Critters
I think I recollect my mother saying that her parents' household had pets of some kind when she was a girl, but I don't remember any details and can't be certain that they did. I know my father had a dog because there are ancient photographs of his pet and its kennel at the house in Howbrook. It makes more sense for Dad's family to have kept pets of whatever kind, as they had a home with plenty of space and were surrounded by countryside. My mother, being one of seven children with an increasingly blind mother and quite cramped living conditions in a terrace, lacked the appropriate environment, really. Dad's family also kept chickens, geese, and even a pig or two. There may well have been cats around: certainly, a mouser would have been an advantage.
There's another picture of him with the dog in a familiar-to-all pose of amiable companionship, both sat on the ground with Dad's arm around the dog's shoulder. It's a little odd to see that as—though he was ever a kind man and appreciated the behaviour and individuality of characterful animals (cats in particular)—a later fastidiousness in his nature meant that he rarely interacted with our own pets beyond occasionally talking to them. In fact, a concern over health and hygiene in light of later having infant children spelled doom for the family pet of the time: a fluffy cat (judging from photographic evidence) called Rupert.
Rupert had been given to my mother by her youngest sister in an effort to help cheer her up, so it may have been after her first child was stillborn. A chocolate box tied with a ribbon had been handed to Mum and, to her surprise, the lid seemed quite active. The bow undone, Rupert's kittenish head thrust its way into the light. He charmed both my parents, and naturally claimed a personal space in front of the kitchen stove where he was photographed. But he had the misfortune, some time later, to fall sick. With my brother increasingly active and curious as a toddler, Mum being unwell with post-natal depression, and I as a new-born, Dad wasn't prepared to jeopardise his children's health, so Rupert had a one-way trip to the vet. I don't know why he didn't find the cat another home (perhaps he tried), but clearly, as a working father, Dad had much on his mind at the time.
Rupert had a predecessor before my parents had any children. I don't know the cat's name but there is a photo of him in the archive: a lean and long-legged black-and-white male (judging by the build). Curiously, the dark markings on his head and face (resembling a dark sweep above one eye and a smudge about his nose) and a stern countenance gave him the appearance of a feline Hitler.
With poor old Rupe gone before I had any real consciousness, it was animals kept by other relatives that were my introduction to intra-species amity. Caged budgerigars were a popular pet with older people at the time, and both grandparental homes kept one. My maternal grandmother had a blue bird of that species while my paternal grandparents had a green bird called Toby. I'm unsure of the pleasure to be derived from birds as pets. They don't have anything like the emotional relatability that even smaller mammals have, and caging birds seems a very unkind thing to me now, even though neither of the aforementioned showed signs of stress. Indeed, both seemed quite contented.
My maternal grandmother had no other pets but, in my earliest days, my paternal grandparents at Howbrook also had two dogs: a Scottish Terrier named Judy and a larger mongrel with dominant Border Collie genes called Belle. Belle was a stout, good-natured creature and, being extremely small ourselves, we rode on her back as on a pony. Judy was less predictable and had been fortunate to escape the extreme penalty of the law after having bitten a tradesman visiting the house, either in her excitement or in mischief. The remaining member of the menagerie at that time was a really quite old, white, female cat—blind, solitary of nature but not unfriendly—called Snowball. As Belle seemed most inclined to interaction, it was she who was given greatest affectionate attention by my brother and me.
Meanwhile, back at home, a stray black cat arrived, identifying—a feline facility you're clearly aware of—a sympathetic household when she saw one. Well, not quite. Dad was by then disinclined to have pets. After hopefully hanging about for a few days, the cat was loaded into the car and taken a few miles into the country, to be released at a farm (such institutions being plentiful in those days): a potentially beneficial arrangement to both cat and farmer. A few days later, she was back. She'd found the family she liked and wasn't going to be put off. It has to be said, her intelligence, persistence and good nature made a positive impression on Dad, if not quite enough of one for him to let her stay with us. Dad and the cat settled on a compromise that suited us all: she was taken to Howbrook to join the menagerie and settled in instantly.
Liquorice was the most affectionate and intelligent cat I have known, and she greatly enjoyed the company of people. We made a great fuss of her, and she took as much of it as we could give. She was a fine mouser and would wake my grandfather's brother in the night to show him her catch, gently pawing his face as he lay asleep in bed. Clever and courageous, she made a daring robbery from a travelling fishmonger engaged in conversation with my grandmother and was seen bounding down the lane trailing a large salmon between her legs.
Unspayed, she obviously gave her affection to felines as well as people. She had many kittens that usually went on to live semi-wildly in the vicinity. They fared well, and those that wanted to make my grandparents' house their home were welcome to do so. Some remained, happy to accept the daily rations but never entering in the house. Most chose independence, or perhaps another home in one of the local farms, and only the minority—even of those remaining—sought society with human beings.
On one occasion, she had her kittens having selected a cupboard in my grandmother's antique sideboard as nest and where she was allowed to stay until she was prepared to move. Most often, though, Liquorice gave birth in the garage where my grandmother made her a cosy nest and where the cat was a proud mother when we visited her to admire her kittens. She was a most beautiful and beloved cat and had a long, happy life. She was found dead, from old age and perhaps cold, one winter's day, having voluntarily spent the night outside.
At various times after Liquorice's arrival, my grandparents' other pets died, either from old age or ailment. The two dogs were succeeded by another Border Collie(ish) dog, named Suzy. She arrived as a young adult dog from a previous owner who had not treated her well and she was therefore nervy and not entirely to be trusted in her reactions. In fact, she bit me—though it was my own fault. We had been warned not to approach her when there was food put down for her and I deliberately did so. I therefore got what I deserved but I was far more hurt by shame and heartbreak when the dog was punished for it. She was otherwise kindly treated through the rest of her life and her early emotional lability overcome.
Liquorice and Suzy had only an uneasy peace but grew to tolerate one another. I feel mean about it now, but we more liberally gave our affection to the cat (we were more cat-orientated as a family), and I don't think Suzy had the directly applied affection she deserved. We enjoyed taking her for walks and played games of catch and fetch with her on such occasions, and we certainly didn't treat her unkindly, but she wasn't the object of devotion that the cat was.
At heart Suzy was (as many dogs are) a sensitive and sympathetic creature. We often spent a Friday evening with my grandmother. We naturally continued these visits after my grandfather died, but that was an unhappy time. Obviously grieving, I was simultaneously in the throes of an adolescence that also made me unhappy. On those Friday nights I would retire to the 'back room' to sit in silence, alone with Suzy, who would come and place her head in my lap. After my grandmother died, some years later, Suzy was a very old dog in poor health. We might have kept her—I don't know how happy she might have been—but Dad wouldn't, and no-one else was likely to take on an old and ailing dog so she was put to sleep. Dad was a kind man, but I find this decision harder to understand than his dispatch of Rupert those years earlier.
At some point previously, Dad relented and we kept our own pets at home. His car pulled into the drive one summer afternoon after he had been to Howbrook. Unexpectedly, my grandfather was sat in the front passenger seat—but he was not to be the pet. On leaving the car, he held a red-and-black checked leather shopping bag, clearly bearing something heavy. We were invited over and the top of the bag, held closed, was slightly opened to reveal the glowing green eyes of a young white cat. The victim of this surprise kidnap was eventually named Fella and was the grandson of Liquorice. In fact, he was the photographic negative of her: as she was completely black with very few white hairs on her chest, he was entirely white with very few black hairs similarly situated.
Semi-feral (and un-neutered), he never became totally domesticated in nature, but he wasn't unfriendly or unaffectionate, and he quickly learned which side his bread was buttered. He was lousy when he arrived, a consequence of the wild side of his earlier existence: a problem not overcome with chemicals but with the patient manual elimination of his tiny tormentors. This was undertaken by me and my brother but, most especially, my mother as the cat lay in one lap or another, luxuriating in the grooming. Soon, he was pest free, though no doubt his greatest joy in his new surroundings was the accompanying diet. I don't know why, but my mother decided that he would be fed on liver from the butcher's. As she prepared his evening meal in the scullery, Fella often would be overcome by his excitement and anticipation, climbing onto Mum's shoulders. With such a treat to look forward to, he would happily follow the enamel dish, carried by Mum, through to the wooden stable at the back of Dad's shed realm, where Dad had prepared two convenient facilities for him: a canopied, deep-sided, straw-filled, wooden box for a bed, and a sheltered, draught-free viewing platform by the window with the dead trunk of an apple tree with which to gain access. He also had an ash box for more fundamental needs.
At the time, my parents' garden was at its full extent so, after he had comfortably settled into his indoor circumstances, he had a large domain to explore (though he must have undoubtedly ranged farther, as all cats would). On an idle summer day during school holidays a year-or-two later, I followed him on his patrol. It became apparent as he made his progress that he felt this was an intrusion and he began to grumble. Naively, I spoke softly to him in an attempt to be friendly and calming. He had none of it and flew at my arm, grabbing me with the claws of his front paws, biting me with some intent and kicking into me with the claws of his hind legs. Wildly shaking my arm didn't remove him until he was ready to let go. No, he was never quite fully domesticated!
His nature and earlier background made him susceptible to ailment and injury and the evidence of his fighting was frequently seen. Why my parents failed to have him neutered I cannot say. It would have improved both his temperament and circumstances but, while he was quite the delinquent, he was loved. He died a casualty of his insufficient attention crossing the road.
Fella's successor arrived as a stray (or so we thought). He was a larger, neutered cat, as big as a week and temperamentally as soft as a brush. He had large, sharply triangular ears and was mainly black with white socks and bib. Being black and white, we named him Whisky, as a well-known brand of scotch was 'Black & White'. Whisky was affectionate, curious and clever, and enjoyed the society of people: unlike Fella, Whisky seemed pleased if you came upon his cosy hideaways in the garden and was happy to keep company in those circumstances.
He was a keen scaler of trees, and he was too fond of wandering, being incautious of traffic. After one accident, his tail was broken and forever afterwards its tip trailed the floor. Eventually, a similar incident was his doom, and we had to reclaim his remains from the A61 to be buried in our garden.
He was a big, bonny lad and we discovered after he died that he wasn't so much a stray as a cat that kept two homes. He shared our lives and home for a number of years and yet we never knew in that time that we shared him with another household (who also thought they held the monopoly!).
In my later teen years we were adopted by another(?) stray. She, too, was largely black with white markings: a patch on her chest. She ensured her acceptance by gaining the approval and admiration of my father. Working on his car, he was laid on his back, his arms and head underneath the vehicle. The cat walked to where he lay and made itself comfortable on his chest as he worked. Job done. She was an affectionate and playful cat but could be cantankerous (though never aggressive). When she first arrived, but before she was fully adopted, we were unsure of her gender. She was encouraged by our feeding her and, as she was not afraid of pursuing second helpings, she was named Oliver, after Dickens' workhouse boy. This was inevitably shortened to Ollie, which stuck even after we discovered her feminine nature. During her time with us I left for art school, but she never forgot me. She became particularly fond of my brother and, when he arrived home from work in an evening, she would trot to meet him at the gate, having recognised his footsteps. My mother was particularly fond of Ollie, and she was very upset when she discovered a growth in the cat's mouth which was evidently causing her pain. It was, both unhappily and predictably, cancer. In the end it was considered kinder to Ollie to have her put to sleep, there being no realistic alternative.
As with our other cats, Ollie was permitted a hierarchy of domestic access. Cats had a free pass in the scullery and kitchen but were not allowed in the pantry. All were allowed elevated access on a side table in front of the kitchen window (often piled with comfy newspapers), from where they could watch the bird tables and the garden through the glass, but they were not permitted on the central kitchen/dining table, nor the worktops along the longest wall of the room. Sitting on the exterior sill of a small window above the worktops was a tactic all our cats used to indicate that they wanted to be let into the house. A high-sided cardboard box, inlaid with a blanket, was placed next to the kitchen range as a place for a cat to luxuriate in its heat. They all sat under the kitchen table to cool off or for privacy. After I had moved to London, I visited 'home' for a weekend, taking a small soft toy of a cat that my wife (then girlfriend) had given to me. As Ollie half napped in her box, I attracted her attention while sliding the toy upwards into view above the edge of the box. She was momentarily thrown and hissed at the interloper, then realised its faux nature and looked at me in a way that unmistakably said "you stupid sod".
Deeper access into the sitting room/lounge, was permissible only (or mostly, depending on the trustworthiness of any particular cat) with human supervision. The cats favoured the hearthrug immediately in front of what was originally a coal fire. Cats were allowed on the lap of any agreeable human, but otherwise not on the upholstered furniture. Naturally they were often confused by this, finding it difficult to differentiate between joint occupation with a human and solitary occupation, the first approved the second not-so-much.
Deepest access, to the inner sanctum of the bedrooms upstairs, was—officially—never granted to cats… But cats is cats and soft hearts is soft hearts. Ollie would accompany my mother on her domestic rounds and so tagged along when she went upstairs. Ollie would also sneak upstairs on her own (as any self-respecting curious cat might), often to hide beneath my brother's duvet. When her absence downstairs indicated her bold flouting of the rules, my bro would go in search, asking out loud where she might be. By the time he entered his room, and having heard his approach, she would have given away her location by dint of loud purring from beneath the quilt.
Whisky seemed equally pleased when he was discovered in his hiding place in a curtained space under the staircase, off a passage connecting kitchen and scullery. Conversationally addressing him from the other side of the curtain, without any physical disturbance, elicited his purring from within. The same space had been favoured by Fella, too, though his occupation often occurred on the day the bins were emptied, the sound of the progress and operation of garbage trucks, I suspect, being an initial cause of fright.
Actually, despite the curiosity and independent nature of cats, they all were fairly good at maintaining the (obviously!) unspoken rules. Mostly, they went where they were allowed to go and had no particular interest in occupying places where it was preferred they didn't go. Their knowledge of the existence of the bedrooms upstairs and their restricted access to them naturally excited their curiosity and their playful sense of mischief, however, and they took any and all opportunity they could to investigate (but they took it in reasonably good humour if they were prevented, or arrested in flagrante, and returned to unrestricted space). Needless to say, humans, being the inconsistent creatures they are, sometimes aided and abetted the cats in their explorations.
There have since those days been unadopted visitors, some of which were delightfully friendly cats. They may or may not have had other homes, but there was no inclination in the old homestead to take on another pet after Ollie. She'd been too loved.
Except...
My brother has now a recent adoptee he has named Pip, who is more insistent and less respectful of house rules. Where other cats would learn to keep off counters and dining tables in the kitchen, Pip is determined to go anywhere she pleases, and strongly dislikes being thwarted (a significant indicator of her displeasure is the heat radiated from her head when frustrated!). She came as a stray, starving and raiding the scraps from the bird tables. We suspected a recent life of misfortune as she was not initially trusting and showed some signs of minor injury. Kindness and food mellowed her disposition to a degree, and it seemed that she had found a new home.
My brother became concerned about her jaw after watching her eat and had a vet examine her for injury. The vet found none but did discover that the cat was "chipped" and that she was registered in the practice by her former owner: my brother braced himself for the loss of his newfound friend. In the event, Pip had been loose for many months, the previous owner's circumstances had since changed, and she could no longer keep a cat, so my bro's adoption of Pip became formal.
She is not so affectionate as any of her predecessors and does not respond at all well to being frustrated, but she and my brother have arrived at a companionable accommodation. If he is working in the garden she will come to sit nearby, though she doesn't seek closer contact at those times. She accepts a certain amount of petting when they meet in the morning, prior to his feeding her, but is otherwise uninterested in a fuss. She wants little to do with me when I visit, so I let her be. Cats know who they like, who they dislike and who they don't care about, and I fit squarely in the third category for Pip!
I've avoided keeping a cat, myself, since my life in Yorkshire. Losing a pet I found too sad an experience to repeat and, anyway, our homes have not been situated in places where I've felt the environment suitable for their safety. It's something I continue to think about, though, whenever I fuss any friendly cat I meet when I'm out and about.
This is a cat that used to live next door to us. Her owners called her Splodge due to the dark mark on her nose. I didn't care for the name but, after all, she wasn't my cat. For some reason, she became very attached to me and I was tempted to catnap her when the neighbours moved away. In the days when I used to garden, she was a constant companion and followed me back and forth to the shed. When my wife came to sit by me on a garden bench, on one occasion, the cat jealously jumped up to insert herself between us. Splodge and I met when her mother, a small black creature with an unfriendly temperament, brought her kittens into our garden. Maternal hormones being what they are, the black cat briefly became quite chummy and proudly showed her brood as she nursed them in the sunshine. This one took a shine to me, and I to her.
This is my brother's adopted stray enjoying the sun.
Here's Pip in less informal pose.
And here she is making the most of what had been my mother's chair but is now most assuredly hers.