Bodacious: The Shepherd Cat

HarperElement

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First published by HarperElement 2018

FIRST EDITION

Text © Suzanna Crampton 2018

Photographs © Suzanna Crampton, unless otherwise specified

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Suzanna Crampton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover photographs © Suzanna Crampton (cat, left sheep)/Shutterstock.com (background, right sheep)

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780008275853

Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9780008275860

Version: 2018-05-21

Dedication

To my parents, Julia and Richard Crampton

Epigraph

‘We abuse land because we see it as a commodity belonging to us. When we see land as a community to which we belong, we may begin to use it with love and respect.’

ALDO LEOPOLD

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Introduction

PART 1: SPRING

1. Egg-makers and Spring Flowers

2. Sun and Showers

3. Horses, Horses and More Horses

PART II: SUMMER

4. Hay Heat of June

5. Summer Visitors

6. Lazy Days and Family Visits

PART III: AUTUMN

7. Mackerel Skies

8. Autumn Memories

9. The Swallows Leave

PART IV: WINTER

10. The Early-Winter Chills

11. Christmas at Black Sheep Farm

12. The Virus Threatens

13. A Mucky Month

Afterword

Picture Section

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Introduction

I am Bodacious, The Shepherd Cat, and this is my story. I wasn’t always called Bodacious. I must have been called something else in my kittenhood in the nearby city of Kilkenny, but it’s all a bit of a mystery to my human. As far as she’s concerned, I appeared one day and have never left. It’s a secret I plan to keep.

The Shepherd told me the story of how she found me so many times and added so many embellishments that it’s almost become a fairy ‘tail’. She walked into a Kilkenny flower shop one day in search of red ribbon for a friend’s birthday present, a clear-glass handblown goblet with herbs planted in it. She described it in great detail: about the herbs being green, the soil brown, and the ribbon a deep red. (The Shepherd gets very excited about this kind of thing.) The florist goes by the romantic name of Lamber de Bie and the shop is tucked away on a narrow cobbled street near Kilkenny Castle. The lady who worked there, Jaszia, told The Shepherd that because it was just after Valentine’s Day, she was out of red ribbon but she did have a cat.

‘Maybe you might be interested in him,’ Jaszia said, knowing The Shepherd only too well. ‘You know the shop that sells the novelty toilet seats just down the hill towards the castle? Well, there’s a cat there that walked in off the streets. Sadly, the shop owner can’t keep him as she has three dogs at home.’

‘I’ll go down and have a look,’ said The Shepherd. Of course she said she’d have a look – she loves animals and has a whole menagerie of us on the family farm, but more of that later. She told me that when she came into the shop, she saw me wandering around in amidst all of these brightly coloured transparent plastic toilet seats. They were all full of strange things like barbed wire, straw, even coral reefs and tropical fish. She, of course, assumed I owned the place, but I had only been there for three days. Cheeky! As if a place that sold novelty toilet seats would in any way be suitable for a cat like me. She also told me that I was found wearing a pink collar with pictures of blue mice running around it – clearly somebody’s idea of a joke, but it showed that once, someone else loved me, too.

The shop owner had done everything possible to find my original owner, and there wasn’t a person in Kilkenny who hadn’t heard the radio appeal, but no one came forward. I could be sad about that, I suppose, but I’m not, because if I hadn’t walked into the toilet-seat shop a few days before, I would never have met The Shepherd. I would never have had the life I have now on Black Sheep Farm, in small green fields above the banks of the River Nore. The land has been in The Shepherd’s family for many generations, so every building and field has a name and a known unwritten history, like the Wind-Charger Field, where once a windmill stood and spun to generate electricity for the farm in the 1940s.

The Shepherd kept me inside at first, because she said she didn’t want me to disappear again, at least not until I knew the place as home. It was thoughtful of her, but what she didn’t know was that I thought of it as home from the moment I set foot in it. Still, for two weeks I curled up by the Aga, or looked out the window at the huge horse chestnut trees with mountains beyond, which were quite pleasant. I got to know others in my family, too, which was useful because I was able to establish myself firmly as almost Top Cat.

I was trained in the ways of farm life by Oscar, now long gone. He was an odd-looking feline, with his pure white body possessing a few sizeable tabby spots, tabby ears and a tabby tail that looked as if it had been painted and stuck on as an afterthought. Later, there came Miss Marley, whose owners had emigrated to New Zealand and couldn’t afford the expensive quarantine. She is a shy, unassuming feminine feline, who loves her job as wool inspector. I allow her this important task, even though all she ever does is test its softness by curling up and falling asleep on piles of raw wool, or sometimes even on our woven blankets made of wool from our rare-breed Zwartbles sheep, just before they are shipped off to some distant place in the world.

Cat Ovenmitt, my Shepherd Cat apprentice, was another late arrival, which is just as well, because, frankly, he has a lot to learn – and he is bog lazy. He acquired his name soon after he was brought to the farm. The Shepherd’s mother had opened the Aga door and she reached over for what she thought was an oven mitt to pull out a roast chicken. When her hand landed on the then nameless new member of the menagerie, she remarked, ‘Oh, I thought you were an oven mitt.’ And so he was baptised. His aims in life are to spend as much time as possible with his grey-black tabby body stretched out against our kitchen’s warm Aga or in a big bowl on top of our tall kitchen press, cosy from rising Aga heat. One of his favourite sports is to annoy Miss Marley as often as possible. His most recent favourite toy, much to my disgust, is the new canine Puddlemaker (more about her later), who is hardly bigger than a rat.

I also met my best canine friend at Black Sheep Farm: a slightly scruffy Border Collie/Fox Terrier cross named Pepper, a handsome fellow, with his black wiry coat and lightly salted beard. Over the years I’ve watched his coat mature into a distinguished-looking full-bodied mix of salt and pepper colours. ‘The Einstein of dogs’ is what many humans call him, joking that if he were human, he’d probably be a bearded pipe-smoking scholarly writer. He is, most importantly, a tenacious ratter and hunter of grey squirrels and rabbits, of which there are plenty on the farm. The softer-hearted among you might see this as terrible cruelty, but I have learned so much about nature since I began to lead my agrarian life here. Rodents would destroy everything if we let their population boom. They eat and foul hay and grains and even chew electric wires, which could cause fires. Rabbits, if they overpopulate, catch a terrible virus called myxomatosis, which means that their population plummets and foxes and buzzards go hungry. Grey squirrels kill our native red squirrel and also strip bark off young trees, which kills them or stunts their growth. The Shepherd is passionate about her trees and gets very upset when she finds one squirrel-stripped.

The Shepherd adopted Pepper from a local puppy rescue centre. Someone had brought him there after he had been discovered with his siblings in a paper bag on the side of a busy road, not far from Black Sheep Farm. The kindly woman who runs the puppy rescue did not want money or even a contribution of dog food to the centre in return for the adoption. Instead, she asked for a small basket of figs. She remembered that many years before, she had visited the farm and The Shepherd’s grandfather had given her a delicious freshly plucked ripe fig to eat. (Long ago, The Shepherd’s great-great-grandmother had planted half a dozen fig trees that had flourished against the stone walls in the garden and those trees still produced scrumptious figs every summer.) The Shepherd explained that figs wouldn’t be ready to pick for some months as they didn’t ripen till some time in August. The kindly lady said that was fine. She could, and would, wait as she recalled that her fig had been so memorably delicious.

Months later, The Shepherd brought her a small basket full of fresh ripe figs as the purchase price for Pepper. She also brought him along to show how well he had matured into a lovely dog. But when the car door opened at the canine rescue centre Pepper told me that he took one whiff of the local air and refused point-blank to exit the car. The poor fellow thought The Shepherd was about to return him. He sat trembling on the car floor, terrified of what might unfold. The Shepherd comforted him and left him in the car while she delivered the basket of figs. The lady was delighted, Pepper later told me, because, as it happened, she had completely forgotten the planned exchange.

The matriarch canine when I arrived here on Black Sheep Farm was Tassie. She had also been adopted by The Shepherd from the kindly lady at the rescue centre. She was a pure-white coarse-haired, tenacious Jack Russell Terrier, who was terrified of nearly everything because of her experience at a previously abusive home, but her main passion in life, when not cleaved to The Shepherd like a shadow, was hunting rats. She was brilliant at her job, even climbing trees and walls in pursuit of her prey. People would often phone The Shepherd to bring Tassie to their house when they had cornered a rat, as she was so very quick and efficient at dispatching them.

It is my understanding that The Big Fellow arrived as a small black puppy who could fit into a shopping bag. He is a large black wolf-like German Shepherd. When I first arrived and heard his bark, I would nearly jump out of my furry skin. It was truly deafening, but I now know that his bark disguises a heart like a soft marshmallow.

Then there is capricious Bear, who arrived here more recently as a tiny pup, so used to be known as the Puddlemaker. Puddlemaker is an apt name for young canines as all they seem capable of is leaving puddles all across the kitchen floor, which we must all navigate around until they’re cleaned up. A mixed mutt, Bear has the nose-scenting prowess of a Beagle, the glossy fluffy coat of a King Charles Spaniel, the tenacity of a Jack Russell Terrier and the disloyalty of a Labrador. His stubby turned-out legs make him look like a very odd Corgi. His mother had been a rescued canine whose new owners had mistakenly allowed her to get pregnant. She had been at the vet’s to get the procedure when she was discovered to be in pup.

Bear, I merely tolerate, but as for the new Puddlemaker, well … she is small with a black-brown coat, with ears that are far too large for her tiny body, which give the impression of a fruit bat, and a pert upright tail that some humans call ‘cute’. To me, she is a nuisance, even with her sophisticated Peruvian name – Inca!!! The time can’t come soon enough when she learns how to respect and behave towards authority. Meanwhile, I am quite happy to oblige in her further education with well-aimed clawed smacks at appropriate moments convenient to myself.

The Shepherd loves the canine’s fruit-bat face as it reminds her of her time in Borneo many years ago, when she worked for a wildlife charity. She once took a boat trip out into a tidal mangrove rainforest to look at proboscis monkeys in their natural habitat. They’ve a funny long flat nose that protrudes from their face and a large pot belly. After a successful trip of quietly manoeuvring around jungled mangrove islands to see these primates the boats headed back towards Brunei city. As sunset approached, the air filled with a chattering noise on whispering wings of thousands upon thousands of flying foxes as they set off to hunt for fruit. These large bats have a fox-like face and pointed ears much like our new Puddlemaker.

When I first arrived at the farm, I didn’t even have a name. I was simply called ‘Puss-woossh’ or ‘Pritty Kitty Cat’, which is a bit demeaning, particularly as I am so handsome. People often ask what I am, with my big green eyes, pointed ears and coat of fluffy brown-black fur. What a stupid question. I’m a cat, of course – not a Maine Coon or a Norwegian Forest cat, but a Kilkenny cat at that.

Anyway, when The Shepherd finally let me out from the snug warmth of the Aga, I followed her around – she was kind of interesting after all, with her mane of long, grey hair and strong voice, the better to reach the end of fields when she calls our beloved sheep.

At the time of my arrival, she kept horses in stables in a small outer farmyard with low stone sheds and buildings. On this particular morning, she strode across to the stables, where two horses looked out over their half-doors. She buckled on their head collars and opened both stable doors, saying, ‘Stand!’ in a firm voice to both horses; they stood stone-still and didn’t budge, which I found quite impressive. I walked between two of them to get a better look. They were certainly very tall, with their shiny coats, one bay and one grey with silky manes, quite handsome even if they were horses. Horses, as we all know, aren’t that intelligent most of the time. (The exception being Marco Polo – more about him later.)

‘Silly cat,’ The Shepherd said when she noticed me underfoot. She nudged me with her boot to get out of the way as she was about to lead both horses forward, my guess is in case I got trodden on by one of their great hooves as they walked out into the cobbled yard. Their huge muscular bodies towered above me. She thought I was scared, but she was wrong: I don’t do ‘scared’. I continued to walk alongside her between the two horses, not at all bothered by their size or the metallic sound their shod hooves made as they walked across cobbles towards the field gate.

‘Oh, my God!’ she exclaimed when I wouldn’t budge. ‘You are sooooo bodacious, do you know that?’ So, Bodacious I became.

She’s since bored me often enough with this story of how that word, a Cajun term, comes from the bayous of Louisiana. It seems to mean, ‘Big, bold, beautiful, bolshie’, which I suppose is accurate enough. Apparently, it reminds her of her younger self as others called her that when she was a spirited young woman living in New York City, a long time ago in cat years. Even though Black Sheep Farm has been part of The Shepherd’s family for two hundred years, part of her family comes from America.

That was long ago – nine or ten years – and I decided to stay. There was something about this house, orchard and fields that made me want to take part in life here, not for the usual reasons – a plentiful supply of food and rodents – but because I felt at home here: sunning myself in a corner of the garden that looks down to a faded mellow pink farmhouse, or nosing around in the orchard. Besides, I knew that The Shepherd needed me. She barely managed before I came along, though Pepper had made a great and dedicated effort.

Once I’d made the decision, I had to find a role for myself in The Shepherd’s animal family. I shadowed Oscar, the white cat with tabby spots. He looked as if he was in charge, so I simply followed his lead. When there were lambs under a red heat lamp, Oscar would join them. He’d curl up underneath it to add to their collected warmth. There was nothing in it for him, needless to say.

Oscar died in 2013, and I must say, I miss him. There’s no one around to share the burden of being Top Shepherd Cat and the responsibilities that go with it. For there are many: I mostly instruct, oversee and keep The Shepherd company during long hours of lambing. I watch over the fields as she tops long grasses in well-grazed meadows. I help bring in hay, check stock during feeding time, assist in early lamb care for those who need help to start their lives.

I am not Little Bo-Peep, though we have lost some sheep on occasion when they’ve escaped through broken fences or over old fallen stone walls into neighbours’ fields. I have learned to expect a rough-with-smooth life and an occasional death. To tend sheep is hard work. My Shepherd believes in sustainable farming, so we must feed soil naturally to grow a healthy variety of grasses, clovers, herbs and wild-meadow flowers. All these plants feed sheep that grow wool that is shorn, cleaned, spun and woven into warm beautiful blankets (designed by The Shepherd) at a local woollen mill, Cushendale, in the lovely village of Graiguenamanagh. These blankets are then sent all over the world: even our President of Ireland has one – but more of that later. There will be plenty of sheep in this book. Some sheep are harvested for meat, others are sold to become breeding stock on another farm.

I’m just a minor shepherd if one compares my flock to the Australian or New Zealand flocks and their many thousands of white woolly sheep. My flock is small: just sixty to eighty in size, most of which are a rare breed of sheep called Zwartbles. They are large chocolate-coloured beasts with a long white blaze on their face, a white tip to the tail and a pair of white bobby socks on their back legs. They are a bit dim, but easy enough to manage. They provide lots of milk that can produce delicious cheese or sumptuously delectable ice cream, which The Shepherd has made and which is whisker-licking good. Their lovely fleeces are a fine rich dark chocolate brown, like espresso coffee.

I also find that I have to look after The Shepherd from time to time. As I mentioned earlier, long ago she worked for a wildlife charity in Southeast Asia. She befriended many exotic wild animals while she collected and collated animal-husbandry and veterinary information to bring home to her employer in London. This was before you could google such specialist information and find correct answers. While there, she contracted a tropical sickness which kept her bedridden for three years. Although this illness lingers, she manages capably with my help and enjoys her farm work, although I still have to play nursemaid to her whenever she succumbs to a recurrence. I lie on her to keep her stationary, so that she rests. It’s a hard life.

On top of this, I give instructions while The Shepherd cooks and I make sure all the eggs are collected from my egg-makers. They might think their eggs are hidden, but I know where they hide them, behind bales of straw and nestled in loose hay. I also keep other animals in check and I’m not above giving one of them a clawed slap to keep them under control. When The Shepherd is working in the garden I make sure the robin doesn’t get all the worms, leaving some behind to naturally enrich the soil – it’s simple really, I just chase him away from the top of the garden fork. I ignore Miss Marley, but I must always control Ovenmitt to show him who is the main Shepherd Cat.

My work never ends, but my day usually debuts when I feel like it. Sometimes it begins when the scullery door to the house opens and I enter to breakfast on crunchy cat biscuits. Other days start by counting sheep with The Shepherd and our canine work companions. I find the most accurate way to check sheep is to count the legs and divide by four.

I enjoy walks through the fields to inspect ewes and lambs. Some are old friends whom I greet with a gentle welcome salutation of a headbutt. Others try to headbutt me, so I tend to avoid them. Ram lambs can be quite stroppy, so I must watch out for them in particular. Mostly all is well as we walk through fields to count ewes and lambs, check fences, stone walls and note what the wildlife is doing as each year turns. All that counting sheep can make me feel a bit sleepy though, so afterwards I sometimes catch a snooze in front of or on top of the Aga.

After more than twenty years in charge, The Shepherd is passably competent and the benefits of supervising her outweigh the disadvantages, so I do not plan to move on at this time. But I am a singularly independent cat and I should never be taken for granted. I am NOT child-friendly and I do not suffer fools gladly. I am a busy professional, intelligent – if I say so myself – hard-working farm cat. Humans have tried to pick me up, but quickly drop me when my teeth sink into their hands or arms. When teased, my claws quickly find exposed flesh. The only human I respect is my own human, The Shepherd. As she is a female farmer, she will sometimes be patronised by male humans and asked to show someone where the ‘real boss’ is. She can’t really point to me and say, ‘There’s my boss’, or they might laugh even harder, even if we both know it to be true.

On cold misty mornings when we walk up and down rolling green hills of the 14 acres of our part of a 50-acre farm, mist from our exhaled breath fills the air. We feel we are on our own until all of our flock of sheep troop up to us, baa-ing, out of the misty banks of air. When a cold winter sun leaks weak milky light and frost whitens the ground in dark dawn of day, black shapes linger far across fields and then draw close as they are called for breakfast. The rattle of the Magic Bucket of sheep nuts lures them towards us.

Of course, many jobs other than winter-feeding must be done. I like to oversee the vaccination and dosing for worms of sheep and lambs in particular. I sit on a wooden worktable or on a ledge of an old stone wall that overlooks the working sheep yard. I chat with a sheep occasionally as The Shepherd vaccinates or doses each one. When farm machinery needs a grease or service I stand by to supervise. I enjoy gardening and when not directing The Shepherd as she digs, I sleep in the deep cool shade of box hedges. If someone passes and I wake up, I always shout, ‘Meow’ to say, ‘Hello’ and rise up out of my cosy bed to steer them towards another job. Farming is like that: there are always a thousand jobs to do and many of them never get done. For farmers a weekend is still a weather dependent daily job dictated by season not hours or a categorised allotment of days.