Cats

Reading about the new cat at No. 10 Downing Street reminded me of a handsome black and white Tom who used to stalk majestically through the corridors of the Home Office in Whitehall when I worked there. He was petted and given so many titbits that he would probably disdain to catch a mere mouse. If papers were disturbed and muddled up he got the blame as he loved to curl up on a desk, but like the ginger cat, Macavity, in T.S.Eliot's "Old Possum's Book of Cats" we could never catch him at it.

I have always liked ginger cats. One year on the 1st of August my young daughter was given a little ball of marmalade fur - a ginger kitten. She named him Augustus. Gussie grew into a large, beautiful cat. He also grew into a veritable potentate ! We humans were his slaves ready to feed and pamper him and attentive to every mew, plaintive, demanding, querulous. His was the comfiest chair nearest the fire, the cosiest eiderdown upstairs, the sunniest spot in the garden. He needed one's full attention at all times. Any attempt of mine at writing resulted in him sitting on the notepaper. Knitting was impossible once he was on my lap. He would knead with his paws until he got comfortable regardless of my nylons. My husband, who once professed not to be too keen on cats, would find another armchair if Gussie was esconced in his. Such was his hold over us. Not only over our family but also the two elderly ladies next door who regularly fed him scraps.

On one terrible occasion he contracted cat flu. We sent for the Vet who gave him an injection and prescribed some pills and after a few anxious days he recovered. Our neighbours put his recovery down to their friend who was a spiritual healer and had held Gussie on her lap and laid hands on him. Maybe they were right but I forbore to tell them of the Vet's visit and the £38 fee.

Gussie gave us much pleasure and joy and lived to a ripe old age.