Blue eyes and black coat

George still had some of the blue eyes of a kitten when I took him home. Within weeks that blue tinge had grown into a light golden colour, better suited to his little black face.The skin inside his ears was pink, and they seemed unusually large for his face. They were ears to grow into, like baby clothes bought large to allow for longer wearing. The hair of his face, and most of his body, was medium long and stood at right angles to his body, except for the short hair of his tiny black nose. Little wisps of hair stuck out of his large pink ears and single large hairs grew from his face. His whiskers were modest, as befitted an animal of his size - the only modest thing about him. He looked not so much fluffy as sort of starey haired. Not the most beautiful of kittens except in my doating eyes.
As he grew, his hair stayed the same length and started becoming tougher. The way it grew out of his body changed. It began to grow parallel, sleeking down to become shiney in sunlight. The bottom of his feet, the thick leathery skin of his paws was a bluish black. Those paws that had, like his ears, seemed too big for his tiny kitten body began to take on adult proportions. Small, soft and starey, the little kitten was to grow into a sleek elongated cat, from sweetness to strength.
The poet Robert Southey lamented the end of kittenhood. "Kitten is in the animal world what the rosebud is in the garden; the one the most beautiful of all young creatures, the other the loveliest of all opening flowers, " he wrote. "The rose loses only something in delicacy by its development, - enough to make it a serious emblem to the pensive mind; but if a cat could remember kittenhood, as we remember our youth, it were enough to break a cat’s heart, even if it had nine times nine heart strings."
To my mind, however, the chubbiness of kittenhood has nothing to the full grown beauty of an adult cat. Besides, George was fully grown in character from the start. He was always quite certain what he wanted and he was always ready to play.

A real little corker.

"He makes his wishes known," said Lou Tyack of West Oxfordshire Cats Protection. "He's a real little corker, this one." She handed the small black kitten to me who squeaked in protest. He was not frightened, merely indignant. His fur positively bristled with outrage as he realised he was being transferred to an unknown female.
George's early life had been spent with Lou Tyack in a cat chalet at the bottom of her Oxfordshire garden. Four kittens had been rescued as a wild litter and handed over to Lou - two black ones and two black and white. I had heard of them while lying on my back with my legs in table top position during a pilates class. As we drew in our muscles and indented our stomachs to get the second leg up to table top, one of my classmates turned her head in my direction and whispered: "Do you know that Lou has some kittens."
Kittens in October are rare, particularly kittens born in the wild. It's normally too late in the year for kittens to survive the winter and most female cats don't come on heat so late. Nature knows the effort of pregnancy may well be wasted. The only winter kittens are those produced by unscrupulous pedigree breeders or equally unscrupulous low life people who think they can make a few extra pence by selling kittens as Christmas presents. These wild kittens, the tiny black male and his three sisters, would probably have died that autumn. How did they arrive so late into a cold world so unfriendly to wild kittens? Perhaps their mother was as fearless and irrepressible as her son was to be, and just fancied a handsome passing tom that autumn despite it not being the right season for cats living wild.
Her four little kittens, if by some miracle they had survived in the wild, would have grown up feral. Their mother was just one of the many unknown cats who live a hidden life in the wild sheltering in damp hedges, or dusty derelict buildings or creeping into factories at night for the warmth left over from day time work. Some of them, the best survivors, are wild from birth, others are pets that have got lost, still others are pets that are thrown out by owners who no longer want them. Their lifespan is often less than two years, as they scrounge for food among the dustbins or try to keep themselves alive by hunting rabbits and rats in the wet fields. For an entire tom cat, it is a life of roaming in search of sex, caterwauling around the roof tops, or dodging the gamekeepers and their guns. For the un-neutered females it is a desperate and short life bearing litters of kittens. Near starving mothers do their best to rear their offspring but few of them survive.
The tiny black kitten and his sisters were alive thanks to Cats Protection and Lou's bottle feeding. But it was unusual to find unwanted kittens in a rescue centre that time of year and I had thought I would have to wait until Spring. I couldn't adopt an adult cat. A kitten was what I had to have, as in 2006 I was spending part of the week in London and part of it in Oxfordshire. A young kitten could be acclimatised to the car and would grow up relaxed about having two different territories. An older cat would have hated each journey. So, though there were cats more desperately needing homes, I had to have a kitten. and a young one at that.
A black kitten was my choice, because black is the least popular colour. Tabbies, gingers, tortoiseshells, blues and whites are quickly chosen out of the rescue pens regardless of their temperaments. Black and whites are not much desired but are taken eventually. In rescue centres where the public are allowed to walk by looking at the cats, they often fail to give black cats even a second glance. Friendly black cats will walk hopefully towards the passing human only to be ignored. Taking a black kitten was the least I could do, to help Cats Protection and the rescue movement in general. I also wanted a black cat because my last cat, Fat Mog, had been strong minded and black. Mog had been put to sleep with kidney disease about two or three months earlier.
A young kitten, as young as eight weeks, would grow up thinking car journeys were a normal part of life. "I can't give him to you yet," Lou had said a week earlier. "He's eight weeks old and he's eating solid food but he still likes his bottle. I don't want to wean him too early if he wants to continue on the bottle." Obviously the small black kitten, rather me or Lou, had taken charge of the the timing of his adoption.
I named him George because I knew he was valiant and irrepressible, and I hoped he would grow up to be loving and gorgeous.

Is Celia having kittens? She smells of them. Bad, bad, bad.

Celia has been coming home smelling of kittens lately. I took careful sniff the other day and thought she had been handling about four of them. This is bad. Very bad. And her hands smelled not just of kittens but high quality kitten food. (I'd like some of it myself but I normally get adult food, which is not so rich.)
What on earth has she been up to? Fondling alien kittens is not what she is there for. Is she going to bring one home, I wonder. If so I definitely don't want it. I don't want any other cats of any kind at all ever. This is my territory and intruders are not welcome. William agrees with me - for once. He says it would be a second betrayal (what can he mean?) if she brings home a kitten. He hated it last time she did. Only then I realise that he is talking of my arrival in the household in the winter of 2006. Can't he see that this is completely different.
Further daily investigative smelling suggests that the number of kittens is falling, which is encouraging. Today she came home smelling of just one single kitten - Riley. I could tell (scent reveals so much) that he was small, ticked tabby, and quite frightened. Apparently she has been trying to help socialise four feral kittens by sitting in their pen and hand feeding them or playing with them with lengths of string. Riley (he's in the picture) is actually the nicest, but because he isn't as chubby and appealing to look at as the other three he has still not found a home.
I heard her telling Ronnie that after about eight visits, Riley was able to eat from her hand while sitting in her lap. Today she came back and she had been able to pick him up. He had purred loudly and rolled over to have his tummy tickled. She says she almost cried - she was so moved. He'll probaby always be a nervous cat with strangers (unlike me) but he will be wonderful for the human he loves. She promised Ronnie, who is presenting a united front with me and William, that she is not going to bring him home. No more cats are wanted here. Me and William are not dogs. We are not social animals. We don't want a pack of kittens, nor even a single extra one.
Pity the kittens couldn't have been like me. I was socialised by Cats Protection then handled by 24 different people in my first month with Celia - the postman, the man who delivers parcels, the passing farm manager, visitors, Tracy, Paul, Steffi, and many others. As a result I like humans a lot. William who is nervous and standoffish, says that I am like the school tart - I am anybody's. He is jealous, of course.

A COMMUNICATION FROM THE HON. MISS RUBY FOO

Greetings Underlings!
We are please to communicate with you and inform of the momentous events that have overtaken one in recent days. Having been callously evicted from one's Oxford lodgings by persons who failed to heed one's lineage, we found ourselves in deeply distressing circumstances.
We feel it appropriate to drawl a veil of discretion over this period of our existence, but suffice it to say it involved a thankfully brief encounter with local male of the low, working class variety. We consider this momentary association to be of a painful memory, as were its consequences. We consider it would be wiser for all concerned if one "moved on", as the contemporary term would have it.
Followng the "incident", one was graciously aided by the kindly offices of a human from an admirable organisation the purpose of which is the rescue of members of my species who have fallen upon hard and distressing times.
Following a period of recuperation in comfortable quarters, one allowed oneself to be transported to a new place of residence set in the heart of the Oxfordshire Cotswolds. If one is to voice a small criticism of this journey it is in regard to the condition of the conveyance used. We found it a battered and aged mechanial brougham, one that had clearly seen better days. Those of one's background are more used to transportation of a more stately nature. However, we will let it pass.
The new place of residence proved both comfortable and one's new servants, a Mr and Mrs Callan (married couples are always so much better, don't you think?), are amiable and kindly. Mrs Callan, in particular, is affectionate and gentle of touch. Mr Callan is similar, although one wishes he would desist from making what he, doubtless, considers is a Siamese cat call. But that is a small matter
We also greatly commend the food offered in the new abode. This included a choice of gourmet meals and, on several occasions, carefully sliced breast of chicken. We were greatly encouraged by such kind treatment and felt that, following our aforementioned unpleasantaries, would prove a residence worthy of our presence.
The only drawback to this residence is that there is clear evidence of other, and lesser, members of my species. Further investigation has revealed that one, is known locally as "Gorgeous George". He is, one cannot be fail to observe, a bit of a thug who boasts of his violence to other species and is a self confessed drug user - sniffing not injecting, he claims. We could not help but feel certain qualms about the possibilities of fights, corpses in the shrubbery, the thumping sound of rap music, noisy, late night parties, and the wafting smell of catnip.
His companion, however, seems to be a friendly tabby and white gentleman known as William. He is what one believes in popularly known as an "old buffer" with white whiskers, of the kind to be seen snoozing in the afternoons at the Cat Traveller's Club. One shall, needless to say, keep a dignified distance from both these gentlemen, in particular the one called George.
Following another journey in the unsuitable vehicle, we found ourselves in another residence from which there was no view of the countryside and which is, one believes, known as "an apartment". Sadly, our nerves being somewhat frayed, we have yet to fully adjust to our second set of new surroundings.
At present, we have taken refuge behind what one believes is called the "built-in kitchen unit" and will only emerge for nourishment and other personal requirements until such time as one's confidence returns.
Dated this nineteenth Day of July, Two thousand and seven.
(Signed) The Hon.Ruby Foo

Cats Protection kittens make special cats (like me).

Yesterday, while I was hunting down the hedgerows, Celia went off to her local Cats Protection fete - details of the charity on www.cats.org.uk. Never buy a kitten, get a Cats Protection kitten. They will grow into splendid cats like me and in some ways, I suppose, William. At the fete she met her namesake, a tiny (not very well) kitten called Celia. This Celia (named after Shakespeare's Celia in As You Like It) had been picked up on the streets of the nearby market town. She was confused, frightened, lonely but not yet starving. She had been weaned on to solid food. Either she had got separated from her mother or her human family, having sold the others, had chucked her out to live and die.
My Celia once picked a small shivering kitten out of a hedge in a Somerset layby on Christmas Eve. A similar story. A human had sold most of the kittens as Christmas presents, and had decided that the surplus could be thrown away. Or even out of sheer low life ignorance had thought a small kitten might survive in the wild, despite the winter weather.
There are moments when I find humans sickening....
PS. Steffi and Paul Next Door have barred the doors and the cat flap in a very unfriendly way. A strange smell, ever so faintly oriental, has been wafting out from under the front door.

Shun small girls - except Alice

The homo sapiens young are usually to be avoided. The babies are incredibly backward, compared with kittens. Kittens walk within a few days, babies can't for weeks and weeks. Then a year or so later they start taking an unhealthy interest in cats. Sometimes there are interesting bits of food to be picked off them, but usually there's a lot of dribble, clutching hands and generally inappropriate behaviour. Still later on the small female homo sapiens becomes even more sinister. Small girls always want to cuddle cats. They insist on picking them up all the time. And they commit the unforgivable sins of DRESSING UP cats in baby clothes and trying to put them in dolls' prams.
But there is one small girl I like, because I am rather an exceptional cat. I actually enjoy being picked up and I don't mind a cuddle. So when Alice came to stay last summer, we bonded. She is not like most small girls. She knew cats were different from dolls and she never tried to dress me up or put me in a dolly's pram. She learned how to call me properly, using my proper name in the right sounding call. Then she would pick me up putting her hands carefully under my bottom so that I was supported. I would be cuddled for a bit and carried round the garden by her. Then I'd jump off and do something interesting. She'd call me and, because I am a people cat, I would go for another cuddle.
Admittedly after about two hours, I got bored and disappeared because I had better things to do. William, on the other hand, just made himself scarce from the beginning. He may have social skills with other cats (being brought up in a 70 cat household) but he's no good with small girls. Not even Alice.

Mud, puddles, ponds and the pleasures of water.

I like mud. I like puddles. I like ponds. I like getting my feet wet and I wade through puddles, as well as drinking from them. Mud is fun too. My black paws sink into mud in a very satisfying way. The first time I fell into the garden pond was when the ice broke under me. Then I fell in out of curiosity. Then I fell in again for the sheer fun of it. I liked the way Celia screamed and rushed towards the pond ready to lift me out for some resusitation. Quite unnecessary. I can swim. I discovered that the second time I fell in. The first time, when I was a kitten, Celia fished me out with the pond net. Now she knows that I don't need her help, thank you very much.
Puddles are another matter. I like the way the water sparkles on them and I wade slowly through them instead of skirting round the edge. I also sometimes lie down low in them so that the bottom of my tail gets wet too. Wet wet wet is fun. Of course I also enjoy splashing them with my paw, in the same way that I splash any water I find in a saucepan. The water coming out of a tap is interesting too - so I either drink from the tap or I splash it with my paw. William isn't interested, except when the lavatory flushes. He rushes over to watch the water going down the bend. Oddly enough I don't find this human litter tray very satisfying though I am getting more interested. My reluctance may be because, when I was a kitten, I fell in. Luckily Celia was there to pull me out. Kittens do sometimes drown because they can't get out.
The best thing about water is the human reaction. After a nice time wading through puddles and skittering about in the mud, I come in feeling affectionate. I leap on to Ronnie's lap and he shouts "Get that filthy cat off!" Celia would be pathetically grateful if I lept on her lap so I never do. Instead I leap onto her desk and put mud on the documents there. She doesn't shout. She picks me up and cuddles me. She knows that is wrong. She knows she should ignore me. But she doesn't. The whole science of training (which she has studied) is ignored in favour of cuddles. Poor woman.