For the past year and something, we’ve had a frequent visitor. It started with a moon landing one warm summer afternoon.
Jay was taking a nap upstairs (on what all humans call a third floor, and Brits refer to as a “second floor”) when he heard an unusual thump, and discovered himself face to face with a ginger kitten. The little daredevil, while still locked up in kitty-quarantine in our neighbour’s house, had found an escape route, climbed onto the roof and broken into our house through a sky window.
I was naturally disappointed (read: on the verge of being heartbroken) when Jay told me he had kicked the kitten out. “Because we have a dog!” was his excuse (though he now readily admits that perhaps it would have been nice if the kitty would have made friends with Stanley).
Some months later, we lost our dog. A few months after that, the kitty – now a lovely teenager – started paying us little visits. We named the cat Sean, and no, we have never bothered to ask our neighbours what the cat is actually called, because the cat is a cat and does not give five fucks about a name.
This summer was the first summer we spent in Estonia, in full: 2+ months. Visits, of course, had to stop for the time, and I didn’t think that Sean would care, as he’d stop by every few days for 10-15 minutes at a time. But boy was I wrong. We’d been back a day or so when I saw him through the garden door. And the surprised look on Sean’s face when he discovered we’re back!!!! Like a Disney character, eyes ready to pop out of his head and a mouth turning into a wide grin! He ran in, purring louder than I’ve ever heard a cat purr, and…
This brings me to my conundrum about cats, property and ownership.
Sean spends the mornings here, making sure I am distracted during work (pic taken from my lap). He spends the daytime and afternoons here, napping. He spends the evenings here, playing and cuddling and napping, in equal quantities. And for the past few weeks, he has spent the night here, soundly asleep.
We do not have a cat door for him to come and go as he pleases, but I work (and often sleep) in the living room with glass doors to the garden. When Sean wants in, he knocks on the door. Literally. If ignored, the knocks become a fast-paced drumming with his little paws. Last night (because we agreed he should try to sleep at home) at 1am, he was continuously drumming for 15 minutes. Yes, I timed it. Around 12 minute mark, I was ready to cry, as it was wet and cold outside, but then again… his own house with a cat flap he can use 24/7 is mere 5 meters away, so it’s not like he’d have to spend the night in the cold.
This morning, some time after seven, he was back. Again, full of gratitude of having gotten back to where he belongs, purring and cuddling next to me.
While Sean likes me, he loooooooooves Jay and had has chosen him as his “main person”. To be honest, I am happy about it. Most cats like me, and Jay is such a dog person himself that having this kind of a close special bond with a cat will only do him good.
So far, we haven’t fed Sean, nor do we put out a drink for him (but I’ve pretended not to see him drinking at the sink a few times, or stealing a piece of chicken leftovers from the trash bag).
This, by the way, is not due to animal cruelty – it’s the correct cat etiquette in England, as is evident from a few hysterical posts in our neighbourhood Facebook group where people demand to know why their cat comes home already fed or collared by someone else
I, as a rough-edged former communist, have a much less refined view on thigs. In my books, if a cat shits in our garden and sleeps in our bed, it’s our cat. So, perhaps, we should start feeding him, and leave the neighbours with just the vet bills?
Oh, and Seany has turned out to be a girl, but she’s still such a good boy she could not care less about being continuously misgendered (or, perhaps, the nonchalant gender queer attitudes of our house are the reason we now seem to live as a family of three again?!?).
So, do I have a cat now..?
I do, don’t I….
Ps. Much like our Stan, Sean also seems to think that having their picture taken traps their soul, so I’ve got exactly zero good portraits of her.