The other day I was travelling towards Huddersfield on the A62, a road that we locals call Manchester Road. The traffic was unusually slow for that time of day and the reason for this soon became obvious. As I was approaching a row of Victorian terraced houses, I noticed a stationary fire engine with blue lights flashing. Getting closer, I also noticed a fire support vehicle and several fire fighters stood around, pointing and obviously in meaningful discussions.
E-miaow-rgency? What e-miaow-rgency?
I then saw a ladder propped up against the house guttering and immediately assumed that there had been a chimney fire. This is a very unusual development these days, though not so when I was a lad: residents of poorer households or people who thought they knew best would get a roaring fire going in the hope that this would set fire to the soot and mitigate the need for a chimney sweep. What could possibly go wrong, one may ask, but it usually did. This is definitely not to be tried at home.
As I approached, I noticed a fire fighter at the top of the ladder tapping the roof tiles next to the guttering. I thought that this was a funny way to put out a chimney fire. But as I drew alongside, I discovered the cause of the whole commotion, and it was something I thought was an urban myth or only appeared in cartoons. There sat on the ridge of the roof was a cat, haughtily looking down at the humans (as they do). It was apparently quite happy and appeared to be wondering what all the commotion was about.
Kitten rescue – linguistic breakthrough
This incident immediately reminded me of an earlier self- centred cat. The year was 1968. I had returned home one lunchtime, and as I was happily munching away, I heard a right meowing racket from the back lane. On investigating, I found a small kitten, hardly big enough to be making all this racket and apparently abandoned by its mother. Even though I don’t like cats, I wouldn’t see one suffer. I took it into the kitchen and lit the gas fire. I put a bowl of milk nearby and went back to work, fully expecting the kitten to be dead when Moi returned from her work later that afternoon. I left her a note of explanation which read:
I FOND THE CAT ON THE BACK LANE PROBLY LEFT BY MUTHER IT WAS JUST ALIVE WEN I LEFT IF DED CUVER IT UP AND I WILL SEE TO IT WEN I GET BACK.
I didn’t know it at the time, and I’m sure my English teachers would have been most surprised, but I had clearly invented an early form of text speak. There wasn’t anything to text on in those days of course – we didn’t even have a telephone for another 10 years or more. Happy, happy days.
A Tiger that did change its stripes
Amazingly on our return the kitten was bounding about as happy as Larry. It had a striped coat, so we named it Tiger. Over the coming months the stripes disappeared and Tiger became completely black, but we kept the name as an amusing talking point for visitors.
Tiger grew strong and healthy. We spent money on all her necessary injections and had her neutered to limit more unwanted kittens.
Due to previous medical problems Moi was advised to rest as much as possible during her pregnancy the following year, and Tiger would sleep on Moi’s stomach throughout the day while Moi rested on the couch, which of course suited them both down to the ground. Then Rachel came along and Tiger was demoted. No doubt she didn’t like the noise and smells of a new born baby (who does?) and so escaped at the first opportunity. We knew she’d come to no harm as we’d heard that an old lady up the road had adopted her. She didn’t volunteer anything towards the vet’s bills either.
Paying the costs of cats’ nine lives
A few months later Tiger appeared at the back door, coincidentally close to where I’d first found her as a kitten. Unfortunately, Tiger was in a very sorry state – bedraggled and unkempt and with an unrecognisable strange meow. We knew there was something wrong and again took her to the vets, where after an overnight stay it was discovered that Tiger had a cancer of the throat and was very ill. The advice was to put her out of her misery, and with a heavy heart we agreed.
A few weeks later there was knock at the door. It was a neighbour and close friend holding a cat that had been injured by an argument with a car or dog. Dogs were often seen wandering the streets in those days, sometimes in packs. The neighbour asked if this was our missing cat, Tiger. This time there was no doubt: it was obviously Tiger. It seems we had someone else’s cat put down and paid for the privilege.
Again, we returned to the vets with the proper Tiger who was kept in overnight again. There was no serious damage save for lacerations and an injured leg. The leg was bandaged up and we were advised to keep Tiger warm and provided with a litter tray so she didn’t have to go outside.
Again, we paid for the necessary vet’s bills and medication and over the next couple of weeks we nursed Tiger back to full health. Then, at the first opportunity, Tiger buggered off again. So, we saved Tiger’s life twice, paid the vet a fortune, killed someone else’s cat and had nothing to show for it save for an empty wallet.
Dogs or cats (or bears)?
I’m more of a dog man, or even a grizzly bear man, you know where you stand with a grizzly bear, you certainly don’t stand in its way. A grizzly does not haughtily look down on humans, nor do they need us to feed, house and pet them, particularly if one attempts this with a young cub. My advice, for what it’s worth, is that even if you find yourself in a position to save an apparently abandoned bear cub, then move on as quickly as possible or run the chance of being torn asunder. Cats don’t tend to do this of course, but I’m sure they would if they were big enough, just before they left to try their luck with a more congenial neighbour.
