Jaffa! The indisputable leader of the gang. He’s the boss, he’s a pip, he’s the championship. He’s the most tip top, Top Cat.

 

Jaffa. My first proper pet.

The reason I fell in love with cats.

The reason I have a 2 inch scar on my left hand.

The reason I still step over the last but one stair at the top of the staircase years after his passing.

Jaffa was kind of a big deal around our street. There is no doubt he ruled it. And ruled it well. There was no crime, there was no nonsense. Jaffa had it all under quiet control.

In order to become Top Cat of the street, Jaffa first had to topple it’s current ruler. Simon.

Simon the cat. An ageing, rough, raggedy grey cat who had ruled our street for years and lived opposite our house. We had all lived under his dictatorship for far too long. Too scared to walk down the lane by Simon’s house, things needed to change. People needed to feel safe.

At the time, Jaffa was the new kid on the block. With a heart full of courage and a head full of brains he challenged Simon to a bare claw street fight one night. If Jaffa won, Simon was to hand control of the street over to him.

They met that night .

They hissed and spat with arched backs as they moved sideways past each other.

Each waiting for the other to make his move.

After a succession of  lightening quick paw jabs, the ears went down and the claws came out. There was a pounce, and suddenly they had wrapped their paws around each other and sunk their claws and teeth into each other.

They  rolled around the street oerning and kicking each other fiercely with their back paws…..In the Feline World Wrestling Federation* (FWWF), this finishing move  is known as the  ‘cottontail kick‘ due to it’s striking similarity to a bunny hop.

Yowling and wailing under a moonlit night, only one of them would emerge victorious.

That night…..Young fought Old, and Good fought Bad… But Pride fought Pride.

That night, a new Top Cat was crowned. Jaffa emerged the victor. True to his word, Simon handed over control of the street. Albeit with some reluctance, he knew he was beaten.

Ginger and grey fur littered the street from the night before,  whilst a triumphant Jaffa surveyed his new territory.

Things would be different now.

*Ever so slightly made this bit up

No destitute cat ever refused admission

My last post mentioned that a cat owner’s home without a cat is just a house.

When my little cat Sox passed away, for a short time my parent’s house became just that. A house barren of cats. The cat community had other plans though, and it seems my parent’s house soon became the local branch of feline Dr. Barnados.

I had been used to this growing up. But nowadays, despite not actually owning a cat themselves, my parent’s still have to take a trip down the pet food aisle when they go shopping to feed the many waifs and strays that frequent their house.

To my knowledge no destitute cat has, or ever will be refused admission.

As cat philanthropy is rife in our family, it seems only natural that my house has also become the feline Dr. Barnados in my local area.

I live with my two cats Minnie and Cochen…They are the only two of permanent residency. The only two on the electoral roll and census.

Alongside them though, there are a number of cats who drop in and out of my cat halfway house.

They are….

Fatty Ginger*

Fatty Ginger* sleeps outside my back door. He is always gone by morning at the twist of the back door key, without so much as a kiss on the cheek, or a thank you.

Roger*

Roger* is constantly fighting his demons due to a small tail complex. I try not to mention it in front of him, and I never answer him honestly to the “Does my tail look small in this?” question.

Pete*

Pete* next door, I think has ADHD and is incapable of jumping on a windowsill without falling off it. I think Pete* might also think he is a pixie, as he has taken to sleeping right at the bottom of the garden beneath the tree. Pete* always has a look of absolute surprise on his face whenever he is disturbed.

Don*

Don* “The Don” is the size of a German Shepherd.  When I say German Shepherd, I mean he’s the size of an actual human shepherd from Germany, not the dog. Don’s* favourite pastime is to play garden Mexican stand off with me…. He wins.

Meryl*

Meryl* is BFF to Minnie. Meryl* is fairly problem free, but does hang around an awful lot. Way too much in fact. I think she might struggle with social boundaries, so I may need to ring her parents and ask if they can sit her down and have a word with her.

Previously there has also been….

Polly the 1st, (you can read about her herewho’s blood was laced with droplets of Lucifers and who’s main aim in life was to rain evil on mine, and Polly the 2nd*.

Polly the 1st’s successor. Slightly less evil but far more cunning.

Polly the 2nd* knew my movements more than your average stalker would. One time just as I was leaving for work I remembered I’d left my lunch in the kitchen. As I opened the kitchen door, I found Polly the 2nd* breaking in to my house through the window. I have little doubt, she had been performing a stakeout and had downed her binoculars thinking the coast was clear… She made a hasty retreat that day and was gone before her crowbar hit the floor, but I knew she’d be back.

Would I stop any of them helping themselves to my garden? My home?…. and I’m sure at times the contents of my fridge, my cupboards and my purse?… Of course not, because no destitute cat is ever refused admission.

*Names changed to protect true identity…. and because I don’t know their actual names so made these ones up

I’m sure the cat next door was trying to kill me

I’m an animal lover.

I’m a cat lover especially.

But I find it difficult to love any animal straight from the cavern of hell!

The cat in this video is called Polly, but the cat in this video is the Prince of Darkness masquerading as a feline, and it lived next door to me for years.

Please excuse my potty mouth at the end of the video, but try and remember this cat must have been carved from dust from the Devil’s furnace!

All of the following statements are true….

  • I once came home from work and found Polly’s fur in my fridge
  • Polly used to sit on my garden fence and hiss at me for hours
  • Polly once let me smooth her and then nearly ripped my arm off
  • Polly once stole my car and took it for a joyride

OK, I had no proof for the last one other than the strong smell of catnip in the car, a fish bone and an empty milk carton on the backseat, but I know it was her!

Polly no longer lives next door, and in a peculiar almost Stockholm syndrome way, I miss her!