Satyagraha

See all that stuff about a problem shared being a problem halved? Not in my experience, it isn't. More like a problem shared is a good laugh for your mates.

"So you don't have mice now but you do have slugs?" Rachel says, over a pizza in Gambrino's.

"Maybe just one," I say. "Found it on the kitchen floor a coupla times when I came down in the night for a glass of water. I think it lives under the sink. Leopard slug. Quite pretty when you look close."

"If it's only one that's not so bad," she says. "But if you've an infestation you should get rid of them. Your visitors won't think they're pretty."

"I know how to tell if there's more than one," my son says, lifting a floppy wedge of pizza and lowering it into his mouth."

I give him a moment to chew then ask him how. "Write a name on its shell one night," he says. "Like 'Bob'."

"Slugs don't have shells," I say. "You're thinking of snails."

"Use post-it notes then," he says. "Point is if it says 'Alice' the next night, you've more than one slug. Then you can start to worry."

"I'd be more worried about the psycho who lives under your sink and writes "Alice" on slugs," Rachel says. "I take it you're not going to kill them?"

"I am not," I say. "Why would I?"

"Some people think they're disgusting," she says. 

"I think some people are disgusting," I say.

"What are you going to do with them?" my son says.

"Same as I did with the mice and the fruit flies," I say. "Satyagraha."

"Passive resistance?" Rachel says. "Sounds wimpy and pathetic."

"That's not satyagraha," says my son, ever the expert on Eastern philosophy.

"No?" Rachel says.

"No," he says. "Passive resistance is a weapon of the weak, Gandhi said. It could be violent and didn't always stick with truth. Satyagraha is only for the strong. It insists on truth and never uses violence. Big difference."

"What did Gandhi say about slugs in your kitchen?" Rachel asks him. But his mouth is full of chilli-topped pizza, so he gestures at me and they both wait for my words of wisdom.

"Not much, obviously," I say. "But we're talking principles here. If you understand those you can apply satyagraha to anything. It's about truth, firmness and non-violence."

"So you're going to take the slugs outside, like you did with the mice?" my son says. "And as soon as you turn round they'll be back in the house again."

"And I'll put them out again," I say. "And again. In the end I'll win, because I understand the principles of satyagraha. So I'm strong. I'm persistent."

"Remind me how long it took to get the mice to stay outside," he says.

"Five years," I say. "But in the end they got the message."

The two of them nibble their thin pizzas thoughtfully and sip their coffees, and I begin to think I might have convinced them. "There's a fatal flaw in your plan," Rachel finally says, and my stomach sinks. 

"I was afraid there might be," I say.

"It works only if the slugs don't understand satyagraha too," she says. "If they do they'll be as persistent as you are. It'll be a standoff. You'll never get rid of them."

My son is nodding. "She's right," he says. "Which means it's more important than ever to check their name-tags. If one of your slugs is called Mahatma, you're screwed."

Holiday home

I don't get the appeal of cats, so most of them don't like me, including Helen's little black job that she calls Sooty, a daft name for a cat I've always thought, though why anybody gives cats names in the first place I have no idea.

Dogs at least know their names. Cats don't appear to. It's all part of the aura of aloofness that cat-lovers claim for their pets, in contrast, they say, to the slobbering servility of the average dog. TS Eliot famously believed cats have three names, one used daily, one for special occasions and one known only to the cat.

It's all bollocks of course. The reason cats don't fetch sticks or come when you call is that they have only two brain cells. And one of them's asleep.

So when Helen asks me to check on her cat while she's on holiday I hesitate. "All you have to do is drive to the kennels, when I've been gone a few days, and see if Sooty is happy there," she tells me. "The last time I put him in somewhere it took him weeks to get over it. He was traumatised."

It seems an extreme description to me for how a cat can feel, but what do I know?

"So I'm trying this new place," she continues. "It gets a good name and I've talked to the woman who runs it. She seems nice and caring. But I'd like you to make sure he's all right. He's getting old and doesn't like change."

I know how he feels, I'm thinking, as I head south on the hill-road out of New Cumnock and the land gets steadily higher and bleaker. The slate roofs and whitewashed walls of the little farm, just off the road, look old but clean, as I turn into the yard.

The first discordant note comes when I open the car door and hear dogs barking. And not just barking but going berserk. That can't be nice if you're a cat here on your holidays, I think, as I get out and head for the entrance to the cattery, a well-signed wooden outhouse.

"He's been eating fine," the farmer's wife tells me, ushering me inside. "He doesn't come out of his bed when I'm here. But when I look in he seems happy enough. See for yourself."

The room is cold and lined with cages, their bars reaching up to the ceiling. All of them are empty, except the one in the corner, which is occupied by a fleece-lined, blue and white cat-cosy and a small plate of meat.  

"Go in if you like," the woman tells me, unlocking the metal grille door and pulling it towards us. I step inside, get down on my hands and knees and peer into the gloom. All I can see, way inside, are reflections of the light in two dark eyes. They are wide and startled-looking.

"Are you sure he's all right?" I ask. "My sister is very attached to him and she worries."

The woman smiles. "I know," she says. "I realised that when she was talking to me. But this isn't just a business. I care about animals. If there was a problem I would tell you, I promise."

I believe her. Half an hour later Helen gives me a call from Corfu. "He was fine," I tell her. "Eating well, they said."

"Did you see him?" she says, her voice strained.

"Yeah," I say. "He was a wee bit subdued."

There's a pause. "What did the place seem like?" she says.

"It was cold. There were dogs barking. He was on his own."

She says nothing. The silence stretches. "So I brought him home," I tell her.

"What?" she laughs loudly, all signs of stress gone from her voice.

"He's looking up at me now from the rug, with a wee smile on his face. I think he can hear you."

"Aw, that's fantastic," she says. "You've no idea how relieved I am. Will you look after him till I get back?"

"Sure," I say.

"That's wonderful," she says. "I can enjoy my holiday now."

I put the phone down and beckon to the cat. "Hey Sooty, come here. It's you and me for the rest of the week, pal. We'll have a few beers, watch the football and do some male bonding. What do you think?"

The little bugger ignores me completely.

Wisdom tooth

My sister sometimes overdoes the empathy. "He comes from Greece and you know the problems they're having," she tells me over a fried egg breakfast in her home. "He probably sends money back every month to his mum and dad and their dog."

"That's hardly your problem Helen,"  I tell her, trying to sound like the sensible elder brother I should have been. "He's your dentist not your responsibility."

"I feel sorry for him," she says. "I don't think he's a great dentist. He's clumsy. He drops things. He bumps into people. And his equipment. And the walls."

I stare at her and shake my head.

"I know. I know," she says. "He's a nice guy though. Got this lovely accent."

"Which he uses to say 'Oops'?" I suggest. "And 'Pardon me for stabbing you in the throat, madam.'"

"Also I don't think he's done much root canal work and that's what I'm booked in for tomorrow."

I shake my head and chew my egg roll, one of those you pop in the oven for a few minutes and it comes out warm and doughy. "This is lovely," I tell her. "You buy fried eggs in a café they're half raw and run down your chin. These are firm but not crisp. Perfect."

"You think I'm nuts." she says. "Don't you?"

"Because you're having a dyspraxic dentist do root canal work on the only teeth you'll ever have?" I say. "Nah.

"What is root canal, anyway?" I ask her. "People talk about it, but it means nothing to me."

"It's the part of a tooth's root that carries nerves and blood vessels," she says. "The dentist drills down, scrapes all that out with little files because it's infected and replaces it with artificial stuff. The tooth's dead then but gives you no pain. He was very good at explaining it to me."

"In his lovely Greek accent?"

"Yes."

"While bumping into things?"

"He smacked himself in the eye with the back of his hand while doing the scraping action."

I shake my head.

"I know. I know," she says. "But he's NHS and it's so hard to get one these days. The job would cost £1000 if I went private."

"But you would have the use of your face afterwards," I point out. "Your jugular would be unsevered and you wouldn't have a scalpel sticking out your forehead."

"Once he's working on your teeth he seems less clumsy," she says.

"How can you tell? Your head's numb. He's probably dropping drills, tweezers and cups of tea into your mouth and you can't feel it. I bet they're still there. Let me look."

She tops my mug up with fresh coffee and ignores me. "It's good service here," I tell her. "Reasonable prices too. I'll recommend you to my friends."

"Don't you dare," she says. "I've met your friends."

"You like Al," I say.

"I want to mother him," she says. "There's a sadness in his eyes. You think I'm mad, don't you?"

"Nah, I want to mother him too."

"I mean about my dentist."

I sip the coffee. Piping hot, just how I like it. "If we had a who's the most sensible person in this room contest, Helen, you'd lose. That's how far you've come from any semblance of sanity."

"I know. I know," she says. "What do you think I should do?"

"Dump him. Get a better dentist."

"What about his mum and dad?"

"He's an orphan."

"What about his dog?"

"It's being looked after by his best friend on an orange farm in Attica."

"Will it upset him if he loses me?

"He's your dentist Helen, not your lover."

"I'll do it. You've got me all fired up. I'll do it," she says, banging her egg roll on the table and making the cat jump. 

"Right after I keep this appointment tomorrow," she says.

I shake my head.

"I know. I know," she says.