A cat called Cow.

Until sometime last night, we had a cat called Cow. It was a black and white cat, with patches of each colour, like a cow. Hence, my kids chose that name for it. It was a young cat, perhaps 9 months old. She had an adorably sweet personality and was very warm and seemingly loving, nudging adults and children alike, as it to say hello. Of all her mother’s kittens, she was the one who liked to stay closest to her mother. This morning, my son, Fintan, 8, found her dead.

It was a bit of a shock to be told this news. You see, we have four young cats, who were dumped on our doorstep by their mother. Of all the four, Cow was by far the most charming. In fact, she was the only one that seemed to have its own true personality. The others were mainly just hungry and out for food the whole time. We had planned to give the other three away, and keep Cow. So it was unwelcome news to see Cow stretched out stiffly on the ground, upside down, with her chest exposed, as if arching in pain, her mouth open in a grimace of surprised agony.

Upon her chest, there was an oval wound, about an inch across. Something had put a hole in her chest, on the underside. Had she been bitten by an animal? Had she fallen on something sharp? It was all the more surprising to see her dead like this, since we had seen her alive only hours before.

The children stared at her unmoving body in silence, as we prepared to bury her. My wife’s father was here. He had dug a rectangular hole in the garden for Cow – a little grave. All the children stood around eyes fixed on Cow. They were unusually quiet. Cow didn’t look quite real anymore. She was completely stiff and looked like a stuffed toy – not an ex-cat, at all. The absence of life, made her look as if she had never been animate. She simply looked like an artist’s impression of a cat – and not a very convincing one at that. It is funny what death can do. It makes even the most living animal, look rather unreal. I was struck, then, by what had made Cow such an interesting cat. It was her personality – the way she moved, what she did, her seeming intentions and the general impression of warmth in her actions. All that was gone. Without her animating personality, Cow did not even look like Cow anymore. She looked like a cat shaped black and white object, with a pink hole in her chest.

We buried Cow, in silence and replaced the turf on top of her. The boys didn’t say anything. I don’t think they knew what to make of it all. This was their first direct acquaintance with death. I don’t think they have ever seen a dead mammal, or human, before. Cow had been their favourite cat. In all, I think they took it very well, though I could tell they were a bit shocked, since there had been no forewarning.

Last night, I had heard dogs barking, rather aggressively at about 3 am. Perhaps that was when Cow was attacked and died. Had the dogs come onto our property or had Cow wandered onto theirs? We shall never know. It was clear though that she had dragged herself back to her favourite spot in the garden and died near where we used to feed her. She had come home, for her final moments.

I was going to write about Cow a long time ago, because I thought her funny and endearing. I never expected the first time to write of her, would be of her early death. Reflecting on why she died, rather than any of her siblings, I think it may very well have been her colouration. The others were shades of brown and would be difficult to see at night. She was black and white and would have been easy to spot, at night. I think that which made her beautiful to look at, may also have cost her, her life.

My wife Syahidah reassured Fintan. “Cow has gone to Cow heaven to meet all the other “cows”.”

He smiled at that, finding it either a comforting or a funny thought. It wasn’t clear which.

Thank you, Cow, for being so sweet and making us all smile, at your warmth. My sons, in particular, will miss her, though my wife and I will too.

Posted by Valentine Cawley

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The colleague I made one day.

This is a reposting of Tuesday's post - because it has been unaccountably deleted (at least, I can't find it on my screen).

I had no idea, when my first son was born, that in a few years, he would, essentially, become not only my son, but my colleague, too.

Before Ainan, I had never really had a close scientific colleague with whom I could discuss ideas and consider possibilties. Although Ainan is only eight years old, talking to him is not like talking to an eight year old - it is like holding a discussion with a very creative, fast thinking adult scientist. I find it refreshing. All my life I have lacked such stimulation (I didn't find it at Cambridge University, for instance) but, now, in my own home, I have as much of it as I want or could ever need - all I have to do is begin a sentence with "Ainan..." and I am soon deep into a wide-ranging, scientifically profound conversation. It is wonderful.

I don't know what the future of the intellectual side of my relationship with my son will hold. Yet, I can say: the present is pretty good. I have had the best scientific conversations in my life with Ainan since he was five years old. No other conversation, with adult scientists, has proven as remotely interesting.

Fatherhood is full of surprises - and some of them are much more rewarding than one could ever have anticipated.

(If you would like to learn more of Ainan Celeste Cawley, a scientific child prodigy, aged eight years and seven months, or his gifted brothers, Fintan, five years exactly, and Tiarnan, twenty-eight months, please go to: http://scientific-child-prodigy.blogspot.com/2006/10/scientific-child-prodigy-guide.html I also write of gifted education, IQ, intelligence, the Irish, the Malays, Singapore, College, University, Chemistry, Science, genetics, left-handedness, precocity, child prodigy, child genius, baby genius, adult genius, savant, wunderkind, wonderkind, genio, гений ребенок prodigy, genie, μεγαλοφυία θαύμα παιδιών, bambino, kind.

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