 |
The above are not pictures of Sasha and Smocka...but both are very much like how they were...
|
 |
Graphite drawing by me...
|
At various times through the years in posts I’ve
mentioned Sasha, my much-loved ginger cat. It was in 1967, as a little kitten around the
age of 6 weeks, he came into my life and I, into his. At the time I was married
to Mervyn, my first husband. When Mervyn
and I separated in 1968, I gained custody of Sasha, which was a no-brainer, of course.
In rapid time, from the moment he came into my life, Sasha, had become my
shadow. When I was at home, he was
always by my side. He was my best buddy.
A big ginger fellow with a proud demeanour, a snowy white chest and belly, he feared
little, if anything. I’d named him after the little boy, the son, in
Boris Pasternak’s. “Doctor Zhivago”.
Mervyn and I had been living in Moray Street, New
Farm, an inner Brisbane suburb. Upon our
separation, I moved down the street a bit, and around a corner to set up camp
in Oxlade Drive...still in New Farm...in a river-front flat. My new small home, which consisted of one bedroom,
bathroom, lounge/dining area and kitchen. was the portioned-off rear section of
a home owned by an elderly lady who was rarely present. She spent the majority of her time visiting her
son who lived in Port Moresby.
My bedroom opened up to a grand vista of the
Brisbane River, and across to the suburb of Hawthorne. Four stairs led down from the small landing
out from my bedroom, down to the yard. From there it was only a few strides and
you found yourself on the wide grassy verge bordering the river. Back then I’d sleep with my bedroom door
open, something one couldn’t do safely these days, unfortunately.
Early in 1970, I relocated from New Farm to Toowong, into a two-bedroom, upstairs’
unit in a newly-constructed block of six units.
A year or two after living in the upstairs unit, I moved
into what had been the owner/manager’s unit...a townhouse at the rear of the building.
Two bedrooms and the bathroom were on the
upper level, with a carpeted staircase leading down to the lower level which consisted
of lounge/dining, kitchen, and laundry leading off from the latter. With the relocation, I also took over the management
of the rest of the units in the block.
On the day of my move from New Farm to Toowong I’d
hired a removalist to do the heavy lifting and shifting. (When I left Gympie in 1965, to work in Brisbane
I shared a flat, with another girl, for about nine months. The flat was in Toowong).
Sasha disappeared during the loading of my furniture,
and odds and ends. My belief nothing
scared him was shattered. Perhaps
change, lots of activity and a truck were what he feared.
My concern wasn’t warranted, I discovered, to my relief.
I found Sasha contentedly curled up in the
back of the removalist’s truck, on top of one of the many cartons. He was ready
to go. He made it very obvious, I wasn't
going anywhere without him. In no way was
he at all ruffled. Sasha never ceased to
amaze me, and amaze me he did that day.
A couple of years after settling into the apartment at Toowong, I adopted a
kitten. I named him “Smocka”.
By some unfeeling, heartless person Smocka's
mother had been dumped on the property when she was due to give birth to her
little furry family.
Animals should never
be under-estimated. The mother cat sensed
I had a love for cats. There is no other explanation why, a few hours
after giving birth, she brought each one of her bubs to me...setting up a cosy home
for herself and her kittens in my laundry.
I managed to give three of her four kittens away to
friends, who I knew would give them safe, happy homes, keeping one, Smocka, for myself. From the moment he opened his eyes, Smocka
attached himself to me. He picked me. I had no choice. It was what it was. He was a dear, sweet-natured little fellow.
His steely-blue-grey coat and amber-green eyes betrayed perhaps some higher
breeding in his genetics. I think his mother may have been playing around
amongst the "upper-classes".
Immediately, Sasha became Smocka's mentor. He protectively guarded Smocka, his little, new
best mate. Never did he utter a miaow of
dissent towards him. Not once was there any
display of jealousy or anger shown by Sasha towards Smocka.
One Saturday morning I returned from shopping to find Smocka bailed up at my
front screen door. Having come from bright sunlight, into the shade of the carport,
at first I didn't see my furry friend in the shadows.
However, I did, immediately, see a white boxer dog, with
the hairs on it back raised, at my door. At once, the hairs on my own back rose! A low, guttural growl was issuing from the dog’s
mouth.
Once my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw Smocka
frozen on the spot with the dog about an inch or two from him.
I froze, too, not wanting to make a sudden move,
believing all hell would break loose if I did so, and knowing Smocka would become
the victim.
Fear took over my being as I stood there wondering what to do next to save my
little mate.
It was then I noticed Sasha. Stealthily, all puffed
up ready for battle, quietly he strode with determined intent across the yard
at the rear of my apartment. I remained rooted to the spot. Somehow, I knew Sasha had the matter under
control.
The albino boxer had no idea what was in store for
him. He was too concentrated on Smocka to be aware of what was going on around
him.
Proudly, and in awe, I watched as Sasha approached the unwary dog. Having snuck
up behind him, with one quick movement and a flash of claw, Sasha struck out at
the unsuspecting dog. Sasha quickly followed with another massive blow to the
dog's nose. The dog let out a couple of surprised, woeful cries, and with blood
pouring from his face he ran backwards. I immediately flew to the screen door, and
ushered Smocka inside. Sasha was prepared to continue the battle, but I picked
him up and put him inside as well.
I turned to chase the dog, which by then had given a
few loud whelps and had run, in fear and shock, when it's owner, who was
visiting a ground-level unit the apartment block, came out to see what the
turmoil was about.
Sneering, he looked at me, and, in a half-smart tone, said, "My dog would
have any cat for breakfast!"
He wasn't very smart in saying that to me, considering the mood I was in. I moved
closer to him, standing 12 to 18 inches from him...up close and personal. Looked
him directly in the eye, I replied.
"If your dog had as much as touched a single fur on my cat's body, it
wouldn't be alive at this moment, of that you can be sure! It would've had to
deal with me, as would have you!
And another thing you should know...albino boxers
are illegal. They are supposed to be put-down at birth. Secondly, you are a
visitor to the property and dogs are not allowed, especially unleashed dogs, so
I advise you to leave right this moment and take that mongrel with you before I
report you both!"
As meek as a reprimanded child, the dog owner backed down without a further
word. He and his dog left, both with
their tails between their legs.
I was so proud of Sasha that day. He was
my hero...he was Smocka’s hero.
****Addendum...At
the time this incident took place I was employed by the Kolotex Group of Companies...I
worked for them for 14 years. One of my co-workers
and her husband bred boxer dogs. Constantly
she talked about their dogs, driving her co-workers crazy! It was through her I learned about the sad fate
in store for albino boxers.
Please do not misunderstand
me....I love dogs. It’s some careless dog
owners who are the problem!
Like the person
who lives across the way from here where I live. She has a doberman which she lets run free. I chased it out of the yard yesterday. Remy and Shama are indoor cats. I’d be full of anxiety if they weren’t, with this
large dog running around the place, un-tethered
