WNC: Greenhouse

by L.J. Ockerstrom
photos by T. Togasaki

She owns the Cathedral Greenhouse, of course. And we obey her. It is never the other way around. She has been in charge from the day she arrived in 1994, a two-month old kitten barely weaned, a little scrawny, still wet from her mother’s loving licks, and wobbly on delicate stick-legs, but her eyes gave her away. Even then, they gazed at you without fear, steady, intelligent, queenly. She mewed piteously at first, homesick for her siblings and for the children who used to play with her, but it wasn’t long before the staff realized that behind those heart-rendering sounds was a strong-willed, no-nonsense creature capable of ridding the greenhouse of unwanted rodents. That, of course, was the reason for her arrival.

They had seen the signs. Beneath the table in the staff room, in the corner of the make-shift, barn-like structure attached to the greenhouse that serves as a combination staff, storage, and work room—where pots and baskets, ribbons, and plant food are stored, where seasonal floral arrangements are crafted, where greenhouse records are kept. Beneath the table, beneath the chairs, in the corners, here and there—the tell-tale evidence of droppings.

And it was getting worse.

“We can no longer ignore this,” staff muttered to one another. “Something must be done.”

“A cat!” said Vreni. “A cat, to live and work here, to keep the rodents away, to stop them from being so bold. A cat! We must find a cat.”

She could not bear the thought of calling an exterminator. It was so brutal, somehow, so unnatural a way to address a natural problem. The only answer was to find a cat to track down the mice responsible, get rid of them naturally, and clean up the greenhouse. But where, they asked, were they to find the right cat?

And no sooner had they asked, than she arrived. Their cry was answered: there was a family with a cat. The cat had kittens. One in particular would do, they thought, the little black and white one with the steady eyes and the twitching tail. She was friendly. She was alert and strong.

And best of all, she would do. Nicely.

They fussed over her when she arrived. She received staff accolades with grace, licking her tail and allowing them to rub her belly and to scratch her behind her ears. She purred. And she looked at them, her golden eyes narrowing into cool, queenly slits, taking everything in, sizing up her surroundings, and her staff.

This was obviously a cat to be reckoned with. They could see it straight away, although no one knew exactly what it was—just something about her, the way she held her head, the way she crawled in between the leaves of the pelargonium and sat sleek and black, watching as though perched on a high cliff to survey her kingdom. Or maybe it was the way she moved, quietly, with a touch of class, and that unmistakably royal—yet friendly—demeanor of hers. Everyone saw it: the women who came to the greenhouse to buy herbs saw it; children from the school behind the greenhouse saw it; those walking the cathedral close saw it. Even the dogs saw it—Nancy, who often trotted by with her owner stopped dead in her paws the first time she saw the little tuxedoed creature, stopped, sniffed, and then wagged her tail. Whenever Nancy came by the greenhouse, she looked for the little cat. If she didn’t see her, Nancy’s tail drooped, and she went away looking defeated, forlorn.

For several weeks after she arrived at the greenhouse, she was known only as “The Cat.” There was no reason, initially, to call her anything else. She was, after all, the only cat in the greenhouse. “Cat” was, therefore, quite enough. For a while, anyway.

Until one day, George said, “Katherine of Tarragon! That is who she is—Katherine of Tarragon, the Greenhouse Cat.” So she became Katherine (not Catherine) of Tarragon (not Aragon). This Katherine was Queen of the Greenhouse (not the first of the six wives of Henry VIII.)

The name stuck. Everyone liked it, and Katherine responded to it as though she had always been known by that name.

The regal Katherine worked very hard. For weeks after her induction, greenhouse staff arrived daily to find Katherine’s trophies lovingly laid out for their approval. They found them on the floor by their chairs, sometimes in their chairs (so they learned to be observant before sitting down.)

Eventually the unwanted guests disappeared from the greenhouse. Katherine then maintained her skills by chasing squirrels, sometimes managing to grab a tuft or so of tail. Sometimes she crouched silently and went after birds—occasionally a single feather graced her whiskers, though this did not happen often enough to cause alarm among either the birds or the greenhouse staff.

Katherine’s fame spread throughout the cathedral close, beyond her official residence, the greenhouse. She was frequently observed in the bushes by the library, waiting patiently until the staff arrived in the morning and opened the door so she could enter. She was never rude or pushy. She simply appeared and waited expectantly. The library staff obliged by placing bowls of food and water in the library hall; Katherine graciously accepted their offerings so as not to disappoint them. She tried out all the library corners, finding suitable places for herself in stairwell nooks, and discovered the exact spot on the Chippendale sofa where the sun warmed it for her. When she was ready to leave, she instructed the staff to open the heavy, studded Tudor door for her so she could slip out.

As time passed, Katherine’s domain expanded, and with it, her royal staff.

She now attends board meetings at Sayre House. She never disrupts the proceedings; she snoozes, and agenda items pass peacefully. She has been known to show up for services in the main nave of the Cathedral. As she pads down the central aisle, the pipe organ in full form, hands of worshippers drop down to stroke her as she passes.

She does all this quietly, with grace and dignity.

Security officers report that on one bitterly cold night, she showed up at their office, not in the least distressed at having gotten locked out of the greenhouse when staff was unable to locate her at closing time. Occasionally, she ends up in the backs of delivery trucks as flowers are being unloaded at the greenhouse, and takes a short ride before being discovered and returned. Once she jumped into the car of a cathedral employee, who discovered her only when they had traveled a distance of several miles, when Katherine startled her by brushing up against her arm as she shifted into low gear. That night Katherine spent the night as a guest at a distance from home.

Her sense of smell is keen; she has never been known to jump into cars of strangers. But however far she travels, whether within the cathedral close or beyond, she remains the Greenhouse Cat. Her love of flowers is legendary. She eats them for their nutritious properties: pansies and violas are her favorites, though she is also very fond of impatiens, and will devour an entire flat of them. Catnip perks her up; cat oats help her rid herself of hairballs. She is the ultimate herbalist, knows what is good for her, and takes only what she needs.

She continues to work hard. Only last week, she was seen disposing of an unwanted rodent. (We won’t go into details, but she was smacking her lips at the greenhouse door, and laying out the trophy for greenhouse staff to admire.) No one questions her devotion to duty.

She has a way about her, Katherine does. She has gently and lovingly taken over cathedral spaces. She has made a cat lover out of a certain library employee, who at one time expressed outrage when presented with a bill from a veterinarian who had given her shots. Her portrait graces a gift shop greeting card, designed by a talented graphic designer named Daphne who once worked as a volunteer in the greenhouse.

Children scream with delight when they see Katherine. On the faces of their parents, beautiful smiles appear when they cross paths with her. Greenhouse staff ask each other, “Have you seen Katherine today? Has she eaten? Is she happy?” They stop what they are doing for a moment to consider her welfare. It is as though in asking about her they are reminded that all life is important, and that the presence of this cat in their midst is a gift.

But after all, the first three letters of the word, “cathedral,” are: C-A-T.

No wonder she is so at home here. No wonder she belongs.