Cat Companionship

Cat Companionship

We have always loved cats - and dogs too; we had dogs when we lived abroad - but cats, with their independent nature and "attitude," hold a special place in our hearts.

Over the past ten years or more, two cats in particular have shared our lives; both strays, they materialised on different occasions in the garden, and decided to stay. We made concerted efforts to find out if they belonged to anyone in the neighbourhood, but drew a blank; the old adage of "Dogs have owners; cats have staff," has been proved time and again.

Pushkin - nothing to do with Alexander Pushkin - she was named by Mum, because of her pushy nature - was semi-feral to begin with; she would come in, eat rapidly, and skedaddle out again afterwards. Ten years on, she now loves her comfort zones, and is quite the house cat. A little round barrel of a cat, she knows exactly where the warmest places in the house are. She can be found either curled up underneath the lounge radiator, or else stretched out on the bathroom floor, her body following precisely the line of the underfloor hot water pipes. Because the central heating is on so much, this area is warm nearly all the time.  We discovered she also liked playing in water, and would dip her paws in puddles left after rain, and splash about, pouncing on flying droplets. She is a tortoiseshell, with a white bib and white paws, and an exceptionally thick double coat; although it took a long time (about four years, at the last reckoning!) she will now allow herself to be picked up and stroked and brushed. She is quite aloof, and not a jumping cat in any way; I have never heard Pushkin miaow, but when she wants to be "fussed," she will come and sit at your feet, and give you "the look." We always get the message, and pick her up for a gentle stroking session. What she lacks in a voice, she more than makes up for with her high decibel purr! When she's had enough, she will suddenly jump down, and go off to one of her other favoured spots.

Blackie also seemed to come from nowhere. I got back from shopping one morning, dumped the bags in the lounge and went out on the patio and, in my usual dulcet tones, sang out, "I'm home!"  It was then I saw an enormous black cat, stretched out on the garden seat.  He was huge, and completely black; even his whiskers were black and the only bit of colour to be seen were his green eyes. He raised his head and stared at me for a moment, unblinking, before resting his head back on his paws. 

Unlike Pushkin, Blackie is definitely a cat who demands attention. He has the full range of "cat conversation," and it really is a case of, "I want to be fussed; do it NOW!" Even so, it took a long time for him to become really happy and confident with us. Because he is such a long cat, sitting with me on the sofa means his head and front paws are on my knee, whilst the rest of him overflows onto the middle seat. For months after he had adopted us, when I stroked him I could tell he was still alert and ready to be away in a moment, if he became unhappy with something. When he wanted to be off, I let him out immediately; no-one is a prisoner in this house!  Then he'd be back, and the whole cycle would start again - until one night, he was lying on my knee as usual and, even though he had settled down, I could feel his body was quite tense. I talked to him and carried on stroking him until, quite suddenly, he gave a huge sigh, and I felt him relax. It was as if he had finally accepted he had found a good home, where he could stay without fear. It has been like that ever since.

Blackie quickly settled in to the routine of house; he still does his "rounds," spending equal time with everyone, to enjoy being fussed and receive the appreciation due to him. In spite of his size, in many ways he can be quite reticent - for example, he is easily put off from eating his food, which is why Pushkin is so aptly named. She can hear the opening of a sachet of cat food at 100 paces, and if Blackie is trying to eat his dinner, in seconds Pushkin will arrive beside him, at his bowl. Although she may be small, she soon pushes Blackie out of the way; he retreats, and she eats his dinner. We now feed Blackie alone and make sure he can eat in peace, before Pushkin has her turn.

Because he is now getting on a bit - we think he must be at least 12 years old, if not more - he finds climbing up on the sofa a bit of a struggle; jumping on Mum's bed is like ascending Everest, which he cannot manage anymore, so we lift him up and place him beside her. It makes Mum so happy, having Blackie with her.

He snuggles down on her knees, and I ask: "Isn't he heavy for you?"

"Oh, no," Mum says, stroking his head. "He's fine. He's lovely and warm"

Mum just loves it when he spends time with her; as the dementia has progressed, he seems to know when to go in and bother with her, and quite often spends the night on "guard duty," stretched out by her bedroom door.

Mum in the garden with Blackie on the bench beside her (where else would he be?!)
and Pushkin, probably looking round for some more food!