My first cat was a fluffy, handsome ginger tom who went by the rather splendid name of Samson. My abiding memory is of him sitting resplendent in a basket with a royal blue silk cushion. With his bright orange, kitten fluff, he looked like an illustration for ‘Little Lord Fauntleroy or a similar Victorian novel. But Samson was no ball of innocent fluff. At the age of six, I was very upset when he started bringing me thoughtful gifts of bits of mice and birds. These were usually put at the bottom of my bed as a morning surprise. My father had warned me of this. At least he was kind enough not to say, ‘I told you so!’ He couldn’t resist suggesting he should be re-named, Orion. As we had stables at the bottom of the garden, Samsom proved his worth by catching or scaring off the rats which were inevitably attracted to the oats and bran kept for the horses. He lived to be an elderly gentleman of seventeen and I’ll always remember him as the first in a long line of cats.

Fluffy orange ball

splendid on your cushion of blue

still hunting somewhere

Our vet bred Burmese cats and introduced us to these wonderfully intelligent animals. The first of many was Monica, a delicious dark chocolate with even darker points. Her eyes were a light amber in the sunlight and a mysterious, striking dark amber at night. At the time we had four Basset hounds and a French bulldog, not counting over thirty horses and countless chicken, ducks, geese and turkeys. Even as a small kitten, Monica took it all in her stride. She ignored the rowdy, rumbustious canines in the day and condescendingly slept on top of them at night. She went a short distance with the dogs on their daily walk, then waited in the hedge for their return. She would leap out of her hiding place and prance around them as they walked back up the lane. Of all the many animals we had, the Burmese cats were by far the most intelligent.

Sleek chocolate fur

truly loyal companion

unforgettable

One weekend on the way home from university, I passed a pet shop. At that time kittens and puppies were sold in such places. I think this is now illegal, without a license, to trade in live animals. Outside, in a large cage was one tiny, tortoise shell kitten. She looked forlorn and abandoned, huddled in one corner. I walked on to the underground station in the district of North London where I lived during term time. I couldn’t forget that tiny, sad kitten. I turned and walked back to the shop. I came out with her snuggled in the deep pocket of my duffle coat. Walking back to the tube station, I remembered I had to travel over London, take a train, a bus and walk a couple of miles to reach my home in Surrey. Every so often, I took the kitten out of my pocket to give her a breath of fresh hour. She survived and was soon sleeping on my younger sister’s lap. When the time came to return to London, my mother said, ‘You can’t keep her in one room. Leave her here. She’ll soon get used to our menagerie and enjoy all the outside space.’ In truth I had been hoping someone would suggest this. She was named ‘Minnie’ or ‘Min’ as she was always known. She was rather timid but soon settled in.

Sixteen years later, she died in her sleep in an old arm chair. I never regretted walking back from the station that day.

Pretty tortoise shell

huddled alone in a cage

loving and fragile

My father came back one afternoon from a visit to a friend who was the manager of a local farm. He had a cardboard box. This was always interesting because he often brought in wounded animals or birds. Seeing him with a box was always intriguing. True to form squeaking noises and scratching came from it. When he opened the lid, two small black kittens jumped out. They were jet black with white marking their heads. One mark was like a star, the other had a distinctive white collar round its neck. This was the only way to tell them apart. Both were toms. At first, they were wild and bolted under beds and wardrobes to hide. They were from generations of farm cats which were half feral. Food with most animals is a great pacifier! Bill and Ben, as my sister had named them, soon settled down. They spent most of their time hunting and stalking rodents round the stables and outbuildings. Like Samson, they were skilful hunters. In summer they were outside most of the time. When the weather turned cold, they would sleep in the kitchen. We always referred to them collectively as ‘Bill ‘en Ben’. Not surprisingly, they died within a few days of each other. My father thought they were about sixteen.

Bill and Ben dark twins

blood brothers— fearful hunters

free wild forces of nature

My daughters are great cat lovers. One of them has three cats who have a rambling old house and a large garden with a churchyard next door to explore. Recently she was given a kitten by an old school friend. It is a half-breed Scottish Fold. These are cats with small ears which fold over, rather than being pricked, as in other cats. Vets and some authorities disapprove of these cats as their ears are more likely to become infected. In the case of ‘Toothie’, the litter was not deliberately bred. Only two of the kittens had these ‘folded’ ears. He is black with no markings at all. Whether because of his ears or not, he is the strangest cat I have ever come across, a unique character. He looks more like a monkey or gibbon than a cat. He is long in the back and lies on the floor or chair in a most extraordinary way! If you ignore him, he lies on his back across a doorway with his legs waving in the air, so you have to step over him. You certainly can’t ignore him which I suppose is the whole point. Although quite small, Toothie is top cat or monkey. The two older cats tolerate this oddity. Perhaps, they don’t accept him as a true feline? 

With strange folded ears

lying legs splayed in doorways

this odd monkey-cat