Confessions of a Cat Sitter
Chris Pascoe is the author of A Cat Called Birmingham & You Can Take the Cat
Out of Slough, and a columnist for various UK & international magazines.
He’s also a cat sitter…
I’m writing to you this month from a
sunshine holiday in Lanzarote, where of
course, the local cats immediately noticed
I’d arrived.
It seems a recurring feature of my life that wherever I
go, cats notice me. They stroll up to me, tail in the air,
telling me all their woes in loud and urgent meows.
Being an official friend-of-cats, I respond to this by
instantly dropping to my knees in the street and dealing
with their issues in the only way I know how – and
that’s by stroking my new-found friends’ heads, crooning
affectionately in a manner very disturbing to anyone but
a cat, and offering consolation Dreamies. And yes, I do
carry Dreamies in my pocket, even on holiday.
Whilst this behaviour is a constant source of
embarrassment to my daughter, who’s just reached that
age when the terrible realisation hits that her dad is in
no way as cool as previously assumed and, contrary
to toddler-year-beliefs, cannot and never should dance
under any circumstances, it’s much appreciated by cats,
who’d probably quite like my dancing.
On this particular trip, a large gang of cats regularly
patrolled our hotel-complex grounds, looking for
tableside handouts, scraps…and me of course. Whilst
staff shooed the poor little bewhiskered beggars
away, I couldn’t resist welcoming them with open
arms and feeding them meat pilfered from the hotel
buffet, much to the visible but silent disapproval of the
aforementioned staff.
It was only after three days of this routine that one of
the feral gang-members, a very young jet-black lad that
we named Baby-B in recognition of his facial likenesses
to the huge beast of a stray named Bodmin who now
lives with us back home (the likenesses being constantly
bared fangs and a slightly terrifying stare) stood beneath
a metal warning-sign awaiting his daily piece of sliced
chicken. The sign showed a silhouette picture of a cat
with the word ‘NO’ emblazoned in huge letters above
its pointy eared head. I’m assuming the hotel weren’t
expecting cats to spot the sign, stop dead in their tracks,
think ‘hang on, that looks a lot like me – I’d better leave
the area immediately’ so had to conclude that the sign
was aimed at people like me. How had I not spotted
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this sign before? I’d been feeding an ever-growing
number of feral cats beneath a big sign telling me not
to do exactly that, for three days. No wonder the staff
liked me so much.
My feeding routine had to change. I decided I’d store
my stolen food supplies in our hotel room’s fridge until
nightfall. At around 11pm on day 4, my wife, daughter
and I silently made our way to the poolside area the
cats resided in. Well I say silently…they were silent, but
I tripped over three sun-loungers, walked headfirst into
a palm tree and almost fell in the pool, but then I had
spent most of the previous two hours in the hotel bar.
When we finally arrived to feed our feline friends, we
got a bit of a surprise. There wasn’t a cat to be seen.
We scoured the entire area, calling and cooing, but not
one furry little head popped up above any rock or from
behind any bush. It was as if the whole lot had vanished
into thin air.
The next morning they were all back - every single one
of them. That night though, when we again attempted
a Commando-style feeding raid, they were all gone
again. Discreet enquiries made to a hotel staff member
who didn’t yet know me
well enough to dislike me
led us to a startling and
quite wonderful discovery
about where the cats of
Playa Blanca, Lanzarote, go
at night.
It’s called the Cat Bridge,
and I’ll tell you all about it
next month…