Cat People

Never again, no more cats, no more heartbreak.....how many times have we said this only for another to come along and capture our hearts? Neither of us has ever actively sought out a cat but, without fail, a feline in need has made their way to our doorstep and claimed us as their own and the latest in a long line of furry dictators is pocket-sized panther, William.

In a town such as ours, once packed with bustling workshops and sprawling factories, felines were as much part of the industrial landscape as the towering chimneys belching out smoke. They kept the rats at bay, feasting on scraps from the factory canteens and the workers' lunchboxes. Although most of our industry is long gone, its legacy remains, the ancestors of those factory cats who've formed colonies in the boarded-up buildings like the Highgate windmill, behind Stonecroft. With the developers at work, we knew it would be only a matter of time before one of the residents sought a new home.

A chunky black cat had been regularly spending time in our garden, reasonably friendly but only interested in the Nepeta growing in the borders, in which he'd roll, staggering off over the garden wall drooling, high as a kite, with his eyes glazed over. We called him William Woolberforce because of his particularly woolly coat. A month ago, William turned up early one morning yowling for food and looking much smaller than I remembered. I assumed he'd exchanged his winter coat for a sleeker lightweight springtime version and, as we'd still got a cupboard full of catfood, I fed him. He was more than happy to be picked up and cuddled but refused to come into the house, dining on the doorstep. 

For a fortnight he came back three times a day, chomping his way through vast amounts of food (always served outside) and lounging on Jacob's pen, until, one evening, he walked into the house, ate in the kitchen before settling down on the chaise where he's spent every night ever since.

Eating breakfast with the front door ajar last weekend a big woolly black cat wandered into the house and sat on the doormat staring at us. We realised that William Woolberforce is a completely different black cat to the black cat who's claimed us (possibly his dad) but, as he answers to William, he'll have to stay being called William!

Jon's fitted a cat flap, which he mastered in less than an hour*, and looks very smart in his studded black leatherette collar. He's visited the vet twice, the first time to check for a microchip (none), to start his vaccinations and get de-flea'ed and wormed. Katie, the vet, thinks he could be between three and five years old - which surprised us as he's so small.

*William, not Jon!

He was back at the vet's yesterday to be de-pompomed, microchipped and for dental surgery; a tooth extraction and a scale and polish. He's also had blood tests which came back all clear, nothing short of a miracle for a cat who has spent his life on the streets. He wasn't at all happy when he got back home yesterday but I think he's forgiven us now. 

Of course, he couldn't have chosen a more awkward time to adopt us with a summer of festivals and travel planned but when a cat chooses you, what can you do?

And as proof he's got us humans thoroughly under his paw, we're just about to set off to the other side of Wolverhampton to collect this....

His very own catio (secondhand, of course)!

See you soon