Cats – you either love them or you hate them, a bit like marmite. Some of them are sweet-natured gentle souls who wouldn’t even hurt a fly, and some of them seem to be just plain evil, ready to shred apart anything, human or non-human, that gets too close to their personal space.
I’ve been working in the cattery of a rescue centre for about 18 months, and I’ve certainly experienced every kind of cat. You learn very quickly which cats are safe to touch, which ones have good days and very, very bad days, and which ones that have no desire to learn how to behave suitably at all. Each cat at the rescue, I have found, have their own characters, and I wanted to share with you a few of my favourites, some of which are no longer at the rescue.
When I first started, the first cat I met was an elderly black and white cat with the most marvellous moustache. He wasn’t in the slightest your standard affectionate puss who was determined to shower you in hair and purrs, or a cat that didn’t get the memo that he wasn’t a tiger. His name was Xabi and although he loved a tickle under the chin, he didn’t attempt to crawl all over you. I thought he was a lovely cat, with a very placid nature. I sometimes went into his pen just to sit and chat to him for a bit, he seemed to appreciate the company even though he didn’t like too much fuss. I was sad to see him go, but glad that he’d got a nice quite home in which to live his retirement as he pleased. But that first pen was never quite the same without him hiding under the door.
My second favourite cat was a terror called Karl. I loved the bones off him, he was a tuxedo kitty, and hadn’t quite grown out of the naughty kitten stage despite being 18 months old. He would launch himself out of his pen when you opened the door, resulting in you running up and down the cattery after him for about 10 minutes trying to catch him. He never meant to cause harm, but he didn’t quite understand that his claws were very sharp, so would thrash about on a shelf clinging to your skin and playing very roughly. Eventually he started to calm down and be more approachable, rather enjoying a good fuss (though if you stroked him for too long he would resume his hyperactive self). He, too, scooped himself a home, leaving the other cats in his pen breathing a sigh of relief and the rescue staff shedding tears equal parts happiness and disappointment that their favourite clown was leaving them.
Afterwards came Marmalade, a big, soft ginger tom with a heart of pure gold. He was was FIV positive so had to be an indoor only cat in his new home, so it took a long time for him to find someone willing to take him on. He was such a placid and pleasant cat, with a huge appetite, both for food and cuddles. If you sat on a chair in his pen he would hop on to your knee and sit himself down, purring like a ferrari while you stroked him. For a long time, I tried to persuade my dad to let me have him, but my dad is very against cats and wouldn’t, sob. I now have my own place but annoyingly it’s a pet-free rent. So I’m still waiting for that puur-fect property.
Roxy was a tortured soul, an all-black cat with an attitude to match, but she sort of grew on me. She had been in the rescue for 6 years, due to her anti-social behaviour – every time a human entered her pen she would eye you up suspiciously, then should you bend down to pick up litter trays to empty them, she would swipe your butt, with not a moments warning. Despite this she seemed to be gentle, when offered a piece of chicken she took it carefully between her teeth so as not to rip your fingers off by mistake (I’m looking at you, Karl, Dutch and Dillon!). She lived in a pen with another cat called Poppy and the pair of them did not get on much at all. Eventually when there was shortage of cats Poppy was moved and Roxy had an entire pen to herself. Staff thought she might relax a bit more but she didn’t, still being an angry little panther. Some kind soul took pity on her though, and to everyone’s surprise, Roxy was adopted months before Poppy, who had seemed the friendlier and more approachable cat of the two.
At the moment, my favourite is another long-term resident called Saffy. During my first 6 months at the rescue I was a little afraid of her, because she had screeched at me and tried to rip my hands off after I tutted at her. But over time, she grew a soft spot for me and I her. She will hop off her seat whenever I enter her pen, and rub herself lovingly on my legs while I try to clean up, something that still takes me by surprise even today. I feel a connection with her in that I have built up trust with her, she knows I’m not out to annoy her and knows I’ll bring her food and she loves it. She is the most loving cat out of all the other cats she shares a pen with – Chloe the tortie who has a give or take attitude to life, Roohbarb the tabby tortie who tends to keep herself to herself, Mash the partially deaf white cat who attacks my feet every time I climb through the door because she hasn’t heard me coming (this I sympathise with, if it was socially acceptable for deaf humans to do that I would), and Bella the tortie who can be friendly but only on her terms. Saffy makes me feel as though she has accepted me into her clan and is the cat I’d most like to take home at present, just because she is so quiet and humble (unless you annoy her, of course).
I’m also fond of a black and white puss called Alana, who immediately charges over, annoying every other cat as she leaps on top of them in her excitement to hang out with a human. She’ll leap on to your knees, pad about for quite some time, and should you dare stop stroking her for a moment she will butt you in the face. She never fails to make me laugh but I worry one day she’ll get herself into trouble with other cats if she doesn’t stop using them as jumping platforms…
FInally, there was three cats called Smokie, Missy and Baby. Baby was the daughter of the other two, and they were looking for a home together as they were all so bonded. Smokie eventually went to a home on his own, as it was proving to be an impossible task to expect someone to take on all three, but Missy and Baby were some of the loveliest cats I’ve met. Missy would sit on your knee and lick your hands, face, any bit of skin you had exposed, just to nurse you and make sure you were okay. It was like having a cat version of my brother’s Labrador, Ishka, sitting on your lap. Baby was quiet, but sweet-ntatured, and loved a good tickle. I was sad to see them go.
I love talking about the cats at the rescue, so will write some more posts about them soon, perhaps even including some pictures when I find them!
The Magical World of Being Deaf 