the publishers direct on info@septemberpublishing.org .
The right of Alice Maddicott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright holder
Design by April
Fabric on cover: Handtryck, KATTOR by Vicke Lindstrand DACS 2020. Photo from Greta Lindstr m/Nationalmuseum.
Printed in Poland on paper from responsibly managed, sustainable sources by L C Printing Group
ISBN 978-1-912836-21-5 Kindle: 978-1-912836-20-8 ePub: 978-1-912836-21-5
September Publishing
www.septemberpublishing.org
In Loving Memory of Dylan and Hazel Granny
Introduction
I
I became a Cat Woman the moment I was hit with a thud of love that I d never realised a creature could produce. I ve always loved animals - as a child I attempted to befriend snails and tried to tame mice so they would sit in my pockets. I took my tortoise to school and I even spent hours up to my knees in my local river trying to tickle trout in the hope that one day they would swim behind me like a train of fishy ribbons, in my very own rural Somerset version of swimming with dolphins.
But one day, when I was in my early thirties, following a sudden move that had left me somewhat adrift, I met a cat who changed my life forever. Or rather, I re-met . . .
Dylan was the Cornish village cat I had seen on holidays for years and always admired from afar - I snuck a stroke whenever I could. But now I was living in his little seaside village where I knew no one except relatives. One day, when out walking, I paused by the large flowerpot in which he was sleeping and gave him a stroke, at which point he stretched and climbed down. After a few minutes I turned to walk back up the street to my house and he followed me home. He came in and curled up on my lap.
It got to night time and I wasn t sure what to do. I had to send him home - I couldn t steal a cat - but there was something about him being there that just made everything feel better. I eventually and very reluctantly turned him out.
But the next morning, when I opened the front door, there he was. He trotted in as if he owned the place and wouldn t budge all day. Night fell and again I turned him out. But each day he came back. I had been thinking of getting a kitten, but now that was impossible. I did not want another cat. I wanted him.
Although in theory he belonged to someone else, each day he would show up and, before long, it was quite obvious that he had decided to move in. I had been a bit of a wreck, but for some reason this beautiful, old, giant tabby cat had chosen me. Soon I belonged to him as much as him to me.
Days turned to weeks, then months, then years. (I hasten to add at this point that his old owners now knew where he was - do not ever actually steal a cat!) The bond sometimes overwhelmed me. He would sit curled up on my lap, sometimes wrap his arms around me as if cuddling, and usually spent the night stretched out down my back. If I went out for a walk he would follow me. He would come to the beach and sniff the seaweed curiously. If I ever bumped into him out and about he would jump up excitedly as if overwhelmed with the adventure of me suddenly appearing.
Those of you who have read Philip Pullman s His Dark Materials trilogy will understand when I say that he felt like my daemon - a part of me somehow that it hurt to be away from for too long. We could communicate. If I was feeling ill he would sense the sore spot and curl up on it. If I was sad, he wouldn t leave my side.
Dylan was also a well-known character in the village. I would occasionally hear about his trips to the pub, or how he had been helping at the post office by sitting on the counter. Come summer when the tourists arrived, he couldn t resist sitting outside to be admired (he was very beautiful). But woe betide any dogs who got too close - fluffing up his fur and growling before chasing them away was one of his favourite hobbies.
I guess you could see his kindness and his sensing of when things weren t right as a little uncanny, but how this bond between human and animal, between woman and cat, could be seen as anything but positive is a mystery to me. I felt honoured.
In 2011, partly inspired by my experience with Dylan over the previous year, I began to collect photos of women or girls and their cats. Every time I came across one in a charity shop, junk shop, market or online auction site, I would buy it. It was a strange impulse. Perhaps something akin to the urge to take in a lost cat.
I have always been interested in found photos ; I feel a keen poignancy in these images of people that have been left to be looked over and bought by strangers. In a time when photography was far more difficult and expensive than it is now, someone had once thought the subject important enough to want to preserve their image. These were people who were loved, yet had since been forgotten, and no one was keeping their memories safe. I later discovered from an archivist friend that these found photos are actually known as orphan images. I thought perhaps I would use them as inspiration for projects or stories, that even if I didn t know who they were I could rehome their photos, adopt them, and they could live again, just a little.
I slowly began to amass a gallery of cats and their owners, from Edwardian England to recent times. Sometimes there was a name scrawled in spidery ink on the back of the photos of the pets I found, but of course these animals would not exist in official records like their human family would. I know how much pets are part of a family, how important they are to their owner s life, but more often than not, their companionship, their contribution to family life, is lost to history.
Who were these cats? What were their personalities like? We, as humans, have graves and epitaphs and obituaries, but with the exception of neglected garden markers and posh Victorian pet cemeteries, pets are not memorialised. All these lost characters - all that forgotten love, the head nudges and kneading, the calming strokes and playfulness . . . I wanted to do something that would celebrate them in a way they never could be through a grave, so long after death.
I began to think a lot about how these bonds are not widely understood, and how my love for Dylan potentially labelled me - ah, the Crazy Cat Lady . . . The women and cats in these photos might have had a bond as deep as mine and Dylan s, and yet for some, these beautiful images of friendship are simply a chance to label these women as lonely and odd. They must be mad and secretly want 15 cats, no one can have married them, they must be lacking - they could even be a witch! It s a peculiar way of interpreting female portraiture - would they have made the same assumptions if the women in these photos were alone or with children?
There was something unsettling in this idea for me. Why is the Cat Lady seen in such negative terms? Is there a reason? Could I find any clues in history? Through research and a creative project, could I do something to redress this negativity, while creating something hopeful for the future? I wanted to explore and reimagine the idea of the Cat Lady through a creative act of remembering, and to build an alternative memorial for these animals and their women.
Nearly five years after Dylan and I found each other, I moved back to Somerset and his old owners let me take him. He was nearly 17 now and they kindly saw that, considering his age and the bond between us, it would be better for him to come with me.
We had another year and a half together before one day, rushing back from work with a feeling something was wrong, I went up to my room to find him lying at the top of the stairs. He had been coming down to greet me, making one last attempt to see me, when his body had given up and he had died. He was still warm. The urine his dying body had released still bubbled on the surface of the carpet. He had been fine when I d left that morning. On our last night together he had danced to Kate Bush with me - his old man party trick whenever Wuthering Heights was played. He was certainly old for a cat, but only a little stiff. If only I had known . . .
I know they say cats like to go off quietly and die alone, but I couldn t forgive myself for not being there, for not cuddling up to him on his last day. For not being with him until the end. I think I missed his last breaths by seconds. In that moment my world fell apart.

II
I never thought I d become a Cat Lady. But, as I think of it now, the strangest thing is that it is something you can become . You don t become a dog or a rabbit lady, it is not seen as odd to keep horses or hamsters. In fact, few creatures have the power to define you as cats do. If I had chosen a different pet - for example, my childhood tortoise, which I still have - perceptions of me would not change. I would be the same. But Cat Lady is a thing. It is an identity.
When we call someone a Cat Lady we imply that they have left acceptable society, become unhinged, mentally unwell and desexualised; Cat Ladies have crossed over to an existence in which normal human relationships become inconceivable. It is something to be feared, as once it has happened it is unlikely to be reversed. It is a transformation. It is an end.
I ve purposely chosen the term Cat Women to refer to people in this book. (Thoug