ROUND THE HOUSES

There are two different kinds of stray cat.  The first is the Hunter, the feral night creature who catches mice, birds, insects, spiders ... yuck!  The second, the Gleaner, does not use up unnecessary energy or eat anything disgusting.  This cat survives by going round the houses.  You can guess which I’ve become.

There’s the old couple’s house.  It’s warm there and the cat food is premium, but when I sit on the old woman’s knee I get nagged; “Such a shame you don’t have a home of your own, dear.”

Yes, I’m sure Mother would be very disappointed in me.  If she could remember which specific kitten I was out of the fifteen litters she’s had (average of eight kittens per litter).
“You’re such a pretty cat.  I wonder why no-one wants you.”
I believe he said I was an unnecessary hazard ...
I can’t stand those comments for long.

Up the road is the journalist’s house.  Ambient temperature, a garden, no other cats and best of all he buys me tuna from Harrods.  I get the best of everything here, probably would get fat if I stayed.  I lie on his knee purring and getting attention, it’s fantastic.  Until of course it’s over.  There’s always a deadline or a story or something, which he’ll suddenly remember.  I’ll get pushed off his knee and before I know it I’m outside in the cold again thinking – What?  How?  Why?

OK then, to the artist’s pad.  She’s very good to me, quiet, composed and undemanding.  I don’t have to be a cute, fluffy cat; I can be my grumpy self.  It’s great.  The flat is warm, the cat food of decent enough quality.  I could probably live here comfortably, only I always have to leave, her landlord doesn’t allow pets and I don’t want to see her in trouble ...

Back into the cold, the humans say that this perpetual winter has got to come to an end soon.  I hope so.  What day is it?  Friday?  The journalist goes to Harrods on Fridays ...  No, it’s Wednesday.   Don’t want to end up back in the cat shelter where the crazy moggies live.  Where to go?  Where to go?

Somehow I end up back at the old house where I lived with the man.  I loved it so much there.   I got kicked out, didn’t I?  My fault, I used to lie at the top of the stairs (it was the warmest place in the house), but the man, being a Health and Safety Executive, objected to this, especially on the day of the bad accident.  I can still see him lying in the stair well now ... Thankfully the cleaners found him and called an ambulance.   There was no more food or shelter from him; it was to the Cats Home and into a small cage. The in-mates were weird, scarred cats who’d been driven mental by bad experiences.  I escaped by playing dead and soon found my way back to the old neighbourhood.

There’s no-one in the garden and the cat flap looks tempting.  I slide through as quietly as I can.  He’s not here!  Bliss, bliss, bliss!  Nothing to eat, but it’s warm, there’s so much space and it’s familiar.  This used to be my territory before it got taken away.  It was a source of pride.  Now I’m a charming, shameless scrounger, living off human kindness ...  I creep up the stairs and lie where I used to, spreading my hairs on the carpet for him to find - a reminder of the hazard that used to live with him.