Master and slave

Thursday September 13, 2007

Dolly the Mega-cat is the latest, and largest, of a small tribe of feline buddies filling a major part of my life from the early 70s until the present day. It’s been a good time, and much of that goodness has come about directly or indirectly from ‘the cats’.

The first of them, the cats, that is, happened by accident out of desperation.  At the time I was running the operations side of a small computer department in Sussex. It was a happy time, with Don Maclean singing Vincent, and with lots of us still wearing flowers in our hair.

One fateful day I walked into the data control department to find my senior clerk slumped over her desk, full of tears, and the juniors clustered around her providing support. It was the height of the processing day and trays of punched cards and tabulations (yes, it was a very old fashioned computer department) were mounting up around them in tottering heaps.

“Whatever’s the matter, J.?” I asked.

“I’ve been thrown out of my flat and the new landlord won’t let me keep my kitten!”

“No problem.  If you need a home for him, I’ll take him on for you.”

“Oh, John, I always said you were an angel!”

“Of course I’m an angel. But unless my wings are to be tarnished, do you think we could do some bought ledger and invoicing?”

And so the deed was done. The punched cards were hastily booked in and forwarded to the computer hall, tears were dried and patched up with new eye shadow and other glossy stuff and, a couple of days later, I drove from work to J.’s flat where I was gifted with a large cardboard box punched with air holes and emitting loud complaints of the feline variety. There was a carrier bag, too with bowls, toys and food.

“His name is Smidge, but you can change it if it doesn’t suit.”

His name is Smidge

It suited. Wouldn’t have been my choice, but Smidge he was and Smidge he stayed.

My flat pleased him reasonably well, giving him plenty of room and lots of window sills. A little on the cold side in the winter but otherwise comfortable enough and we started in on the getting to know you ritual straight away. I showed him his litter tray, put down some nice fresh food and water, gave him a little scritty, and left him to explore while I sat on the sofa pretending to watch the evening news.

Anyone who’s been through the same experience knows how it goes. By the end of the evening we’d played a little, snuggled some, and we seemed to be getting along fine. I made him up a nice snug bed in the warmest place in the flat, put him on it, and toddled off for my own rest.  Shortly after lights out a determined kitten jumped up onto the bottom of the bed, selected his corner, and dropped off to sleep almost immediately.

And so it went. I’d taken the following day off so’s I could keep him company and we got on like a house on fire, establishing routines and patterns to our mutual satisfaction.

Well, almost mutual.

I’d had a collection of cacti growing in pots for years and years, a right little cactus garden, they were, dating back to my RAF days. I wouldn’t say I liked them, particularly, but they were green, they were there, and I’d looked after them in flat after flat so there must have been some affection in me for them.

Smidge didn’t share it. Just so soon as he’d worked out how to get up onto the kitchen counter he encountered my cactus garden, sniffed it, got pricked on his nose for his presumption, and gave me the first demonstration of his cussing vocabulary.

And he fetched the offending cactus a great clout, howling again when he got prickled.  Didn’t stop him, though.

Over the next few weeks I came home each evening to a cross pussy cat and messy evidence of another battle. I’d examine his paws and nose carefully to be sure there were no prickles attached, and no damage done, and then I’d sweep up the mess and we’d get on with our evening. Eventually, when we’d got down to our last blade of opuntia I cast the wreckage into the trash, cleaned up the spot where my cactus garden had been, and looked at Smidge.

“There’s no need to look so smug,” I said. “I get the message. No pot plants.”

“Mrooow!”

And so it was. Master and slave, and I never could make out which I was. Smidge had no doubts at all.