Faraway cats, home cats

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In my remote location – a temporary one, I hasten to add – I find myself, as I did during my recent stint in Fenham, in frequent interaction with the local feline population. In this town cats lurk in unexpected places, and it is almost always they who are sitting there in the place I come to, looking bored or vexed, as if the wait had been long and as if it had been my fault for taking so long.

Last night there were three sitting atop a wall and one down on the pavement. As I approached the spot, one jumped down from the wall. Naturally I could do no less than bend down and stroke him. Before I knew, all four were around me. The only touchy-feely one was the one I was stroking, a tabby who purred and walked around my leg like a self-appointed spokescat for the rest. The others hovered, not looking at me but making it clear that this was our meeting.

Eventually I had to move on. But the cats would have none of it. The spokescat got between my legs with such persistence that once he got himself kicked by one of my walking steps. All four were coming with me, some in front, some alongside. This was flattering, but also worrying, all the more so as I approached an avenue with heavy traffic. How was I going to stop them crossing with me?

Fortunately I had been flattering myself. They were only keeping me company as far as their own place. The last building before the corner was some kind of workshop or disused car park. It had a metal gate, quite solid, but with a gap underneath, high enough for cats to pass. One by one my four companions went under the gate and out of sight. Quite a relief.

This calls to mind another memorable interaction I experienced with a cohort of four cats. It was on the eve of the trip to Romania for my honorary doctorate, in May 2018. For one reason or another, one night I found myself in the unusual situation of being alone for the night in the riverside enclave.

The four surviving cats – Tiger had passed away five months earlier – were no fools. they knew something was afoot. I was not aware of any of them seeing me pack a suitcase, but somehow they had caught wind of what was happening. They had more water and more prey to hunt than they could wish for, and the hunting skills of seasoned predators. But that didn’t mean they liked the prospect of being left without human company.

When, late at night, the time came for the Bouvier’s last walk – I was due to drop him at kennels in the morning, on my way to the airport – an eerie sight greeted me outside: the moon was out and the four cats were assembled, sitting in quite solemn postures, all looking at me intently. They cut four totemic figures, casting long shadows on the grass. I don’t remember them being particularly upset – they did know how to express concern when they wanted to. They seemed, how can I put it, serenely reproachful. Disappointed, even. And, not meaning to shed retrospective light from later events, I think the cats were showing me an awareness of the fragility of life. We were the closest of friends, yet there we were, about to say goodbye for an unspecified time. Cats have no watch and no calendar, and a detailed explanation from me as to everybody's imminent return would have meant little to them. For them, regardless of any wordy explanations, an unwonted absence was a threat; something that should not be happening.