A Month in Cats

Three cats in our home in the last four weeks.

A photo of me at the Bradford Cat Sanctuary, laughing with one of their permanent residents, a very fluffy black cat called Salsa, sitting on my shoulder and leaning into my neck.

I love cats.

We had two cats after our first dog, Jethro, died when I was growing up — mine was a tubby black-and-white darling we called Blackjack, and my sister’s was a thinner white sweetheart called Kitty, who unfortunately had a case of chronic anxiety where Blackjack had what we might call chronic overconfidence. My grandparents in Greece always kept through the years cats, generally named after cartoon characters — Wellington, Top Cat, Bagpuss, Pilchard, Kipper, Olive Oyl, Kaluki — and apart from those, I was well-familiar with local cats in the cafés and along the beach, like Souvlaki, a very patient and exceedingly muscular tuxedo tomcat.

As a child fishing in Greece, local cats would often follow me around because they knew I would feed them small shrimps and fish I’d caught in the bay; when I wandered the nearby olive grove to my grandparents’ home on the mountain, T.C. would accompany me and generally supervise my activities, including nipping at my calves and herding me back toward the house if she felt I was wandering too far from home. I generally know neighbour cats in different areas I’ve lived in, have been and will ever be a loving and generous uncle to friends’ cats, and am known to wander off or stop midway through a walk because I have spotted a cat and desire to…