Muffy, Our New Rescue Cat

Muffy, our new rescue cat, came to us in August 2020. Still very sad about Teddy, I fostered a cat and after initial doubts, I said "Yes". But within a few minutes of being introduced to Muffy, an all black cat like my first cat, Miffy, I fell in love with her and her super-affectionate ways. She has a way of buffing you with her head and purring. I should have called her Buffy-Muffy...

Muffy does have a skin condition and so has special food for sensitive cats and has had to have steroid injections, but she has gone from strength to strength and her black coat is now lovely and glossy. She is a delight and has been so lovely to have during this last lockdown.

She loves going in and out of the garden, but likes the door to be open so she can get back every few minutes to make sure you're still there. She loves chasing pieces of string with a bow on and loves her tunnel and light-up balls. She has commandeered my computer chair to sleep on for her naps, but always sleeps on our bed on my feet over-night although I know if it is cold, because she creeps up the bed and lies on my abdomen where it is warmer, like a furry hot-water bottle.

Muffy has a beautiful nature and has really come out of herself. I am so sad about Teddy, as I am about all my cats who have passed away, but Muffy has brought lots of joy again.

♥ ♥ ♥

Sadly, I became very ill in September 2021 when my M.E. and Fibromyalgia flared up very badly.  At the same time, Muffy became very unwell.  She had re-occurring Miliary Dermatitis with very bad diarrhoea and a bad bacterial infection, which a course of oral antibiotics didn't cure.  This time steroids didn't help her skin problem, her special foods weren't working and the anti-diarrhoeal medicines didn't seem to help either.  I became bed-bound and had to make the awful decision of taking her back to to be fostered by a lady attached to the original Cat Rescue. This was devastating to me.  I believe you should look after a pet from when you first have them until the end. I felt I had betrayed Muffy's trust.

Physically I was very unwell and I was also so upset by having to give up Muffy.  It is now December.  I am slowly recovering physically, but I am still so upset about having to give up Muffy.  Ian, my husband took Muffy for her last vet's visit then on to her fosterer. 

I still remember Muffy's extra-loving ways: how she would follow me everywhere, hopping up on a window-sill so she could buff me and purr so loudly, how she would jump up onto the table where my computer was for a cuddle and curl up on the mat, so I had to use my keyboard on my knee and how she slept on my feet every night after playing chase her string round the bedroom. 

I have prayed she gets better physically, which she has and also that she does find a very loving home where the owners can deal with her health problems.  She is the most beautiful cat.

'A little girl named Ferne goes on magical adventures with her best friend, Chocolate, her dark brown cat. The book contains five stories, one for each season of the year plus one for Christmas. On their travels Ferne and Chocolate meet some amazing characters – seagulls who sail a boat, a bad tempered camel, a pair of strange twins who can swim, a screeching bird with multi-coloured feathers, and flying reindeer. These stories are full of descriptions of weird and wonderful places and Ferne brings home some extraordinary memories with her.'

My children's book with my illustrations is published by DayGlo Books Ltd @ http://dayglobooks.users62.interdns.co.uk/product/ferne-and-chocolate-the-roller-coaster-rainbow-other-stories/ . Dayglo Books specialise in books for children, and people of all ages, who have dyslexia. They are printed with the Open Dyslexic Font designed by Abelard Gonzalez, which helps people with dyslexia, but is also fine to be read by people with no reading difficulties. Do go and have a look at the Dayglo Books website @ http://dayglobooks.users62.interdns.co.uk/ .

It is National Poetry Day today and I was watching the news and the awfulness of the Magdalene Laundries in Ireland, where young girls who were pregnant, or just classed as 'flirty' or 'attractive', were incarcerated in buildings where they worked as slave labour and treated harshly for what was perceived as their sins by the Catholic Church.  I wrote this poem in 2004, but wanted to include it here on this special poetry day and also because this has been exposed in the media.

Prayer for the Magdalene Sisters

we, the unconventional & passionate,

flesh & blood,

often dulled into conformity

by a strait jacket

of distorted Catholicism

venting its spleen

we talk too much,

are too enthusiastic,

too vivacious,

attractive to men,

‘flibberty-jibberts’

flighty

and, before we sin,

condemned to asylum workhouses

bearing holy names

slaves in suds

non-beings eternally laundering

dirt out of soiled clothes,

some owned by perverted priests

and embittered nuns,

whose vows to love

mask a heart to hate

when we express ourselves

we are condemned as irreligious,

temptresses of the flesh,

fecund & warm,

rich in spirit & body

our loving & giving

represented as profane

stripped of dignity,

of any personal possession,

our rounded bodies are forced

into identical straight brown shifts

and starched white aprons

Christ spoke to women

loving them when stamped

‘second class’

freeing prisoners,

bringing life in abundance

let us be ourselves

accepting our fertility

of body, mind & spirit

let us remain ‘neat’,

undiluted

celebrating joy

our special gifts

given to us by God

let us never feel

guilty for being ourselves,

for loving life

© Vivien Steels

Sea Friend

The sea, hissing sibilantly,

wanted me to come in and play,

wrapping its foamy fingers

round my rubber boots, tugging.

“I’m not coming in today. You’re freezing.”

The seals were happy,

lying like furry mermaids on stone sofas,

exposing tummies to be tickled.

The dog otter, sleek and stream-line,

ate his shell-enclosed lunch,

discarding crumbs for hungry fish.

The wind ran along the edge of skittish clouds,

tweaking and puffing them into fluff.

Seaweed squeaked beneath my boots,

sand sank, velvet-wet,

firming itself after the sea’s caress.

“I might come in tomorrow,” I laughed.

“You won’t. I’ll be even colder then.

But I’ll always wait for you,

always waving.”

© Vivien Steels

This is a photograph of me and my lovely older sister, Alison, with our shrimp nets at Bexhill-on-Sea in 1959.

I have been dreaming of going to the seaside during this interminable second lockdown..  The sea and beach has aways held a fascination and lure for me.  The poem is written from a child's viewpoint and although this is called 'Sea Friend', I was knocked down and almost drowned by a large wave when at the seaside at Bexhill-on-Sea when I was about seven and that same summer my dear friend Diane was drowned and about which I wrote the poem, 'The Same Sea'. 

I entered this poem 'Sea Friend' to The Harry Edwards Healing Sanctuary Poetry Competition and was pleased to find in their magazine 'The Healer'- Spring 2021 that it was highly commended and I had won a £10 M&S Voucher!!! 

Love is...

Love is putting your best friend to sleep

to end his suffering,

knowing that your suffering

is only just beginning...

Anonymous

Beautiful Mittens Christmas 2015

Pets come into our lives to teach us about love, they depart to teach us about loss. A new pet never replaces an old pet, it merely expands the heart.

Don't Leave Me by Vivi Steels

So this is the reason I am here –

this is what they do.

He was kind to me.

He examined my back legs.

I cried and tried to tell him.

She was holding me

and stroking my face,

tears dripping down onto my fur

like rain from leaves on the trees

in my beloved garden.

She signed a piece of white rustly paper,

then he gave me an injection.

I began to feel warm and fuzzy.

The pain in my legs began to recede.

She kept stroking me

and talking to me

but the only words I heard were

“Don’t leave me – I love you.

I’ve loved you every day for thirteen and a half years

and I don’t want to be without you.”

So this is what they do.

She bent over me and whispered.

I didn’t feel the second injection much,

but my beloved garden appeared,

sunlight rustling the leaves.

She was standing by my wooden bench

cuddling me in her arms

and I knew she’d never leave me…

© Vivien Steels

Published in ANIMAL ANTICS 2011 – Forward Press October 2010

Lovely Mittens on his beloved bench in the garden... 01.07.2006 - 19.12.2019

Alone ~

drenched in water jewels,

emerging from stream cleansed

to face sun, Giver of Fire, Giver of Life,

offering praise unspoken

to the Great Spirit breathing through

greenness of green,

blueness of blue,

rockness of rocks,

inspired to listen ~

all in abeyance

but spirit itself.

Wind, rain and stars are the Bible

for studying earth’s face,

Peace Pipe, the weapon to war

for a path run closer to God.

Smoke, drawn into lungs,

emerges through nostrils,

rises to mists of clouds

translated into prayer.

Alone ~

immersed in gift of wisdom

blanketing creased body,

crowning headdress

feathered with good deeds,

walking amongst the Grandfathers

he talks with God.

© Vivien Steels

Published in The Beehive/Just Words 2001, in Write-Away - Summer 2002

& Panda Poetry No: 16 – October 2003

Illustrated with 'Rocky Bear' - Oglala Chief c.1899 © Vivien Steels

Soma

I unfurl vast rolls of black velvet

scattered with silvering stars

shooting across midnight skies.

Soft winds blow music from the spheres

into tired eyes and ears

restoring peace and calm.

Perfume of flowers mist

from clouds of dew,

falling onto quiet earth

while spume of dark rivers

press your hands with softness of foam.

Honey-sweet drips onto your lips

as you sacrifice wakefulness,

seduced by sleep.

© Vivien Steels

Published in Write-Away - Spring 2003

& Amber Silhouettes 2 - March 2004

Harebells by Vivi Steels

A report from the Royal Botanical Gardens from Kew has said an estimated 140,000, or 39.4%, of plants are under threat of disappearing. This is up 21% from 2016. There are also currently 723 medicinal plants facing extinction. Harebells, along with other Native species such as Chamomile, Juniper, Pennyroyal and wild asparagus are under threat. Harebells are one of my and my mother's favourite flowers and I painted them for her under my maiden name , Gath, in 1985. It would be awful to think that these beautiful and delicate bell flowers could just disappear from our natural landscape...

(Victoria Allen, Daily Mail, Wednesday 30th September 2020)

Harebells © Vivien Steels (nee Gath) - watercolour/pen & ink

Teddy was only with us for just over three months. Teddy was slim, more white than black, with amber eyes. He had very large ears, long legs and a long thin black tail. He was quite vocal with a soft, high-pitched squeak. He had a black patch over one eye. Although Teddy loved our garden, he loved to go over into other surrounding gardens, but always came back within a few hours. He was quite shy of other people. Teddy was a lovely-natured, gentle cat. He hated collars and would always gets his lower jaw trapped in one while grooming himself.

He was last seen on the morning of Tuesday 28th July, but the next day after I had put posters up and put him on an animal search website, I received the devastaing news from a lovely lady, Alison, who runs a cat rescue and from whom I got my last lovely cat Mittens and Teddy, that he had been run over by a car yesterday morning on a road round the corner from where we live.

He had gone out that morning after sleeping on the bed and coming up for a cuddle, purring loudly, then wanting his first breakfast, then out into the garden he loved. He was a wanderer, but would always return every hours or so to play and cuddle and have something to eat. Some days he stayed with me all day. Other days he would like to wander a lot in the large gardens that surrounded ours. But yesterday he never reappeared. I looked and called for him. Ian went looking for him too.

And today the most awful news. I went to see if I could collect him, but he wasn't there. Alison rang the council and located his little body. She went to collect Teddy and buried him in the part of her garden where he used to play with his brother. I am so grateful to her for doing this. She is also very upset and loved Teddy dearly. I am making a special memorial for Teddy in my garden too.

I have a lovely memorial plaque and have put it on our Japanese garden where Teddy loved to hide and play, plus have bought a little red Acer tree and a special pot to plant it in to put near him. I will call it Teddy’s Tree and have ordered a small solar garden lantern to light it up. I’ve also got a lovely brass butterfly plaque to put on the bench in the garden where Teddy loved to snooze and I am getting one for lovely Mittens, my last rescue cat, for the chair where he loved to snooze. I am so sad without my lovely cats.

He was such an adorable cat and I will miss him so very much. He was only 10 months old. I always find it amazing how such a small furry animal can have such a big impact on you after so short a time.

He was very, very loved and will be missed greatly.

Bless you, Teddy.

Crater Life WW1

Listen.

Silence.

You know what it’s like when your Mother,

soft as rose petals, stops your aching ears

with warm cotton wool, don’t you?

The world stops talking.

Reverie:

I am lying in Green Ridge Meadow,

grass tickling my head,

staring at cotton wool clouds,

soft as sheep, sauntering by,

time drifting with them.

Bees drone on about finding flowers,

blue butterflies land on milky lady’s smock,

a lark rises catching up with the blueness of blue sky,

harebells dip and ring round my drowsy head,

singing that song of childhood

I’ll never forget.

I open my eyes.

The world is painted red.

Blood filters my view of all that is broken.

I am floating in a crater of waste.

My body – nothing missing so far –

rests in filthy mud-water,

as though I’m floating in Sixpenny Stream.

Reverie:

The path at the top of Green Ridge Meadow,

past the ramshackle fence,

leads down to Sixpenny Stream.

I take off my heavy boots –

no socks in summer.

If I look up at the sun through slitted eyes

all I can see is red.

The heat drives me in

like a sheep to be dipped.

I lie wrapped in water weed,

lifted and lulled by wet arms

stared at by ducks, tickled by fish -

minnow, sticklebacks,

as I float, caught in summer’s breath,

soft as rose petals.

My stomach coughs and retches bile six times.

I smell cordite, bonfire smoke, gas

and the disinterred mangle of body parts.

Reverie:

That green spring I found a dead lamb

at the bottom of the meadow,

near the Tall Top Oak tree

spreading beauty all round it.

Here was death, reeking,

wriggling with maggots,

dismembered, eyes taken by ravens.

I ran back home

reached for the silver spade handing in Dad’s shed

and ran back to the lamb.

I dug into the flowering turf,

down into the darkness of soil

making a cool, soft manger

to hold that lamb,

whose life had never blossomed.

I lick my lips,

cracked, dry, like sandpaper.

My tongue cleaves to the top of my mouth.

Tears wash down onto my lips,

salty, sharp.

Reverie:

My Dad loved wood

and loved his wooden shed.

He smoothed down the limbs of my sledge,

ready for winter’s grip.

The top of Green Ridge Meadow

sparkled like an iced Christmas cake.

I dragged my sledge, fat rope handle,

to the misty top,

then the bliss of pure white speed,

snow jewels catching my red lips,

melting ice chips, soft, wet,

the bite of frost crystals

hitting my nostrils.

Can I move?

I lift my leaden right arm.

Yes, I can move it.

My left – more difficult,

tangled with barbed wire,

pinned to my shredded uniform

like a battered medal.

Reverie:

Sylvie.

I met her catching butterflies

in Green Ridge Meadow.

I was ten.

She told me she was eleven.

The meadow glowed, light diffused

as though through a chandelier.

Grass and flowers were lit up

with a golden-green sheen.

“Pick a long piece of grass and tickle me,” she’d say,

then lay next to me,

head face down on her bent arms,

while I traced up and down those egg-brown arms

and her cheeks, soft as rose petals.

The third day.

Floating.

No one knows I am here.

Time and No Man’s Land

have passed me by.

My body is weightless, numb.

My thoughts begin to jangle

like a beaded necklace

jiggled up and down.

I begin to shake.

Reverie:

The dark grass of Green Ridge Meadow

holds my body.

It is evening.

I look up at the stars

shooting their time-lapsed silver

into our Iolite skies.

The blue moon, full and bright,

sends shafts of cool light

down to me.

I hold my breath.

I don’t breathe.

I slip past midnight.

~

I am running,

running with outstretched arms –

like wings of jade-green gossamer –

down the hill towards Sixpenny Stream,

on over the ramshackle stile,

past Tom Barnstable’s farm,

past Sylvie’s cottage on Cornflower Row,

past the clay-red path to our house,

past Dad in his shed,

sucking his pipe as he looks up

and smiles at me,

past Mum in the garden

collecting a bunch of her beloved roses

for the vase in the long dark hall.

She holds out her hands,

soft as rose petals,

and I am home.

© Vivien Steels

I wanted to post this poem before VE Day celebrations on Friday 8th May to remember all the men and women who gave their lives in the First and Second World Wars. My Uncle, Walter Gath, my father Reginald's brother, lost his life two weeks before his 23rd birthday in March 1944 in WW2, as Lieutenant of the Laforey, a large fleet destroyer, one of the last Allied Naval ships to be lost in the Mediterranean to submarine attack. I have one framed case of Walter and his medals and one of my lovely father, Reginald and his medals. He served in the war on Motor Torpedo Boats mostly in the Far East. I can always remember my father telling me how he swam with dolphins off the side of his ship - one of the more pleasant things he experienced.

Walter D. P. Gath (my Uncle, whom I never met)

Reginald D. P. Gath (my lovely father)