Crazy Cat People

When you say you have 4 cats, you're called crazy. Now I have a kindred spirit of the best kind

I was 7 years old when my father left us, but apparently through the tears I said to my mother “At least we can get a cat now”. How adorable was I?!?!

Fast-forward 35 years and I live in a household of four furry felines. Over the years there have been a number of brilliant, beautiful, bonkers little fuckers. There was Henry, the first, who it seemed to be around for ages but in fact only lasted 4 years before losing a fight with a car. Apparently. We can't be sure as someone went to a house opposite and said they'd hit him and then buried him. Slightly odd behaviour.

Then there was Maggie, a Devon Rex, ex-showcat who had had a litter and was chewing the ears of her offspring who were also to be put on show, so she had to go and we were the gullible recipients. We weren't told that she had been shaved. She looked like a gremlin. We got her in 1995, on the very day Blackburn Rovers won the Premier League. Funny the pointless shit you remember. Once her hair had grown and she chilled out and stopped going on the rampage when she got rained on, she was a lovely little thing.

Until I killed her.

Then there was Gilly (Gilmore).

Yes I am going to gloss over that statement, I don't want to talk about it.

OK, fine. I didn't literally kill her. I did maybe purchase a cheap, inferior flea collar from a supermarket, so I could use the change to add to my collection of coins and hot foot it to Our Price and buy the debut full Symposium LP. Subsequently, when the temperature changed, she took refuge in the airing cupboard and suddenly started to get quite ill. Several vets had no idea until on Christmas Eve, a vet asked if she had been ill before she had the collar. She hadn't. She took it off, threw it in the bin, and she made a significant recovery. Until she didn't. Another trip to the vet and they discovered a tumour behind her eye. RIP Maggie.

It may have been a coincidence, but I feel responsible. It's a fucking great album though.

Gilly was given to us by our neighbours daughter who had been breaching the terms of her tenancy, no pets, and he was with my Mum for decades. The vet couldn't be sure but thought he was about 4 years old when we got him in about 1999/2000.

He was probably about 20 when he passed away, but possibly as old as 23. My overwhelming memory of Gilly was when he jumped though the top window in my bedroom in the middle of the night, as was his wont, and as I stroked him all the way down his back and tail it was wet at the end but dry everywhere else. Upon putting the light on, I discovered half of his tail hanging off and my hand covered in blood. Halcyon days.

There was Seymour (a girl named by my wife, before we met, after Blur's original name). Then there were Matilda and Hercules, who now at 7 years old are being tormented by two 3 month old kittens, Chester and Tabitha.

The point of that potted history of the cats in my life was that when I said we were getting two kittens a month or so ago, people looked at me like we were mad. FOUR CATS. Yeah, because four children is really sensible. Think about it, that's too many children. They're far more of a handful. They need all sorts of stuff, apparently. Cats are very easy animals. Their needs are simple; food, water, somewhere to shit and piss, sleep, and every whim catered for at 3am. At least if you tell it to shut the fuck up and it doesn't you can justifiably ignore it and social services aren't eventually called.

So what's so mad about 4 cats. Now I have an ally. A comrade. A stupendous chap. James Acaster. Him of the auburn locks and razor sharp wit. He has four cats. On his podcast he co-hosts with Ed Gamble, he had a rant about the way people react to him telling them he has four cats. He had one cat, received as a gift, they then decided to get them a companion. They then decided to get one more, saw two they liked so naturally got them both. Obviously. No explanation necessary. I know. We're the same.

I've always liked James Acaster but now I know we're kindred spirits. If I hadn't aleady named the ginger kitten Chester, he'd be called Acaster right now. In fact, I think I'll call him that anyway. All my cats have had a myriad of nicknames and alternative names anyway. And it's similar to Chester. Almost like saying “Aaaayyy, Chester” in an Italian accent.

They even look the same. It's uncanny.

What a couple of dudes.

Anyway, he'll never see this as he doesn't do social media anymore, the sensible chap (I must read his book about that, it's in the pile by my bed), but if he ever does, solidarity brother.

We are the crazy cat people.