Under the Paw: Confessions of a Cat Man Page 2

  In return for this, I would receive:

  1. A personalised fuzzy wake-up service, involving the gentle tap-tapping of a paw on my cheek between the hours of 6.30 and 7 a.m. daily.

  2. A plentiful supply of mice, with no obligation to eat the spleens thereof.

  3. A proud, reassuring face in the window upon arriving home.

  4. My first experience of the rare and spectacular ‘feline vertical take-off’.

  5. Truly remarkable displays of aptitude for the game of ‘Lawn Green Voles’ (aka ‘Rodent Keepie-Uppies’).

  6. The knowledge that he would never be far from the end of my bed, particularly in times of trouble.

  Owning Monty could perhaps best be described as a bit like owning an unusually intelligent, non-sycophantic dog that took care of its own faeces. And, like a dog, Monty enjoyed nothing more than the opportunity to stretch his legs at his owner’s side. My first experience of this was one morning in 1990 when, having completed about half of my mile-long walk to the school bus stop, I turned to see him trotting happily behind me. Not really wishing to introduce him to Wayne Smith and Beau O’Dowd or the rest of first period double biology, I walked him back home, got a mini Crunchie out of the kitchen cupboard and pretended to get settled on the sofa, then made a run for it out the back door before he had chance to follow me.

  My parents had moved to relative suburbia by then, so further exploring the much-overlooked pastime of man and mog rambling would have been impractical for all sorts of reasons, not least of them a Harvester, a motorway sliproad and a neighbouring estate regularly featured on the national news due to its collective love of pyromania. Still, I made a mental note to look further into the matter the next time we moved back to the country. Experience told me that it was only a matter of time before we did.

  My parents moved house a lot during my childhood. For me, it was part of the rhythm of life. You went to a house, you began to meet some new friends, then, around a year later, your mum came into your bedroom with a sombre look on her face and told you it was once again time to pack up your ZX81 and your Beano annuals. By the time I was in my late teens and had moved to my seventh and final childhood home, I was starting to get a little sick of the upheaval, and the last thing I wanted was to live in a rented cottage in the north Nottinghamshire outback, eleven miles from the nearest gig venue, a mile down a country lane not wide enough to permit two cars to pass one another without one of them nosing into the hedgerow.

  It was, however, a very good place to walk a cat.

  There was no lead or choke chain involved, and Monty didn’t take long to pick up the rules. If a car or a Border collie was coming in the other direction, you zipped into the undergrowth, leaving your adversary blinking in disbelief, writing off the small white blob they’d seen in the periphery of their vision as a trick of the light. You then walked along parallel to your owner on the field on the other side of the hedge until the coast was clear. Much of the time, though, Monty and I had only each other for company. Having been told to ‘WATCH OUT FOR NUTTERS!’ by my dad at the front door – my dad always told me to watch out for nutters, wherever I went, but in this part of north Nottinghamshire his concern was more justified than usual – we’d set off up the hill and do an entire circuit of the Forestry Commission land overlooking our house: a walk of around three miles, which lasted almost as long as the refreshing drink of water Monty took out of the toilet when we returned home.

  A wearer of spiritual breeches, he always looked extremely noble on our walks, striding out in front of me. Every so often, feeling it was necessary to puncture this self-satisfied, dignified air, I would jog ahead of him and hide in a bush. This was a shameless exercise, carried out purely to get him to do something he felt very self-conscious about: meow. Monty’s speaking voice was an incongruously high-pitched, effete thing, and he only used it when absolutely necessary. I fooled him every time: two minutes after making my lair in the foliage, he’d arrive, squeak-wailing with genuine terror that he had lost me for ever. Either that, or he was just humouring me. After all, what kind of bloke in his late teens would hide from his cat? You’d have to treat a simpleton like that kindly and patiently, wouldn’t you?

  Monty and I had eleven years together in total. During that time, we had just about as perfect a relationship as was possible between man and man cat – both of us ineradicably bonded, but always keeping a sensible, masculine distance. When I was feeling low or ill, Monty was there – not up for a cuddle, maybe, but offering strong silent support, a bit like Gary Cooper with whiskers. When Monty wanted to walk past his favourite hollow tree – it never had anything in the hollow bit, but he remained optimistic – he could count on me. He didn’t fetch my paper or bark when I called him, but he knew which of the manifold noises I made meant ‘I’m cooking with chicken and if you promise not to claw the carpet you can have some’ and which one meant ‘I’m putting some more of this horrendous ground-up slop in a dish – please get rid of it quickly.’ Similarly, I knew which of his rare and perfect squeaks meant ‘I have caught and methodically assassinated one of Sherwood Forest’s many stoats’ and which one meant ‘I went into the downstairs loo for another drink out of the bowl and now the door has inconveniently swung shut behind me.’

  When I moved out of home permanently in the summer of 1998, I agonised over whether to take Monty with me, but the two-bedroom terrace just outside Nottingham that my girlfriend and I had put a rental deposit on had only the smallest of gardens, backing onto a supermarket car park. It was no place to take a cat accustomed to strolling authoritatively around his own infinite green kingdom. Who knows? I reasoned. Maybe in time I’ll have more space. I was right about that, but I didn’t realise that it was time itself, not space, that was the issue.

  I’d been gone only four weeks when my dad found his body. Monty looked as pristine as ever, lying in the dew-soaked grass, they said. Was it a heart attack that had killed him? Rat poison? An embolism? Nobody knew, and it did not occur to my mum to take Monty’s body to the vet to find out. The way she saw it at the time, it would not have made any difference. Only later did she and my dad begin to concoct other theories: a vindictive milkman, some local yobs from Ockwold, the nearby village. My maternal grandfather – the man whom I was named after – had died of a brain haemorrhage at the age of forty-six, suddenly, after a life of near-perfect health, but it didn’t occur to me that a similar thing could happen to a cat, least of all this cat. Monty’s indefatigable constitution had been legendary, his nose cuts self-healing in seemingly a matter of hours, his flesh a thing that vets came to dread on vaccination day.

  I’d been working in London on the day it happened, mobile phoneless, and by the time I received the call, my parents had buried him beneath a damson tree in the garden (a place he’d often liked to sit, in duck-style posture, casually sizing up some errant partridges from next door). When I arrived that evening, all that remained of his presence was a half-eaten bowl of biscuits.

  As I slunk back to my car after the tears had dried up, I heard myself whistle him, which was strange, because I had not moved my mouth. I wheeled round, stunned and paranoid, until I remembered the bird that liked to sit on the telephone wire outside my bedroom, alternately mimicking the sound of our cordless telephone and that time-honoured ‘wee-woo’ that signalled it was time for Monty’s dinner. I listened for a moment, with half a mind to curse such a wretched, heartless sky beast. But I had to concede that it had a point, and as I drove home to my catless house that ‘wee-woo’ ran on a loop on my internal jukebox. ‘Wee-woo, wee-woo, wee-woo . . .’ it went, until it finally mutated into a different song altogether, played to the same tune: ‘Your fault, your fault, your fault . . .’

  That night I made a vow: from that point on, I would live a catless life. I remember feeling pretty determined about it at the time. Looking back now, it was obvious I felt that I had reached a turning point in my life. I just didn’t realise which turning point.

 
THE ONES THAT GOT AWAY: A LIST OF SOME CATS THAT I WOULDN’T HAVE MINDED OWNING BUT, OWING TO INSURMOUNTABLE OBSTACLES, COULDN’T

  Bagpuss (1976–9)

  Colour: New rave pink and white.

  Home: Emily’s shop (what kind of 7-year-old owns a shop?).

  Owner: Emily.

  Defining Features and Characteristics: Can’t-be-bothered manner, all-round sagginess, propensity for hoarding junk and dreaming up improbable stories involving mermaids.

  Catchphrase: ‘Yeoooaaawnnnn!’

  Why It Could Never Work between Us: Possessiveness of Emily could mutate into homicidal rage, upon finding favourite cloth possession gone. Limited need for old rags, bottles, shoes and assorted other old tat in my house.

  Scampi (1988–93)

  Colour: Tortoiseshell.

  Home: Cripsley Edge Golf Club, Nottingham.

  Owner: Club Steward, Cripsley Edge Golf Club.

  Defining Features and Characteristics: Roly-poly yet stand-offish manner, unpredictable hiss valve, tendency to walk onto eighteenth green at inappropriate moments.

  Catchphrase: ‘It’s not me, it’s you.’

  Why It Could Never Work between Us: Growing antipathy towards golf (mine), growing antipathy towards being over-stroked by Ladies Bridge Team leading to lasting grumpiness and ‘I’m not just a plaything’ hissy-fits (Scampi’s).

  Grundy (1994–8)

  Colour: Ginger and white.

  Home: Gedling, Nottingham.

  Owners: Absentee couple at rear of girlfriend’s house.

  Defining Features and Characteristics: Nicotine-stained Rod Stewart meow. Take-me-home eyes.

  Catchphrase: ‘I am a cat of constant sorrow.’

  Why It Could Never Work between Us: Constant low rasping noises very beguiling, but potentially grating on a day-to-day basis, not to mention possible hitch in any kidnap plot.

  Archie (1995)

  Colour: Deep tabby.

  Home: York.

  Owner: Unknown.

  Defining Features and Characteristics: Waddling run, enormous belly, suspicious need to get into broom cupboards.

  Catchphrase: ‘Yeah, so I’ve got a boy’s name – big deal. It never stopped Jamie Lee Curtis. What did you think I’m carrying in here – bananas?’

  Why it Could Never Work between Us: My curtailed stay in locality because of dropping out of university after three months. Possible offspring rehoming problems.

  Hercules (1996)

  Colour: Rich Tea tabby.

  Home: Newcastle-upon-Tyne.

  Owner: Science Faculty of the University of Newcastle-upon-Tyne (unconfirmed).

  Defining Features and Characteristics: Formidable bulk perfectly meshed with winning softness. Penchant for wrestling with undergraduates.

  Catchphrase: ‘Love the one you’re with!’

  Why It Could Never Work between Us: Limited visiting privileges. Insecurity deriving from unacademic status. Danger of squashage. Potential ‘How can I know you truly love me, when you love everyone else too?’ disagreements.

  Nameless Strangely Silent Cat from Italian Campsite Where Feral Dogs Kept Me Awake at Night (1998)

  Colour: Black.

  Home: Donoratico, Tuscany.

  Owner: Unknown.

  Defining Features and Characteristics: Unaccountable fondness for getting under wheel arches, laconicism bordering on the disturbing.

  Catchphrase: ‘. . .’

  Why it Could Never Work Between us: Language barrier. Geographical obstacles which could only be conquered by Mediterranean move on my part and, even then, would probably lead to constant state of worry about attack from Tuscan wild dogs.

  The Cat Man Cometh

  If you decided to walk through suburbia with me in the early months of this century, you were always going to end up regretting it.

  Ask Surreal Ed, my regular nightclubbing friend of the time. Ed and I did a lot of walking back then: keyed-up, aimless walking, hungover, euphoric walking. He would have told you all about the surprising dangers, particularly on a wet day, of that cypress bush on the road leading from Crouch Hill to Archway tube station. But Ed always gave as good as he got, and it wasn’t like I was going to push just anyone into a cypress bush when they weren’t expecting it. I would have had to have known you for at least two or three years first, and you would probably have been an Ed kind of person to get that kind of treatment (the kind of person, in short, who is apt to grab one of their friends’ limbs in public at an entirely random moment, suffers from restless leg syndrome, and thinks the root of all great comic routines involves liberal use of the word ‘cheese’). But even if you were a virtual stranger, not given to surrealism and safe from the maws of dripping shrubbery, you would soon have realised that, by taking a leisurely stroll with me through the leafy streets of north London, you had made a big mistake.

  Everything would probably have started in companionable, sane enough fashion. Maybe you would have told me about a band or film you’d seen the previous night. ‘Tom seems like a good listener!’ you might have thought. ‘He seems to be genuinely taking on board my view about the Nutty Professor II being slightly less funny than having a digit removed with a rusty hacksaw!’ Perhaps we’d reached a higher level of intimacy in our relationship, and you were telling me about a person at work on whom you had a crush. You’d paced your story well, and you were just about to get to the long-delayed climax, where the steadfast but ultimately dull colleague of you and your prospective squeeze had unexpectedly had to depart early to catch a train, leaving just the two of you in the pub, alone for the first time ever. As you began to describe the powerful feelings of wanting – no, needing – to kiss someone, but not quite knowing if you should, you watched, somewhat disheartened, as my eyes began to glaze over and I darted across the street behind a wall. What, you wondered, could I possibly be doing? Thirty seconds later, when I emerged, no longer alone, you found out.

  ‘Isn’t he ace?’ I would have said to you, holding my new friend’s paws up for inspection. ‘Have you ever seen such a cuddly fella?’

  ‘Er, no,’ you would have probably replied. ‘He’s . . . very nice. Do you think the owners will mind you doing that?’

  ‘Oh, we’re just making friends. Aren’t we? Aren’t we? I want to take you home. Oh yes, you like that now, don’t you? Is that your favourite place? On your scruff?’

  You are now starting to look at your watch. Somewhere in the adjacent house, a curtain twitches.

  ‘How about a bit of chin-rubby action? Hmm? Is that nice? Oh yes, that’s a very manly purr you’ve got, isn’t it? If you were in the Mafia, you’d be the Mogfather, wouldn’t you?’

  You are edging away ever-so slightly now.

  ‘I’m ever so sorry my lovely new meowy friend, but Tom has to go to the pub now. But he will come back and see you again. Yes, he will. You can be sure about that, because you’re the best cat in the world. Yes, you are. You are.’

  I should probably point out here that this is no ‘I was young and slightly deranged, but it’s all better now’ recollection; to this day, I still find it hard to walk along a road without befriending every cat in the vicinity, but it could definitely be said that, in the period surrounding my twenty-fifth birthday, that same befriending had taken on a somewhat more . . . rabid . . . quality than usual. In fact, many of my friends from that time would argue that ‘befriending’ was not quite the right word. ‘Marrying’ might have been more appropriate.

  ‘You really like cats, don’t you?’

  What can I say? When you’ve taken a wrong turn into a cat-free life style, you have to get your moggy-loving where you can, even if that moggy-loving happens to be on the run.

  It had been two years since Monty’s death and, in that time, I’d reached an acceptance of sorts: if not an acceptance that there was anything predestined or inescapable about his death, then at least an acceptance that, put in the same position again, without the benefit of being forewarned, I probably would stil
l have chosen not to take him with me to my new home. Nonetheless, I could not shake my certainty that the slightest nudge of a butterfly’s wings on my part – a slightly longer walk together, one more bit of chicken – could have kept him from his fate in that cold wet grass. Having taken my deserter’s shame and vowed to spend my time in cat-free limbo, I’d been pretty disciplined about it. Although how ‘disciplined’ I would have been had I not relocated, a few months later, to a gardenless flat in London is hard to say.

  My move south had been necessitated by a new job: I’d been made Rock Critic of the Guardian newspaper. Living in the sticks might not seem the ideal preparation for a job writing about pop music, but my boondocks homelife in my late teens and early twenties had given me the time and space to learn my craft quickly, making up for the cultural years I’d lost as a teenager by pursuing my dream of becoming a golf professional.

  That house on the outskirts of the village of Ockwold in north Nottinghamshire, outside which Monty had died, might not have provided a music-mad twenty-something’s ideal choice of lifestyle, but it had been the place where I’d turned myself round from a two-time college dropout, bouncing between income support and jobs in factories and supermarkets, to a music writer for a national newspaper. It was here that I’d corresponded with musicians in Denver, Colorado, and Athens, Georgia, and written and edited the cheaply produced fanzine that had secured me a job writing for the New Musical Express. The well-spoken, largely druggy, largely public-schooled men who commissioned me to write about American art rockers and the ageing hipsters of sixties and seventies pop had no idea that I did so at a desk facing a field full of cows, three miles away from the nearest bus stop and eleven from the nearest gig venue, just as they had no idea that I’d failed four of my GCSEs and lasted under three months as a BA Honours student. This was not down to subterfuge on my part: in the music journo world, talking about your background was uncool and bourgeois, and it was obvious that most of my peers saw any place beyond London’s North Circular that wasn’t Manchester, Liverpool or Glasgow as an irrelevance, and certainly not something that would merit the interruption of a dissection of the latest Rocket From The Crypt single.