Cats in My Cradle

So last week we celebrated World Animal Day and all…

Colombopetrescue’s recent blogpost on her late dog Picky inspired me to write this tribute to some of the dearest friends I’ve had in my life- my legendary cats of the past. I say legendary because each has a story of it’s own, slathered with highly interesting personalities, that has provided much dinnertime conversation amongst human friends and family. Thus I felt the most fitting thing would be to pay tribute by way of immortalizing them on the internet.

If you’re a cat person, then you’ll know what I mean when I say that they are a delightful species of pet to own. Independent, beautiful, full of energy and riveting to look at, a cat can be the best possible companion for a like-minded person.

Me being the sort of girl who really goes for the chilled out attitude of a cat, I’ve housed more than my fair share of them in the past, earning me various labels from the amused society that surrounds me (As if my blog URL didn’t give you enough of a clue…)
In 28 years I have enjoyed the company of 15 cats consecutively, plus a myriad of others who drop in from the neighbourhood. Mine were Pulun, Sooky, Booshie, Twinky, Simon, Martin, Dudley, ‘Feet’, Stevie, Lonely Bat, Nangi, Tigger, and more recently Socksy, Hades and Isis. Each could not be more different from the other, and each has left their pawprint firmly embedded in my font of pleasant memories.
Pls note that the supportive images are not those of my cats (I didn’t have any softcopies to upload,) but are some I found online, that have remarkable- even twinlike- resemblances to my own fellows.

Pulun

Meaning ‘cottonwool’ in Sinhala, Pulun was, in one word, beautiful. Pure white with gorgeous blue eyes, she was the cat who commanded respect, with her ladylike qualitites and breathless looks. I don’t remember much of Pulun’s antics, save that she had a way with the boys, and as a result mothered a fair amount of squirmy half-blood kittens in her time, more often than not in one of my mother’s kitchen cupboards, inside shelved cooking pans. The photogenic one of the bunch, she’d sit serenely for any camera, knowing full well that every side of her was a ‘good side’. Tragically, Pulun was kidnapped, and if memory recalls, murdered by some insane neighbours, although I have little recollection of this, owing to it being my early years.

Sooky

Sooky was a ball of silver Persian fur, and the star attracting after Pulun’s untimely demise. She spent a good long life in our household, birthing litter after litter and becoming one of my mother’s favourites. One could call Sooky the ‘Grand duchess’ of the household cats, a role she played with much grace. That said, with all her finery, Sooky did have the inbuilt evil streak in her, and treated us to many a dismembered rat, squirrel and bird in her day.

Booshie

Sooky’s first born and my favourite, owing to the fact that he was MINE and not merely the household feline, so much so that he was my topic of speech in a grade 2 effective speaking examination. Booshie grew up with me, and became my best friend in those dim distant days of being the ‘weird kid’ who didn’t make many human pals. He was silvery grey just like his mother, but short furred and chubby. His emerald green eyes would stare at you and set your mind blank with awe. His colour wasn’t the only thing Sooky’d passed on to him, because Booshie could be lethal with any other smaller creature fated to cross his path. Booshie loved dressing up, and had quite the collection of outfits tailored by mother, that he’d wear before going to sleep in his very own customized cot. He’d follow me around wherever I went, and was never far from me at night. More often than not, I found myself being rudely pushed off my pillow because Booshie felt it to be more politically that he slept on it instead. Needless to say, I was heartbroken for years after Booshie died as a result of a snakebite.

Twinkie

My goodness. This one is a living legend amongst the archive of stories about my cats, due to her very unusual name. Or should I say names, because there were not one, not two, but THIRTEEN of them. Anne Mary Jennifer Sandra Sally Senorita Fredericka Booshina Silvia Twinkerbell Esmerelda Agatha Edith was she. I can still say it all in one breath. For practicality’s sake, we called her Twinkie.
Twinkie was sliver of a cat, sexy in her slim glossy black-and-white coat, and commanded the attention of all the perverted tomcats in our neighbourhood. SO much so that she was quite pregnant, quite often. She lived a good long attitude-filled life, until she decided one fine day to run away from home and never return. To this day, I don’t where she went.

Simon, Martin & Dudley

The musketeers three. Born of Twinkie, each couldn’t have been more different than the other.

Simon was the eldest, as one of a previous litter. The thug of the pack, he was big-made, rough looking and always wounded in battle. Bill Sikes of Oliver Twist comes to mind with Simon, even down to his raspy gruff voice that would rather wheeze than mew. This cat had the guts of a Doberman, which he showed off with pride when it came to the family dogs.

Martin, on the other hand, was the quiet guy, often found cowering behind a curtain from Simon’s eyes. One could not help but feel sorry for Martin, watching the sibling abuse he went through, and how he took it all with silent dignity, right up to the day he couldn’t take it anymore, and took up permanent residency with our neighbours instead.

And Dudley…. Dudley was a different kettle of fish altogether, and has gone down in the family history as the cat who will never be forgotten.

Because… Dudley was gay.

I kid you not. I had a homosexual cat, who knew it, and was proud of it. How did I know he was gay? Because apart from the long hours he’d spend on grooming his gorgeous bushy tail (when his siblings, mother and father were all short-haired strays), and the many times he’d cower on his toes on the kitchen cupboard with a petulant mew at the sight of a cockroach, Dudley would, at any given opportunity, try to mate with his brothers, much to their disgust. Even the neighbourhood thugs gave up their fight for his territory, simply because his ogling attentions scared them. ‘Dudders’, as I fondly referred to him, lived a long and sexually unsatisfied life, until the cat flu got the better of him.

Stevie

Shortly after we lost Dudleykins, a completely new personality entered our lives. A little black ball of fur we found on the street on rainy evening, whose tiny eyes had tragically been pecked out by crows. We rushed her to the vet, expecting a decision to put her to sleep, but were told she was healthy enough to live a full life minus her eyes. And so we took her home and promptly named her Stevie Wonder, given her colour and physical limitations.
Stevie grew up to amaze us and all those who witnessed her will to live a full and happy life. With her heightened sense of smell and hearing, she was often better than a cat who could see, because of her sense of focus and sheer determination. At kitten stage she’d bump into walls and chairs when trying to find her way around, but soon developed a map in her mind, bourne of the many accidents. This map and extra sensory perception allowed her to streak around effortlessly in a few months, and even climb the trees in our garden. She even started making very human like sounds, and had ‘words’ to express what she wanted, as that was her only understanding of communication.
Sadly, Stevie was mauled one afternoon by a neighbouring dog, on the one strange occasion that she dared to venture out of familiar territory. In the four years that she did live, she taught us many a lesson – one being that no obstacle was beyond overcoming.

Feet, Tigger & Nangi

Three kittens whose tenure with us was short-lived as a result of our fosterparenting schemes, but who left their mark nevertheless. Feet was christened simply because of his questionable attraction to…well… feet. You couldn’t walk by without being startled by a bundle of fur and claws shooting out from under a table and securing itself to your toes with razor-sharp teeth.
Tigger and Nangi were from a litter and were by far the cutest things we’d housed in a while. Tigger got his name from his bouncy, bossy personality and stripes, whilst Nangi was a typical little sister… pretty, demure and painfully shy.
All three came and went, but remained forever.

Lonely Bat

A brother to Tigger and Nangi, and the one that got left behind because of his obvious lack in the looks department. Initially named Bat due to his large cavernous ears and vampire features, the ‘Lonely’ stuck after he lost his siblings to other parents. If having a crooked face wasn’t bad enough, LB also had to deal with a crooked tail end, resulting in quite a bit of amused laughter from the rest of the cat neighbourhood.
With all his ugliness, LB was quite the poser. Take out your camera and he’d be there, giving it his all for the sake of a portrait shot. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the lens couldn’t bear it.

Hades

Another one of my all-time favourites. Black and beautiful, Hades had an attitude to kill. Despite the fact that he lost his family jewels thanks to my mother’s no-breeding motion, Hades ruled the roost with an iron paw. We’d often be greeted by loud complaints, should we have dared to ever leave him alone for too long, or delayed his meals. The two female cats in the house were subject to his bidding, and could be found cleaning him from head to toe right through the day, as he glowered at anyone who so much as smiled at the sight.
With all his gas, Hades was a pushover when it came to me. He couldn’t survive a day without being cuddled and cooed over, and loved hearing what a wonderful puddytat he was. He’s follow me around like a leech, never leaving my side unless there was a mouse or cat biscuits involved. By night, my stomach became his bed, and I was rarely allowed the luxury of movement until His Lordship decided it was fitting.
His attachment to me made Hades insanely jealous of any other humans getting too close…especially my boyfriend, and any time spent on the phone was promptly cut short with a protesting paw sneakily pushing on the phone buttons. Visitors were treated to threats and scoldings, right upto the time they’d leave.
Hades met his untimely demise at the hands of a bastard who drove his van over my baby’s head one fine day, when he went out for a walk down the lane. I hope that man rots in hell after a long and painful death.

Socksy

One of the two left with me at present. Socksy, silver in colour and sporting white socks and twitchy whiskers, was gifted to us by an aunt who found her lost on the street. From a loud-mouthed adolescent, she’s grown into a dignified grande dame, and spends her days ratting on the rooftop or scaring birds away. Socksy’s a bit of a scaredy-cat, and will never speak out of turn. Once in a while, when mood permits, she’ll become a pain in the neck unless you spend the whole day cuddling her and pampering her with massages.

Isis

The last feline member to have taken up permanent residency in our household. Isis was brought home by my parents while I was abroad, and I first met her when she’s been ours for almost a month. So much so that she found my presence obtrusive, and has treated me like a guest ever since. She’s tri-coloured with the most beautiful eyes, lined in black like an ancient Egyptian princess, thereby earning her the name.
Looks aside, Isis is a little druggie, addicted to Whiskas biscuits. There is much wailing and pleading to behold whenever we visit our kitchen, and she will not rest until a sufficient portion of the snack is dished out. The rest of her time is spent flirting with the line of interested tomcats next door.


There you go. My exceptionally long and arduous ode to the cats in my life. If you’ve lasted long enough to read upto the end, you, my friend, are a kindred spirit with as much affection for felis domestica as I am. I purr to you.