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The Feline Observer - ACHC&SE Copyright 2003-2004 Feedback: silelf@mac.com
1.7.04
Obituaries
Brindis Calderwood
Brindis Calderwood was an intellectual gentlecat whose life spanned 24 immensely productive years. He was still contributing to the Feline Observer until his death and, even when he became too ill to communicate with his humans directly, he continued to write by dictating to me, his companion Paolo, whom he had adopted and trained.
Brindis' kittenhood was spent in Earl's Court, where he achieved early distinction after investigating the archaeological discovery of a mummified Roman cat in the City of London and publishing his findings in the Feline Archeological Journal. Living in digs with a family of illiterate but highly intelligent Siamese Cats, he went on to publish their memoirs of Old China, which later became an authoritative record of an archaic way of life. At that time, too, he listened to numerous folk tales from strays, which he recently recalled from memory and serialised in the Feline Observer.
After an incident in which he was accused of stealing a piece of fish from a ginger Tom, Brindis went into hiding for two years, living under the pseudonym of Berthild and sharing a flat with a German artist called Ingrid, from whom he acquired an interest in film, something he never lost. Until his last days, his servants told me, he would turn up unexpectedly at the showing of Arte films in their quarters, preferring (although not limiting himself to) black-and-white, German films from the 1920's. He frequently modelled for Ingrid's sculpture, and would continue to do so long after his departure from the artist's home, carving what he called "mind-sculptures" on a suitable pedestal such as a stool. The most important lesson he taught me was to learn from every experience in life, good or bad.
When Brindis was 13, his adopted companion departed abruptly and he briefly found himself without a home. He moved into a communal garden (Philbeach Gardens, SW5), and was re-united with a treacherous family member, who had made the original accusation of fish theft (using the flimsiest of circumstantial evidence). On seeing Brindis re-emerge (after he had been presumed dead) the family member attacked him without provocation. "It was sheer jealousy. Brindis' cousin could not stand his intellectual prowess, his cleanliness and his athletic grace" said his servant of 10 years, Silvia, who witnessed the duel. "But it backfired. There was an iron bridge next to our flat, crossing the basement area to the garden. Brindis drew the traitor onto it, and his paws were trapped in the metal grid." Brindis remembered how he jumped onto a window ledge, intending to engage in the next phase of battle: to knock over a flower pot in which rainwater had accumulated.
But his eyes were irresistibly drawn to the interior of the flat, whose aesthetics were of an unusually high standard and he forgot his vanquished cousin. After a number of visits, he got to know the inhabitants and decided to employ them as his servants, paying them with invaluable advice during their "studies" of parked cars, buses and traffic flows, a subject (known to humans as "Transport") with which he was very familiar. It occupied most of their time, to the extent that he granted them leave from their duties as servants - very rare amongst employers. "For humans, study is important" Brindis once said. "They lack an innate understanding of the world. Silvia was studying parallel processing, which as any classical scholar knows, is one of the fundamental principles of feline thought. Humans are only just discovering these ideas - 5,000 years after the Egyptian cat Tehuti drew his hieroglypic scrolls. Yet one can only encourage them."
Deciding to make a break with his old life, Brindis and his servants made a sojourn to Golders Green. There, he befriended a lady cat (he abhorred the term "bitch") who had a penchant for fighting toms in the garden, which Brindis would watch through a transparent catflap. She gave birth to black and white kittens, which Brindis always believed were his. (He disagreed with the veterinary opinion that he had been neutered). He also enjoyed surprising his servants, when they went out to buy his groceries, by greeting them outside the door on their return. This gesture says a great deal about his egalitarian beliefs, in an age when many servants are seen as mere providers of food.
Before long Brindis had moved back to Earls Court, where he and his servants lived in a top floor flat for two years. He called it "The Feline Observatory" and, weather permitting, pursued astronomy from the rooftop. He also enjoyed listening to his servants' conversations and discussions about art, science and politics. "I was 15 then, and my servants' visitors were all older than I." he later recalled. "But the wisdom accumulated in that time by an average cat like myself is greater than a human of 25, or indeed 75 can even hope for. In short, I found their debates rather immature and kitten-like, but I think they benefitted from my contributions. I made a number of good human friends, too." In spite of these misgivings, Brindis was always impeccably well-mannered. He kept himself perfectly clean, listened politely without interrupting and stood up when anyone came into the flat. It was heartbreaking to see him, recently, trying to stand when our humans came home and falling over, but it also showed his determination and courage in the face of a progressive disability.
At the age of 17, Brindis moved to a basement flat close to his old home, where he was put back in touch with street life, which he had missed in his last abode. He felt that he had become too esoteric and once again needed contact with the strays who inspired him so much. He would make forays around the squares and talk at length to underprivileged cats. "Those without servants, those who are forced to work to stay alive, give me tremendous hope. Their thoughts are often far more lucid than those of pure, inbred pedigrees who rely on humans." Brindis would often take up the cause of a victim of injustice, championing the case of a French cat who had been extradited and forced to abandon her 1-week old kittens. Brindis lived without his servants for three days and nights whilst he found foster parents for the kittens. Very soon after this episode, he heard that one of his servants, Silvia, was herself expecting a human kitten. (THIS IS CALLED A "CHILD". PAOLO, I KNOW YOU ARE GRIEVING BUT BRINDIS WOULD NOT WANT SUCH CARELESS USE OF LANGUAGE - EDITOR).
As the Feline Observer often reports, many cats do not take kindly to their servants' kittens ("CHILDREN" - EDITOR). Even the most tolerant of cats can be cruel to a human kitten, and some have even been known to replace their entire staff after discovering that a servant has given birth. Brindis not only allowed his servants to have a litter ("BABY" - EDITOR), but kept Silvia company whilst his other servant Alastair was at work. "I shall always remember how he stayed with me during the long hours, whilst I was waiting for Marlene", Silvia told me. When a human kitten is born, humans instinctively make a soft, warm basket ("COT" - EDITOR) into which the new arrival is dropped ("LOWERED" - EDITOR). It is a sign of Brindis' sensitivity that he never believed that his servants' only purpose was to wait on him, and understood that the basket was for the kitten, not for his own comfort. He was always gentle to the kitten, even as it learnt to crawl and then to walk, and when it behaved roughly he simply jumped to a higher surface, even up to the top of a door (somewhere I, Paolo, would never venture). "The child kept me in good shape", he once told me. "Had I not been obliged to jump so high, I would certainly not be doing it in my twenties."
At the age of 20, Brindis sailed to Amsterdam, together with his servants and the kitten. He recalled how he was not allowed on the ship's deck, being deprived of his servants and forced to wait in a dark van for some hours. He was incensed and, through the medium of his servants, became an activist. "Cats have a long tradition of seafaring without let or hindrance", he dictated to Alastair, for a letter to the Home Secretary. "Under today's regulations, my ancestors would not have reached London in the 9th century. Bureaucratic restrictions on travel are not only a nightmare of red-tape, but present a grave threat to this ancient freedom." His campaign was effective and, shortly after, the first cats were able to travel with their entourage of servants overseas. After this campaign, Brindis settled into life in Amsterdam, which he found less rushed, and had time to renew his interest in sculpture, often posing on a glass table or symmetrically bridging himself between two identical chairs, whilst making "mind-sculptures". He would relax by watching boats sailing past the window. He also enjoyed travelling on his servant's bicycle, which most other cats (even I) would find quite terrifying!
It was in Amsterdam too that I met Brindis. As a cat from an underprivileged background ("STRAY" - EDITOR), I had not developed my natural talents, but Brindis taught me how to write and dictate to humans, and introduced me to the Feline Observer. Without his guidance I would not be writing this now, and I hope that I shall continue to publish Brindis' teachings in this splendid organ, including the often contentious issues that he brought to public notice. Brindis never shied away from controversy, criticising "the vulgar hype of the obsequious Whiskas Cat", encouraging female cats to fight aggressive toms, and once suggesting to me that I should publish an editorial in the Feline Observer, "In Defence of Dogs", after which I was hounded (NO PUNS PLEASE - EDITOR) by the tabloid press. When I heard about Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit's sensational story in the Scum, of how her husband had been eaten by a dog, and how she would send a pack of hounds to my house to see how friendly they would be to me, I panicked. But Brindis just stuck his tongue out and told me that Mrs. Twitchit only lived in a storybook. He was a strong character, who could not be easily tricked.
We moved to London last year, where Brindis remained very active until his last illness. The week we arrived he left our new flat and walked to the end of the street, along the window ledges at first floor level, then jumped into another flat, where he found an unwanted piece of fillet steak. The purpose of all this, Brindis said, was to show me that one should not rely on one's servants too heavily, and that it was good manners to give them the occasional holiday from their duties. He sometimes applied this philosophy at mealtimes, often springing up to his servants' table and taking food himself, rather than ordering them to get up and put it in his bowl. Brindis considered his humans - and me - to be his family, and it is for this that I will remember him.
by Paolo
Brindis Calderwood, born 1st July, 1980, died last week on Wednesday, 30th June, 2004.
Brindis Calderwood
Brindis Calderwood was an intellectual gentlecat whose life spanned 24 immensely productive years. He was still contributing to the Feline Observer until his death and, even when he became too ill to communicate with his humans directly, he continued to write by dictating to me, his companion Paolo, whom he had adopted and trained.
Brindis' kittenhood was spent in Earl's Court, where he achieved early distinction after investigating the archaeological discovery of a mummified Roman cat in the City of London and publishing his findings in the Feline Archeological Journal. Living in digs with a family of illiterate but highly intelligent Siamese Cats, he went on to publish their memoirs of Old China, which later became an authoritative record of an archaic way of life. At that time, too, he listened to numerous folk tales from strays, which he recently recalled from memory and serialised in the Feline Observer.
After an incident in which he was accused of stealing a piece of fish from a ginger Tom, Brindis went into hiding for two years, living under the pseudonym of Berthild and sharing a flat with a German artist called Ingrid, from whom he acquired an interest in film, something he never lost. Until his last days, his servants told me, he would turn up unexpectedly at the showing of Arte films in their quarters, preferring (although not limiting himself to) black-and-white, German films from the 1920's. He frequently modelled for Ingrid's sculpture, and would continue to do so long after his departure from the artist's home, carving what he called "mind-sculptures" on a suitable pedestal such as a stool. The most important lesson he taught me was to learn from every experience in life, good or bad.
When Brindis was 13, his adopted companion departed abruptly and he briefly found himself without a home. He moved into a communal garden (Philbeach Gardens, SW5), and was re-united with a treacherous family member, who had made the original accusation of fish theft (using the flimsiest of circumstantial evidence). On seeing Brindis re-emerge (after he had been presumed dead) the family member attacked him without provocation. "It was sheer jealousy. Brindis' cousin could not stand his intellectual prowess, his cleanliness and his athletic grace" said his servant of 10 years, Silvia, who witnessed the duel. "But it backfired. There was an iron bridge next to our flat, crossing the basement area to the garden. Brindis drew the traitor onto it, and his paws were trapped in the metal grid." Brindis remembered how he jumped onto a window ledge, intending to engage in the next phase of battle: to knock over a flower pot in which rainwater had accumulated.
But his eyes were irresistibly drawn to the interior of the flat, whose aesthetics were of an unusually high standard and he forgot his vanquished cousin. After a number of visits, he got to know the inhabitants and decided to employ them as his servants, paying them with invaluable advice during their "studies" of parked cars, buses and traffic flows, a subject (known to humans as "Transport") with which he was very familiar. It occupied most of their time, to the extent that he granted them leave from their duties as servants - very rare amongst employers. "For humans, study is important" Brindis once said. "They lack an innate understanding of the world. Silvia was studying parallel processing, which as any classical scholar knows, is one of the fundamental principles of feline thought. Humans are only just discovering these ideas - 5,000 years after the Egyptian cat Tehuti drew his hieroglypic scrolls. Yet one can only encourage them."
Deciding to make a break with his old life, Brindis and his servants made a sojourn to Golders Green. There, he befriended a lady cat (he abhorred the term "bitch") who had a penchant for fighting toms in the garden, which Brindis would watch through a transparent catflap. She gave birth to black and white kittens, which Brindis always believed were his. (He disagreed with the veterinary opinion that he had been neutered). He also enjoyed surprising his servants, when they went out to buy his groceries, by greeting them outside the door on their return. This gesture says a great deal about his egalitarian beliefs, in an age when many servants are seen as mere providers of food.
Before long Brindis had moved back to Earls Court, where he and his servants lived in a top floor flat for two years. He called it "The Feline Observatory" and, weather permitting, pursued astronomy from the rooftop. He also enjoyed listening to his servants' conversations and discussions about art, science and politics. "I was 15 then, and my servants' visitors were all older than I." he later recalled. "But the wisdom accumulated in that time by an average cat like myself is greater than a human of 25, or indeed 75 can even hope for. In short, I found their debates rather immature and kitten-like, but I think they benefitted from my contributions. I made a number of good human friends, too." In spite of these misgivings, Brindis was always impeccably well-mannered. He kept himself perfectly clean, listened politely without interrupting and stood up when anyone came into the flat. It was heartbreaking to see him, recently, trying to stand when our humans came home and falling over, but it also showed his determination and courage in the face of a progressive disability.
At the age of 17, Brindis moved to a basement flat close to his old home, where he was put back in touch with street life, which he had missed in his last abode. He felt that he had become too esoteric and once again needed contact with the strays who inspired him so much. He would make forays around the squares and talk at length to underprivileged cats. "Those without servants, those who are forced to work to stay alive, give me tremendous hope. Their thoughts are often far more lucid than those of pure, inbred pedigrees who rely on humans." Brindis would often take up the cause of a victim of injustice, championing the case of a French cat who had been extradited and forced to abandon her 1-week old kittens. Brindis lived without his servants for three days and nights whilst he found foster parents for the kittens. Very soon after this episode, he heard that one of his servants, Silvia, was herself expecting a human kitten. (THIS IS CALLED A "CHILD". PAOLO, I KNOW YOU ARE GRIEVING BUT BRINDIS WOULD NOT WANT SUCH CARELESS USE OF LANGUAGE - EDITOR).
As the Feline Observer often reports, many cats do not take kindly to their servants' kittens ("CHILDREN" - EDITOR). Even the most tolerant of cats can be cruel to a human kitten, and some have even been known to replace their entire staff after discovering that a servant has given birth. Brindis not only allowed his servants to have a litter ("BABY" - EDITOR), but kept Silvia company whilst his other servant Alastair was at work. "I shall always remember how he stayed with me during the long hours, whilst I was waiting for Marlene", Silvia told me. When a human kitten is born, humans instinctively make a soft, warm basket ("COT" - EDITOR) into which the new arrival is dropped ("LOWERED" - EDITOR). It is a sign of Brindis' sensitivity that he never believed that his servants' only purpose was to wait on him, and understood that the basket was for the kitten, not for his own comfort. He was always gentle to the kitten, even as it learnt to crawl and then to walk, and when it behaved roughly he simply jumped to a higher surface, even up to the top of a door (somewhere I, Paolo, would never venture). "The child kept me in good shape", he once told me. "Had I not been obliged to jump so high, I would certainly not be doing it in my twenties."
At the age of 20, Brindis sailed to Amsterdam, together with his servants and the kitten. He recalled how he was not allowed on the ship's deck, being deprived of his servants and forced to wait in a dark van for some hours. He was incensed and, through the medium of his servants, became an activist. "Cats have a long tradition of seafaring without let or hindrance", he dictated to Alastair, for a letter to the Home Secretary. "Under today's regulations, my ancestors would not have reached London in the 9th century. Bureaucratic restrictions on travel are not only a nightmare of red-tape, but present a grave threat to this ancient freedom." His campaign was effective and, shortly after, the first cats were able to travel with their entourage of servants overseas. After this campaign, Brindis settled into life in Amsterdam, which he found less rushed, and had time to renew his interest in sculpture, often posing on a glass table or symmetrically bridging himself between two identical chairs, whilst making "mind-sculptures". He would relax by watching boats sailing past the window. He also enjoyed travelling on his servant's bicycle, which most other cats (even I) would find quite terrifying!
It was in Amsterdam too that I met Brindis. As a cat from an underprivileged background ("STRAY" - EDITOR), I had not developed my natural talents, but Brindis taught me how to write and dictate to humans, and introduced me to the Feline Observer. Without his guidance I would not be writing this now, and I hope that I shall continue to publish Brindis' teachings in this splendid organ, including the often contentious issues that he brought to public notice. Brindis never shied away from controversy, criticising "the vulgar hype of the obsequious Whiskas Cat", encouraging female cats to fight aggressive toms, and once suggesting to me that I should publish an editorial in the Feline Observer, "In Defence of Dogs", after which I was hounded (NO PUNS PLEASE - EDITOR) by the tabloid press. When I heard about Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit's sensational story in the Scum, of how her husband had been eaten by a dog, and how she would send a pack of hounds to my house to see how friendly they would be to me, I panicked. But Brindis just stuck his tongue out and told me that Mrs. Twitchit only lived in a storybook. He was a strong character, who could not be easily tricked.
We moved to London last year, where Brindis remained very active until his last illness. The week we arrived he left our new flat and walked to the end of the street, along the window ledges at first floor level, then jumped into another flat, where he found an unwanted piece of fillet steak. The purpose of all this, Brindis said, was to show me that one should not rely on one's servants too heavily, and that it was good manners to give them the occasional holiday from their duties. He sometimes applied this philosophy at mealtimes, often springing up to his servants' table and taking food himself, rather than ordering them to get up and put it in his bowl. Brindis considered his humans - and me - to be his family, and it is for this that I will remember him.
by Paolo
Brindis Calderwood, born 1st July, 1980, died last week on Wednesday, 30th June, 2004.
