I’m heading down from Crow Nest Wood when I spot a curious face peeping over the wall.
I get the impression that I’ve just disturbed a hunt, or at least an expedition to assess the field for interesting things to chase. I feel like an irritating trespasser in a feline playground, stomping along with my stupid loud feet when I should be sat at home drinking coffee like a well-behaved human.
I wonder if the cat shares my delight at being let loose to roam the wilder world beyond the built environment. He’s certainly more optimised for it than I am. Well kitted-out and relatively hardy as I may be, I’m still far removed from being the kind of animal that can snarl convincingly, or rip more than the corner of an obstinate crisp packet with my teeth.
Despite our obvious differences, both of us are domesticated creatures temporarily at large in the great outdoors. Out here, beyond the confines of a comfortable indoor existence, we can become other versions of ourselves. Out here we can remember how to inhabit more primitive ways of being, remind our bodies how to run and climb, tune our senses to a different frequency.
I start thinking about the route I’ve taken today. What might it be like to explore the woods from the cat’s perspective? What if I could somehow be gifted with the ability to run in a feline form? The idea of transforming one step further from my outdoorsy self into something entirely more fit for purpose is too enticing to ignore.
Fantasy Feline
The black cat scrutinises me from his perch behind the wall. I pause my run, reach for my phone, tiptoe forward and steal a photograph. He observes my unwelcome intrusion with an air of coolly calculating distain.
Undeterred, I wade clumsily through the grassy roadside verge and offer up a tentative hand.
An inquisitive nose carefully assesses the tip of each finger. I risk a light tickle behind the ear. He pulls away, then gently nuzzles my palm. I wait, arm outstretched, until a forceful bump of the head grants me permission to administer affection. He directs me with insistent nudges until I hit just the right spot under the chin and my efforts are rewarded with a low, rumbling purr.
Soon enough my allotted time is up and he scrambles abruptly onto the dry stone wall. I watch as he studies me with an unreadable expression, then pads purposefully to the edge of the capstone. Intrigued, I hold my ground while he leans closer and snuffles at the edges of my face.
Our eyes meet and I catch sight of my own reflection staring back at me from two yawning pools of obsidian. My glossy silhouette begins to ripple and swirl in the unblinking darkness. The world tilts and I stumble sideways, arms flailing.
With a soft chirrup and an artful flick of the tail, he spirals away and drops out of view while I claw at a fence post to save myself from a gorse patch. I take a few moments to steady myself then pick my way carefully back to the lane, confused but surprisingly calm.
Back on solid ground I slip into a cautious jog but quickly up my pace as a burst of energy drives me onwards towards the woods. An effortless spring creeps into my stride as I hurry past gardens and houses and lines of parked cars to the narrow mouth of a muddy track.
I plunge into the shade, prompting a crescendo of urgent rustling and chattering as I drop to the ground and follow my nose through dewy undergrowth. A sturdy oak looms into view. I chart a route up its towering trunk then bound skyward, claws gouging into pliant ridges and channels, all sharpness and stealth and speed as I hurtle through a maze of branches leaving the shriek of an indignant blackbird in my wake.
Leaves dance and surge around me as the breeze picks up. I sprint along a drooping bough and leap forward, bouncing across supple limbs and through swathes of green needles to reach a shallow ledge on a rocky outcrop. Elated, I linger a while to sniff the air and savour the scent of a thousand enticing possibilities.
A sharp snap somewhere deep in the woodland gloom startles me back into action. I fly from the cliff onto the steep, papery bark of a half-fallen birch and scurry along its silver-white length to the forest floor.
My legs grow heavy as I plough through a tangle of bracken and brambles to reach the well-trodden path below the crag. Soon the slap, slap, slap of weary feet begins to resound through the muddy clearing as I shuffle to a fork in the trail and settle back into my lumpen, ungainly, familiar form.
The distant blackbird shouts its disapproval. I grin, turn towards home and plod happily onwards.
In real life, sadly, the cat and I never get properly acquainted and I don’t get to do any magical shape shifting. We stare at one another for a moment, I snap a quick photo, then we both return to our own morning adventures.
Indulging my fantasy in writing turned out to be a rewarding exercise in imagination, but took me a lot longer to achieve than expected. I discovered that part of me very much disliked telling this story in prose, while the rest of me was determined to tease out a linear narrative even if it killed me. Did I enjoy the process? Not as much as I hoped to. But I’m glad I didn’t give up when the going got stodgy.
Given the freeing nature of the subject matter, I find it interesting that so much treacle-wading went on under the hood. It’s food for thought that probably warrants closer inspection, but for now I’m keen to leave that to stew while I carry forward some cat-like speed and agility into my next creative venture.
