A Tribute to Miss Cara: a beloved Waterfall Cat.

A Tribute to Miss Cara: a beloved Waterfall Cat.

“Some people talk to animals. Not many listen though. That's the problem.”
― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

It is well documented that animal companionship from horses to gerbils has a positive influence on human society in general and a therapeutic effect on people in particular. Everyone from small children to the elderly seem to benefit from the companionship and shared affection.  Cats are said to have been worshiped by the ancient Egyptians and domesticated by the Assyrians and Babylonians. Cats are an acquired taste for some and as irresistible as chocolate to others. 

“Cats will amusingly tolerate humans only until someone comes up with a tin opener that can be operated with a paw.” ― Terry Pratchett, Men at Arms

Although cats are maligned for their apparent haughtiness and accusations are made as to their selfishness, cat lovers will testify to feline submissiveness in private not to mention their devoted loyalty. It seems to me that cats are great actors. I’m reminded of the Billy Joel Song: “Always a Woman to Me.” In the song Billy Joel narrates how ‘…the most she will do/Is throw shadows at you/But she's always a woman to me.’ Cats are just like this.  At first impression and often in the company of others, your cat is aloof and distant. But when she’s comfortable in her surrounding and especially when  alone time, kitty rubs your feet in worship and purrs like a didgeridoo and makes loving eyes at you that speaks  volumes in otherwise unenunciated devotion.

“I have lived with several Zen masters -- all of them cats.” ― Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now: A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment 

Such was the nature of our beloved Miss Cara. A very pretty light grey cat, slight in stature and quietly spoken. Carey had decided that after the death of her very dear exquisite Tortoise shell, many years before, she wouldn’t get another cat since losing her was too painful. However the years passed and we lived in a new location, the girls had grown up a little, the time seemed ripe for a new feline friend in our midst. We did the ‘right’ thing and supported the SPCA and were introduced to the youngest mother of kittens you could find retreating, perhaps a little overwhelmed from the attention of her litter, at the back of a cage. Carey just knew this was the cat for her in flurry of intuition that only certain types of people understand.

“The smallest feline is a masterpiece.”  ― Leonardo da Vinci

Miss Cara was a juvenile and still had some playful kitten in her (which she never lost), though it was clear that before we met her she had been habitually kicked either accidentally or on purpose since she remained fearful of anyone in shoes all her life and big feet were watched suspiciously from a safe distance. She loved to play with the standard, shop bought, catnip filled mice. She became quite hysterical having imaginary hunting and wrestling games with them. Best fun of all for Miss Cara were her boxes. Our house became not unlike a Mondi Recycling drop off point with shredded boxes littering the house. Our daughters began to notice a distinct disparity between the level of discipline aimed at their untidy rooms compared to Miss Cara in hers.

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 “No matter how much the cats fight, there always seem to be plenty of kittens. ” ― Abraham Lincoln

The cat Beds: I’m not sure to whom the importance of beds lay: us or the cat. At first makeshift beds were made out of old jerseys on the couch, and then treasured old baby blankets in boxes. Then one day I was minding my own business like a good husband waddling around Mr. Price Home Store admiring the completely useless, superfluous, unnecessary items on the shelves that appeal deeply to some people. My wife and daughters were ferreting through this mound of must-have cushions and swooning over throws and surplus bric-a-brac when they discover much to their delight a cat bed. Now we aren’t just talking some beige basket containing a colourful cushion with paws motif. Oh no this was a square, stuffed bed covered in two-toned pink silk. The bed was festooned with silk pink ribbons and was as gaudy and camp as a drag-queens hand bag. Worst of all since my wife decided to rush off with the girls to do some or other errand I was instructed to wait clutching my high camp paraphernalia in the very long Saturday morning queue. I haven’t grown hair on my chest since that day.

“Women and cats will do as they please, and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea.” ― Robert A. Heinlein

But back to Miss Cara. The best thing about her presence in our lives was the incredible joy she brought to us all. She was certainly doted upon though never spoiled with non-cat food except for little morsels of cheese. Oh yes if we were eating tuna she would polish off the leftovers in the tin. But I digress, Miss Cara was not a cat that you could cuddle, she didn’t like sitting on your lap and had to be trained to enjoy being cradled like a baby which she tolerated whilst rubbing your chin with her paw. Miss Cara, like all cats, loved to sleep and beds were made from old out-door chairs in the sun and shade alternately, with a cushion folded in a square so she could climb inside.

 “Ignorant people think it is the noise which fighting cats make that is so aggravating, but it ain't so; it is the sickening grammar that they use.”  ― Mark Twain

We will always remember Miss Cara as a friendly and spritely cat full of little chirps and very much in charge of her life, who could touch her and who her friends were. Alas in May this year she was killed. There is something devastating about losing a young beloved pet in the prime of its life. Evidently someone went speeding around the corning near our home and wiped her out without a thought. We try and encourage people to drive below the speed limit in roads like ours where old people take walks and children ride bikes and pets roam freely. But it’s all about ‘me and my rights’ and so there are casualties. Regardless it’s done now and we still have our memories of a little comforter to my family who brought joy into the room whenever she sauntered in.  Adopt a cat today they’ll change your life for the better.

Mahatma Gandhi is quoted as saying: “The greatness of a nation can be judged by the way its animals are treated.”


For more articles by Matthew Campaigne-Scott Click Here

The Butcher: the high priest of meat

A man and his butcher are not easily parted.

There’s something very masculine about meat, isn’t there? The immediate image that comes to mind is the braai. Generally and mostly it’s men standing around advising other men about how often to turn the meat, what adjustments the fire needs for different meat and so on. That’s why male vegetarians aren’t really complete men- kind of like missing a testicle.

This is not to ignore the fact that it is actually mostly women that prepare and cook meat but without the fanfare and drama that male meat interaction seems to involve.

An example is the poitjie. Men who wouldn’t know how to boil an egg for dinner and practically strain themselves to find the cereal or burn themselves making toast become experts on all matters culinary when preparing  meat for the potjie, its tenderisation, the slow cooking of, flavouring, what spices and herbs to apply, the works.

 In fact rarely does one see the high level of sophistication men embrace when it comes to meat outdoors. Wives who try to solicit an ounce of assistance with the evening meal preparation during the week are met with nonplussed expressions and glazed eyes when asked to: “just toss the salad while I:-  go to the loo, shift grandpa, change this nappy, move the house to the left.”

Then there’s biltong – do women and children eat it, sure. But who’s the expert on what biltong is the best, most flavoursome and assuming the correct shape – the man. If a woman offers an opinion on biltong, men assume embarrassed looks or bow their heads, and that’s the polite response. What could a woman possibly know about biltong? And let’s not get started on the intricate equipment that men have invented to cut, shave, slice and dry biltong in the luxury of their own home.

This possibly explains something: men and butchers. Men may not be able to find the right deodorant, two-ply loo-rolls, a ripe avo or correct baby formula at the supermarket, but they can be found congregating around the butcher on a Saturday morning.  Dozens of them standing around discussing the length of their boerewors, different flavours, contents and uses.  (This is the same butcher that housewives have been consulting nonchalantly during the week.)

One may venture that in our society a truly masculine man knows his local butcher – this is the closest men get to hunting in the 21^st century. Butchers are the druids or medicine men of the modern western culture. Butchers are greeted with special reverence. Various cuts of meat are discussed, advice is sought and opinions are given. “Would it do better in the Weber, should I debone them before putting them in a potjie, is sixteen table spoons of salt too much, what percentage of fat is optimum in a good wors,” questions that any housewife would come up with a common sense answer for.  But men respect the views of their butchers.

So meat is very important to men, it’s a reminder of those cavemen days when bringing home a carcass ensured hugs from small children respect from adolescents and long romantic evenings with Mrs Caveman. Today even bringing home the paycheque is obsolete never mind bringing home the bacon. It’s all done over the net. So ladies give your man a break, when you see him lurking about the butchery for that exciting moment when the butcher comes out, don’t nag, let him enjoy being as close to the kill as he’s ever going to get.

Eccentrics and Characters in Waterfall

If something strikes me about Waterfall, it’s the characters. Every community has its fair share of oddballs but characters are more than that, they have substance and value. Characters give a community colour and flavour. I’m referring to individuals usually beyond the years of youth who have developed a certain style or manner expressed more for themselves than out of mere vanity.

In more outlying areas there seems to be a tolerance for characters, or eccentrics if you will, as part of the community not dissimilar to a more urban tolerance for youthful self-expression and experimentation. In more remote communities there is usually a smorgasbord of middle aged and beyond, self-expressive, self-styled characters who would ordinarily be shunned in an urban environment. In smaller communities such people are considered features of a whole. Eccentrics and eccentric behaviour thrives in societies that are detached from the greater boundaries of the big city.

Waterfall used to be very isolated from Durban going far enough back. But as roads and communications improved and the Outer West population grew, Waterfall became more accessible to conventional middle class families. But characters still remain, if you take a moment to spot them.

When my friends arrived in Waterfall from Johannesburg 10 years ago they were amused to see a man dressed like a cowboy, singing Country n' Western music, that was painful to the ears, from the back of his bakkie in the interest of promoting the weekly boerewors and biltong specials from the  local butchery. Not only were my friends amazed that such appalling attempts at entertainment were being unleashed on the good folk of Waterfall but the said good folk were applauding and cheering with great enthusiasm for a performance that would have been lambasted elsewhere. The attitude seemed to be: “so what if he can’t sing, that’s just who he is, he’s doing his best.” Besides, they all seemed to be well acquainted with the man.

Our friends in their snobbishness used to refer to “Waterfall Types”. “Looks there’s one” they would say in amusement. But in a short while their sniggers changed to endearment as they fell in love with the suburb. They still may say: ”There’s one.” From time to time but their attitude has changed from snide to pleasant observation. In fact they’ve noticed that the amount of characters have dropped and feel quite concerned.

But the atmosphere prevails. In Waterfall if you are over a certain age you are allowed to wear your pants as high as you like and as colourful as you like and with as many outrageous patterns as you like. You may also wear dress shoes, short white socks and jeans shorts and even a skirt up round your solar plexus. You may dye your hair and then change colours as often as you want and there’s no shame in wearing any kind of hat either, decorated with small animals or fruit if you prefer. Your opinion on a wide variety of subjects is tolerated by all the staff at the Waterfall Spar, who tolerantly nod and smile, especially on a Tuesday. If you want to use two parking spaces for your 1977 Peugeot 404 –who cares?  Creativity with facial hair is encouraged as is popping into the shops with bare feet. You’re also never too young or too old to wear live flowers in your hair. Nor should one be of a specified shape to wear sleeveless garments or tight shorts regardless of the sex.

Entertainment takes on special meaning out here. I recall a line of towering blue gums running alongside the did Waterfall shopping centre. One week these were systematically cut down in zealous pursuit of all things indigenous, all done under the watchful eye of senior citizens in folding chairs on the pavement with thermos flasks and sandwiches bussed in from the Waterfall Garden Retirement home. For some it seemed that was all just in week’s entertainment.

Just one last example springs to mind: if you happen to travel down Niagara Drive you will notice a spritely lady going for her morning and afternoon walk, as so many safely do. However you would notice she carries with her a bag of litter that she has collected on her way. As a result Niagara Drive must be the neatest road in the suburb. Not the sort of one finds in cities where litter collection is left in the hands of municipal workers. It takes a special sort of character to commit to such a sense of the pristine.

Waterfall has an abundance of entrepreneurs running light industry factories, all manner of shops and small business with names like Clever Little Fish, Quirky Queens, Sham Pooch dog parlour, Crinkly Bottom- sadly missed as is the Thirsty Duck. All types of people build, labour and serve away in Waterfall, thriving in an atmosphere of acceptance and tolerance.

Off I go to the shops then, one glance in the mirror –gasp! It’s one of them!