My kimono sewing story wouldn’t be complete unless I told you about my two cats. I live in what, by Spanish standards, is a fairly big old house. It has an interior courtyard and a roof terrace. And you’d think cats would find more interesting adventures than ‘helping’ me sew. But from the very first yukata, from the moment I took the washed fabric off the drying line and started to iron it, the cats had to be with me. I have an eerie feeling they can sense my focus – the way I get pleasingly lost in the process – and are drawn to the vacancy of it. Maybe some ancient part of their instincts knows I’d be easy prey to their predator? Maybe it’s the rustle of the fabric, the hiss of the steam iron, the hypnotic churn of the sewing machine?
I admit, at first it really annoyed me. Dora especially HAS to sprawl on whatever I’m trying to cut or mark or sew by machine. And the moment I sit down on the couch to hand stitch anything, Jacques (who is normally no lap cat) HAS to be on the part of whatever garment is not being directly stitched at the time.
The earth-toned tabby is called Jacques. Yes, I am aware that’s a French man’s name, but she’s female. She was born in a cardboard box in District 4, in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, and was delivered to me covered in ringworm.
The ringworm was so bad, even the systemic medication wouldn’t kick it without damaging her liver. So, on the advice of an incredibly pragmatic Vietnamese livestock vet, we resorted to tried and true methods: we shaved off all her fur and sponged her thoroughly with a diluted mixture of sulphur and lime – basically sheep dip – just once, and the fungus was gone within the week. While that might sound harrowing, and it was hellishly smelly, it’s a lot better than damaging a kitten’s organs with powerful drugs. And, as you can see, she didn’t hold it against me.
A year later, I had to move to Málaga, Spain, leaving my husband and Jacques behind in Vietnam, to take care of my mother who had developed dementia. It was so damn lonely. I pined – physically jonesed – to be with a cat. And right on cue, the landlady of the apartment I’d rented called me up and asked me if I wanted a kitten. She had found a litter of them abandoned in her barn. That’s where I got Dora.
While Jacques was born in an alley in Saigon, and hunted giant rats on our street for sport, Dora had a much more peaceful start in life, and it shows in her character still. Unlike Jacques, who is very wary of strangers, Dora was born to befriend anyone and anything. She’s the world’s sluttiest cat. I caught her trying to cuddle up to the plumber who’d come to fix our shower drain 5 minutes after he arrived. She’s amazingly affectionate, and wants to be wherever I am.
About six months after I arrived in Spain, my husband and I decided we would settle here, and he hand-carried Jacques, via Business Class on Turkish airways all the way from Vietnam to Spain. We were initially a bit worried about how the two cats would get along together, but since we had bought a house and would move both cats in at the same time, so neither of them had prior claim on the territory, it worked out remarkably well. They adore each other.
So, these days, Dora is my machine-sewing cat. She’ll pop herself on whatever it is I’m trying to put through the machine. Jacques is my hand-stitching cat, who feels the need to warm up whatever it is I’m basting in the moment.
Every garment I make has a little of them in it. Either fur or drool. They are part of the process, they stop sewing from being a solitary endeavour for me, and nothing I make would be nearly as nice without them.