There's something about cats. Volumes of cute-to-puke books featuring these engaging pets lie crammed in bookshelves. There may be two or three on our shelves with words of wisdom and wonderment attached to each claw. With the advent of Photoshop, the indignities suffered by cats has been increased immensely, but I'm not here to protest as I have yet to suffer the indignities of digital witchery and luckily cats don't read books. Mine don't anyway.
Many cats have wandered in and out of our lives, some making big impressions, some indents more tangible than others. I've loved all my cats but for very different reasons. I won't expound on the virtues of our domestic flea-bearers, I wouldn't want to have to compare any of mine with yours. Mine would always be the fairest of them all, probably, also the most cynical.
You always remember your first...
I remember the first time I saw Elvis. He was small and ginger and with his tiny eyes closed he ate his way into my heart. When he was weaned a few weeks later he padded straight into our lives, claws sheathed... at first, anyway.
And so the legend was born, but not in Memphis, in Mt Roskill. He soon moved to Te Atatu, although neither home could quite compare to Gracelands he made both homes his own. Mind you, there were a few chip fires at No. 1 and I can't help but wonder if Mr Presley didn't have the odd fire engine attendance with his alleged penchant for deep fried peanut butter sandwiches. Our record, although the accolades for procuring such a treat for the neighbourhood kids really should rest with Mum, was three fire engines. Sirens and everything.
So there he lived in relative peace with Lola our entrenched and streetwise family cat. Her collar jingled with displeasure at her first sighting of the ginger bundle of fur... and teeth. We came to know about the claws and teeth a little later but poor old Lola suffered indentations long before us.
I told Elvis everything but sadly he wasn't overly responsive. His attention span lasted as long as the can opener edged around his Chef can. Treats were often snuck from the kitchen to gain his love. I never reacted when he'd wait at the top of the stairs and jump out, striking with outstretched claws. When bare legs were left unscarred, school tights were the winter victim of choice. Luckily, in spite of his delight at giving us a daily fright, none of us fell back down the stairs. No doubt to his disappointment.
Elvis welcomed the entrance of Leroy, our pyschotic Great Dane. How he loved being picked up in the big dog's jaws and hurled across the room. I didn't laugh the first time I saw it, I thought the dog was going to eat my cat. But unlike us, Leroy never growled or showed any real aggression towards Elvis. None at all. We on the other hand lived in fear of the dog but that's another story (must've had a happy ending as I'm here tinkering in cyber-space). When the malevolent cat was toturing us, he and Leroy were best friends, they'd sleep together, eat together and play together. Leroy was everything to Elvis that I wanted to be.
Then there was Blonde who jogged with me, only making herself known when something sinister was afoot whether it be a snappy dachshund or pipped tom. Topsy, a skittish and skinny cat we attended when my grandmother could no longer wait on her. Benny, perhaps the most adored, I can't start, I wouldn't now where. Frank for her ability to be cuddled at length. And Herman who grew in to his forehead, and Keith our moustachioed ginger who lives with us at the Point.
But my favourite story belongs to an annoymous ginger who strayed into our lives. Dad, had the magnificent idea to gift him to Nana. This was very kind and thoughtful of him but Nana's great passion was her birds.
At 7.00 in the morning her garden was a picture of Hitchcock's 'Birds' as the winged creatures flocked and flew to her well placed lumps and slices of bread. It would never have come as a surprise if the White Cliffs had sprung up from the excited cloud of brown. This spectacle was repeated each evening at 5.
Ginger was to make a dent on the cloud. One by one, feather by feather, the cloud diminished as did the cliffs. His proud em-plonkment of his feathered hunt dropped on the doorstep did not endear himself to Nana. At one point he relocated more than five winged ones to the welcome mat after a garden hunt.
Nana would sigh and transfer the gifts to the rubbish bin.
But all feathered friends are not equal.
In a small wooden bungalow across the road, a treasured, fattened pigeon cooed and wooed. Its character enchanted and delighted. But sadly the bird's operatic career was halted in full flight.
And the night after the chirpy bird lost its flight, Ginger disappeared.
To this day we're not quite sure where he is, or if he still is.
I suspect, 20 years on, we'll never know.
