Let me tell you about "Boneca".

I live in Portugal - in a wild place with wolves - high in the mountains. My wife's mother had an elderly cousin who lived on the other side of Porto - the city where the family live. She had a haberdashery shop in one of those neighbourhoods where the streets are black with dust from the trucks that roar through the narrow streets - just past the dim and dirty window of the shop where Boneca would sit and watch folk go by. The shop had never officially closed - yet it was not really open - the old cousin just got older - her spectacles got thicker - the house got scruffier.

There had been an old man who lodged there and mended Philips razors in his room.

When he died she was all alone - she had argued with the other old ladies in the large family - or they with her - who can remember?

One day there is a scratching at her door - there is a little torty/brindle kitten - she let's her in and calls her Boneca. She bought her Friskies - and when she got so old and ill that everything fell out of order she would scrape some of her own paps onto the corner of her chair for boneca to eat. (She is behind me on my chair dictating the details now "prrrp - - prrp").

My brother in law took the old lady to the doctor when she needed - but really, because her other relatives were scattered about the world she was alone with Boneca.

When the funeral directors came for her - they found this little cat asleep on the bed with her. She had been there to her last. The Portuguese are not very nice to household animals - so they put the young cat out in the little yard and thought no more of it.

Other old ladies in the family had died in recent memory - and we did not like how relations swooped down to look for treasure in the houses. We made a policy of always going last when everyone had picked the place over - but even then there were mutterings how we had "taken the best things". This was because folk were always looking for stuff with cash value - and we just liked objects that we might use or look at every day - and be part of the departed for us - like old tools, clothes or what - objects that teach you something - just for holding them.

We had a table from the house and some funny bits and bobs from the shop - things in torn packets from the fifties and such. (Boneca has now climbed on a high chest to pointedly sniff the picture of me winning the Bridport poetry prize in UK - making sure I do justice to her tail (sic)).

My brother-in-law mentioned that there was a cat. He would take her but he was worried because he already had two rabbits living free in the yard of his antique shop (nothing in there taken from the ancient departed - he's into armour and swords and stuff) - the rabbits were taken over from a bored (spoilt?) daughter - they and the cat might get on far too well.

I managed to catch her and got her into the basket. I was not sure about having a little town kitty where we live because the rough types that lived under our granary and shared the ribs from the barby - might not give her a good time. She might not be fully housetrained - because the old dear was well sketchy at the end and hadn't been able let her out always - you can imagine.

The house was stripped for partial demolition - or some-such indignity - I had decided we could have Boneca. Suddenly I had like a tap on the shoulder and looked in the back of a shelf behind old boxes and stuff - there was a white (factory unpainted) Vista Alegre porcelain tea-pot - something I like very much. The old lady was saying "Thanks"

While she had been out, Boneca had had a romantic adventure. (She is not to "die a virgin" like her previous "donna"). Boneca was very ill with fevers during the pregnancy and we got to know our vet very well. My wife had never seen anything being born - her Serra de Estrella dog never whelped. She cannot have kids herself. Ginja and Tigrinha were born on the sofa beside her late one evening while I was asleep.

Boneca is far too much "old lady" but also fully "cat". She caught the kitchen mouse and was so proud she woke us up in the night to boast. In the morning when I went to make breakfast she had to do a full re-enaction. "Look - I ran across here - sold the dummy here - pounced right there!"

I think she is really the ancient relative transmigrated - she is no longer a virgin - in fact she gets in trouble with the most "Heathcliffe" and "Rett" of toms "Frankly my dear ... ".

She likes to be on the corner of the bed during siesta when we do the opposite of dying. When I am ill (I have serious bipolar disease) sometimes I must just lie doggo - she checks my face for signs of breathing - she won't lose another one.

What gives the game away are her food preferences - she is happy to leave the fishy scraps to her daughters - or the "Miserables" outside (Their continued right to scraps was in my conditions of adopting Boneca "lets not forget the poor") - her snack to die for is very eggy sponge cake dipped in port wine. Wherever did she learn that?

I am very lonely right now. My oldest son (from my past marriage in UK), and the apple of my eye is now 23. He is showing signs of my illness - but laced with the terrible symptoms of his mother's - Borderline Personality Disorder. I am now the source of all his woes. I have to sever all relations with him. We used to phone every day - and by extension with my other two who still live in the house. Boneca says "Family can really let you down - but pussy cats remind you that you're not alone - you can start over and maybe it's a good thing not to die a virgin. Make an investment in someone else."

Copyright © Steve Kane, 2002

Read Steve's Poem