“If you think long enough about what you see in a cat, you begin to suppose you will understand everything.  But its eyes will tell you there is nothing to understand, there is only life.”   Leonard Michaels

Je suis un chat francais.  My name is Minette.   I am born and bred in la Charite sur Loire, a charming medieval town in the centre of France.   I am the guardian of a very private garden and share an old house with my mistress.  I want to tell you the story of how we met and about our time together under this novel spell.    With all due respect, Madame does understand that being a cat, I have more sense and a better memory.  I am blessed with an undistracted observation of life in general, and worldly I am not, as I stick close to my garden. But again, when you have good sense, you understand the world at large.     And most certainly her story as I tell it will be more accurate.  You see, I can feel, hear and smell, with a much greater intensity.  I have my paws on the pulse of this partnership, this vignette is best written by me.

The mood at Maison des Mots changed dramatically on March 12th, 2020.     Her man who does, was trying to tell her - this news about the virus was grave, and our lives were about to change.  She was not listening.   She had received a call that one of her closest friends had just passed.  This was difficult for me.  I have become her companion, her consoler through all that has transpired these past few years.   I had to walk away from her grief, and console myself.   Madame drank a bottle of Champagne, and let the tears flow.

The next day, there was more chat about war measure actions about to envelop the country.  She was still not listening.  She went to meet a friend for coffee, and the proprietor of the cafe mentioned that Sunday might be the last day he would be open for awhile.  She thought he was overreacting.   But on the Monday, she believed.  At noon, it would begin.   Confinement.   You could leave your home to shop for necessities, you could exercise outside of your home one hour a day.  Any time you left your home, it was mandatory to carry an attestation paper with you.  You were obliged to fill out the government issued form every day with the date and time of your departure from home.  Write down your age, and sign the paper, s’il vous plait!    All business that was non essential would close.   I observed my mistress freeze, her eyes were clear as ice.   She immediately ran to the veterinaire to buy me a big bag of croquettes and a box of sachets.  Madame did not realise that the government of France considers pets to be essential, thus allowing the veterinaire to remain open.   Though I am ever grateful for the kindness, her desperate run for provisions was a futile gesture.    Within minutes of her return, lockdown was in place, the gendarme on patrol.

Life for many plants and insects begins in a garden. Well, so did ours. 

Madame is Canadian. She would often visit la Charite sur Loire, and stay at the home of friends.   One day, she encountered this house and garden.  It was an accidental liason, but when she stood in the middle of this old and neglected garden, she very quickly formed an idea of how her life, a life she had a strong desire to evolve, could transform.     She could not let it go.  Her vision?  A guest house, with three comfortable chambres.   Folk would come to discover the centre of France and excursions would be aplenty.  Together they would cook in a large kitchen, eat and drink wine together, and enjoy a beautiful garden that Madame would create, even though she had never had her own garden before - and knew little of what this entailed.

So back to Canada she went, with French stars shooting light and energy into her brain.  Just over three years ago, madame closed her business, purchased this property, and came back to France to begin renovations, flying the long journey back and forth to Canada, many times.   Finally, she felt secure with her decision.   She sold her home in Vancouver, packed up her belongings, and made the long journey once more.  On February 2nd, 2020, she arrived to la Charite sur Loire with her long stay visa, many reservations for the warm months, and very excited for the future.

Je suis un chat de sauvetage.    I was taken from my mother at a very young age, lived in the rescue home until I was sterilised, then a family took me in.   This family fed me, but I did not sleep inside the house.    Their house is next over from Madame. 

One day when I was crawling around roofs, I saw Madame in her courtyard.  I meowed and kept on meowing, and she immediately thought I was in trouble.  She gave me directions in English, which is not a problem as cats understand any culture’s ignited lingo.   I was instructed to jump onto the great wall, run its length, jump on to the roof of the cloister like arches, walk carefully across this crumbling roof to the other roof, jump down and along the first roof, the second roof, the third roof, until I could comfortably leap into the garden.   She was waiting for me, and I ran to meet her, meowing all the way, ending with a roll.   She laughed and was truly delighted with my acquaintance.   We had a lovely chat and some friendly petting.  From then on, whenever she came into the garden and I was about, a replay of the voyage from my perch on the great wall into the garden became a pleasing and amusing habit.  I was young, I was lonely, my feeding family was away a lot.  This new hooman friend was a joy.  When you can make someone laugh and smile, life is very worthwhile.   

For a very long while, she did not live in the house.  She would come early in the morning to let the artisans in.  She preferred to enter through the secret passage from a little old door that was located on another rue around the corner from the big old door at the front of her house.  At the end of the passage is a gate into the garden.  There is a rather large peony bush close to the gate, which was a perfect place to sleep and wait for her arrival each morning.

We were cultivating a friendship, but still very independent of each other.  Lots of chatting, petting, playing, but she did not offer me food, and I didn’t ask.

It was a big change for us both when the little house on the garden - her first renovation project - was finished.  She was now living on the property, in this small, charming space.  I loved her being in this little house all the time.    I would meow outside her door as dawn was breaking, and she would come out and play with me in the garden.  

August came, and my feeding family went away.     I believe Madame was overly distracted with her renovation works, and unaware that I was now completely on my own, without sustenance.  I am proud and was timid; I did not want to ask her for food.    It was her artisans having lunch in the garden who mentioned to her they believed I was very hungry as I was hanging about and happily gobbled up their offerings.  She looked over to the house that fed me, saw the shutters closed, and went away with a concerned countenance.   Soon, she returned with a bottle of milk.   How very delicious - my mother’s milk was a distant memory.  The next day, she came to the garden with croquettes.  

To show my appreciation, I asked if I could come in to her little house, and cuddle with her on her sofa.   This was a smooth move on my part.  She was smitten, we began to fall in love.

When the family returned home, they came with a dog.   I was so hurt.  I tried my best to make it work; I was sure that having two homes feeding me would be a wonderful life.  But the lack of attention to me, while observing the grand affection extended to the dog, was unbearable.  So, with their blessing, I moved over to be with Madame lock, stock and barrel.  She told me I would always be taken care of, no longer would I be left alone.    I no longer slept outside in the dark hours and I now slept on a bed.   Madame purchased incredibly tasty cat food, and on Saturday, when she returned from the Farmer’s Marche, we would share a rotisserie chicken leg.     Our friendly companionship was now a co-dependant relationship.  She provided food, and I was overjoyed to provide her with the emotional support needed as she endeavoured to oversee the renovation of the big house.    

Foolishly, she tried to change my name. She thought calling me Minette, the pedestrian moniker for female cats was incorrect.    She wanted to believe I was her long, lost prince, so she tried Prince Roly Poly.  I balked.  Then when a friend confirmed the feline facts of life, she accepted I was a girl, and being I am rather pretty and somewhat voluptuous, she tried out Marilyn Minette.  I was kind but firm.  My name is Minette. I do not need a fancy name to define me, I know I am special.  The terms of endearment; mon amour, sweetheart, darling – spoken with a soft Canadian accent, are lovely, merci beaucoup!

Those days and nights in the little house on the garden were magical.   Often the feral cats would come by and admonish me for moving inside.   They wanted me to convince Madame to share her wealth with the feline community.   This idea was too much for her to consider, and though I have empathy for the feral population in my town, I selfishly did not want to share this special thing we have together.

When October rolled in with rain and colder weather, the top floor of the big house was ready for Madame to move in, and I was invited to join her.  So much space, we had lots of fun playing hide and seek.

The artisans were still working away on the first and second floors, and they were both noisy and scary.  When it was time for me to go out, Madame would carry me down the wood staircase, down the stone staircase, through the developing kitchen and into the courtyard.  I would then jump from her arms and scamper up the stairs from the courtyard to the garden.  The artisans rolled their eyes in jealous disbelief.   Needless to say, we spent a lot of time in the garden.  We could hide out in the little house, and keep clear of the noise and dust.

Madame had to leave a lot, to go to England or to Canada.  She always had friendly folk come to stay with me though.  They would feed me, cuddle me, play with me, and make sure I was in for the night.   When she was away, I would do my best to make sure the artisans were doing their work.  I had observed Madame at the end of each day, after the artisans had gone. She spent a lot of time walking through the house and checking the work, making notes,. The next day, she did her best to communicate her concerns.  Some of these men were wonderful, others were not.    When she would return from her travels, I would take her through the house and show her what had been done while she was away.

When Madame returned on February 2nd, 2020, she said: “Minette, I am here now, this is our home.”   Neither of us had any idea that literally, she was to be here, in this house, months of days and nights together, just the two of us, and there was nothing we could do about it.

The long stay visa had given her the confidence she needed to truly begin to live here.   She began in earnest to form a life for herself: French lessons, yoga classes, regular physio and walking, meeting new folk, dinner parties, finishing the touches in the house for the first guests who would arrive in April.   We were happily settling in.  Moments after lockdown, the messages began beeping in succession.  Yoga cancelled, French lessons cancelled, and on it went.  In the days to come, the cancellations from her North American guests began.    After each cancellation, a dark cloud would hover around Madame for hours.  She was loving towards me, and attentive.  She was just so sad.  Nights in bed were not overly difficult for her, but often she would stretch out her arm to see if I was on the bed, and murmur gratitude for my presence.

We stuck into the garden with a vengeance.   Every day, weeding and more weeding, doing what could be done on her own.     Not too long after confinement began, some people were allowed to work in construction and outside of houses.  Gardeners were allowed to work and one of Madame’s new friends recommended a chap that could assist in the garden for a few hours each week.  This was great news, for both of us.   A man coming in, young and attractive, strong and knowledgeable. I like him!   Being he has 3 cats of his own, he is friendly towards me.  But he marvels at the attention Madame gives me.  

Our garden was taking shape, and Madame was a different woman when the gardener was with us.  It was both the hooman connection and the accomplishment of works that she can’t manage.   He speaks French only, and fumbling about with the language is a challenge for her, but it was working.    The garden shops were deemed essential, and opened first for online purchases and pick up, then for three customers at a time.  Together they went to the garden centre and purchased the soil, the stakes, the plants and the seeds.  He introduced her to savon noir, and gave her a recipe to prepare and put into a special spray container.  The idea being to spray the plants and deter the bugs that wanted to take over certain roses, honeysuckle, and apple trees.    He turned and replenished the soil.  Madame planted seeds for courgette and cucumber and basil in pots.  When the plants would sprout, they would transfer them into the soil.   Tomato plants and stakes were purchased and planted, 19 of them!    The courgettes and butternut went into the earth.  He had told her to mark the seeding pots so she would remember what seeds were in the pots, but she didn’t.  They all grew beautifully, but she has a lot of white courgettes.

The garden flourished, the work was relentless, but it was good labouring, and she thrived with this discipline.  She would look over her plants each morning, trim and weed, water and nourish.   Tomatoes, courgettes, butternut, aubergine, carrots, and basil - four types of basil.  Leeks, beets, salad, cucumber, peppers, rhubarb, and strawberries - both wild and cultivated.  Pears, apples, parsley, sage, rosemary and three variety of thyme.  Tarragon, oregano, bay leaf, mint and sorrel, chives, verrine and borage. She planted a catmint for me, and I would roll around in the soft leaves.  I became intimidated with the bush as it grew and flowered, but the bees loved it.  When the flowers withered and the bees moved on to other pollen producing flowers, Madame cut the bush back, and I am able to comfortably roll around in it again.

Madame loves to cook. They say she is a good cook, but her talent is lost on me.  I am content with store bought food designed for cats.  There is a code amongst the ferals in this town.  Don’t eat hooman food, you don’t know what they put in it!   My Saturday nibble of rotisserie chicken is enough food adventure for me.  To be brutally honest, I am jealous of the time she spends in the kitchen.  Often when I come in from the garden and she is preparing a meal, I just walk through the kitchen quickly with my nose in the air.  She feeds me in the petite kitchen on the top floor of the house. I have my special cupboard, and dishes that most would giggle at.  She feeds me in a vintage French teacup and saucer that almost every French household would have had in the 50’s and early 60’s.  

But her cooking was another saving grace during the lockdown.  The shops that sold food were open, and the mayor made sure the Farmer’s Marche was active on Saturday.  The pilgrimage to the market became even more important. Cats are not welcome at the market - they tend to hover around the fish stall and begin to argue and hiss - but she would come home and tell me all about it.  Market day was her day, to see people, talk to them, and look into their eyes. Folk would wait in queue and show the attestation papier, but once inside the barrier, it was if you had won the lottery.    Nobody stood too close, there were no hugs, but kisses were thrown to each other.  She would stay in the market as long as she could.  Going home was tough, knowing you might not actually have a face to face conversation with someone you knew, for a whole week.   But she had her lovely ingredients. And cook she did.  She loves to experiment with recipes she takes from her many books, or from her Instagram feed.   I am also jealous of that mobile contraption that takes much of her attention.  But it is a connection of sorts, and often she will laugh and smile at what she discovers while staring at that thing.     

Some of Madame’s favourite recipes to cook:

• White asparagus with citrus vinaigrette -  Peel and Simmer the White Asparagus for 20 minutes, remove with tongs, from the pan to a plate.  Make vinaigrette with Freshly Squeezed Orange and Lemon, Honey, Olive Oil, Salt and Pepper – drizzle over warm Asparagus.    

• Turnip and Fennel Carpaccio, inspired by the Instagram of Alain Passard -  Using a Mandolin, slice the young Turnip and Fennel.  Arrange on a plate, squeeze lemon and drizzle good olive oil over all, and fleur de sel.  If one desires, add mandolin sliced radish and edible flowers.

• Navarin of Lamb - she follows Joel Robuchon’s recipe for this preparation. 

• Tomato Farci - she follows Anne Sophie Pic on Instagram, this recipe is from ASP’s maman.  

• Stuffed Courgettes -   Boil small courgettes for 15 minutes, cut in half, scoop out the flesh, mix with bread crumbs, egg, thyme, minced shallot and garlic, grated parmesan, and parsley. Stuff into the courgette shells, and bake in oven for ½ hour.

• Courgette soup. Again, Joel Robuchon.  

• Fried courgettes - Slice a courgette into rounds, about 2 inches thick.  Salt and Pepper.  In a hot pan, with very little oil, brown each side, turn heat down, cook for about 20 minutes, turning frequently.  When very well browned and soft, remove from pan and sprinkle freshly sliced mint, and squeeze lemon juice over all.    

• White fish prepared a dozen ways.  

• Ratatouille – JR.  The Complete Robuchon is a well used book in this house!   

• Crevettes with preserved lemon mayonnaise

• Calamari - Rings dusted in a melange of flour, paprika and espelette salt, fry in hot pan with a smattering of grapeseed oil, for not very long at all.   

• Crumbles.  But for heavens sake, I could make a crumble.  I often massage the soil in the garden, and that’s what she does with butter, sugar and flour.

Our COVID daily ritual during the hot months was to rise early and get into the garden for a few hours of labour.   When the heat from the sun takes over, we retreat to the house.  I usually sleep while she cleans, runs errands, and cooks.  If it’s not too warm and the shadow from the wisteria is pleasing, we will take lunch in the garden. Back into the house, or the little house for a nap.   When the garden cools, we go out for the evening cocktail.  She will bring her dinner to the garden. After dinner she taps on the stone vasque, and I saunter over to join her for my evening brushing.   Often folk will ask why she does not have flowers in the vasque; She tells them how much I like rolling around in it, and how much I appreciate the beautiful fur coat that results from the grooming.  When the bats begin to wing about the garden for their dinner, Madame goes in.  I stay out for awhile to dance with the fairies, then when I can feel she is beginning to worry about me, I say bonne nuit to my garden,  climb in through the kitchen window and shoot up the stairs to join her in bed where she waits for me, reading a book.   I don’t like her reading in bed; whatever happened to the very worthwhile logic that beds are for sleeping and cuddling only.    

As the days begin to change from long hours of light, and the temperatures cool, we sleep in.  Then the coffee comes first, she puts on a jumper, and out into the garden we go.  Watering less, but still weeding.  Soon it will be time to prune the fruit trees, move plants from here to there, and after some consideration, some will most likely move back to their origin, or another perfect place.  Remove the edible plants that no longer give of themselves, and cry to be sent to that other place.  I walk about, observe, but interfere when she needs to stop and play for a bit, or relax on the chaise while I lay on her lap.

As things began to open up, there was a sense of freedom, but only a little.  Madame loves to walk.  But when the confinement hit, and folk were required to have that damnable paper whenever they left the house, her enthusiasm was curbed.  And now that she is free to move about, she does not walk like she once did.  Folk are still hesitant to be overly social.  The masque is a deterrent, so happy I don’t have to wear one.  Cats of France would begin a revolution if this came to be.  I hear her say this situation is somewhat frightening, and terribly boring. Being alone for so long has taken its toll on Madame and many hoomans are struggling.    I am generally in better fettle than she, though I miss the attention from all the folk that would be coming and going.   Her guests are still not coming from North America.  She had some English and French guests, but she isn’t comfortable marketing her project until things settle somewhat, and a brave new world dawns without the almighty concerns we are fearing.  

So yes, there is still a sadness, but we are making the best of this unexpected situation.  We are both so grateful for the garden and each other, and I am happy she finds joy in her cooking and reading.

Je sais ca.   We animals generally love people, and often, though not in my case, we love other animals.  We are not a hooman accessory; if adopted by a hooman, we do require a goodly amount of companionship.     People can love animals and be as close as a shave with them, but people need people.   Our time together, albeit loving and fulsome, confirmed this fact.   I don’t worry that she will leave me, but I do worry that she is lonely for other hoomans.  She bought a big house to share, a garden to feed the folk that have a desire to come cook, eat, drink, laugh, sing, and dance with her.   

We are both positive, but we are living beings, so we do have our dark moments.   We are unanimous in our belief this house and garden will support us as long as we desire.  Life changes, people change, and we can change too - well she can, cats don’t change much.  New ideas for the next chapter are forming as I scratch my claws across the pages.  I don’t offer much in the way of ideas, I just react to them when she makes a change.

In the meantime, I will continue to amuse her. I lure bats into the house sometimes, and that creates a ruckus.  I love to bring her lizards and funny big moths.  I play heartily with these creatures, though I have no desire to kill them.  Sometimes I literally bounce off the walls with the sensual joy these creatures ignite in me. 

She made it very clear when we first met that I was not to kill birds.  She would run me out of the property in short order should this occur.   I sometimes tease her, and pretend to prey, but I’m not about to let this ideal and loving relationship languish for the momentary thrill of a kill. 

Je termine et te laisse avec ces mots ; Accept you must change your life long thoughts, ideals, and habits.  Be thoughtful of other’s anxiety.  Kindness eases change.   Leave home as much as possible, to walk, shop, dining in restaurants, coffee with friends. Start something new, perhaps riding a bike.   Visit Museums and Libraries. Try to stay away from your electronic devices.  Encourage musicians to play in small venues and outdoors, your souls will be replenished. Wear your mask when in a crowded space, it makes others comfortable.    Maybe even go to Church, even if you don’t subscribe to the Liturgy.    I truly feel being together with other folk in quiet and respectful places is going to help you and your community take back the control hoomans are losing.  Remember, Mother Nature bestowed us with both predators and our own, individual instinct – be wary of the former, trust the latter.    Find any excuse that will take you outside. For instance, take your cat for a walk with a pretty harness and leash to match. This last thought seems unimaginable, but maybe I can change - a bit.

I meow to you with much affection.   Kisses from France.

Minette McIntosh, Septembre, 2020 

PS  I use the surname of madame for veterinaire issues.