Open Writing

Thinking about cats brings me inevitably to 'cat women'. I am sure many of you have had personal encounters with 'cat-women'. So have I. It is a bit disappointing to search the net because mostly what you find is sites where silly women who like cats have banded together and call themselves 'Crazy Cat Ladies'—which isn't it at all, or serious psychological studies which apart from trying to tie it up with 'obsessive compulsive' behaviour or try to describe in more scientific terms the phenomenon many of us have encountered in real life.

They claim there are also 'cat gentlemen'—but I have never encountered any.

I met my first real 'cat woman' when I was in my mid teens. Still 'at home' I answered an advertisement in the newspaper, and, with my mother’s permission, went to view my proposed pet. Hidden amongst overgrown trees and bushes on a huge estate on the mountainside, full of winding paths, I found a huge decaying mansion—and within, the little shrunken lady of the manor. The house had many rooms, and each room was assigned its allotted quota of cats, totaling about 400, I think. She showed me round carefully, pointing out the facilities and comforts which each cat required, and assisting me in finding one which she thought was compatible. Eventually, she agreed to allow me to take one home, provided that she was allowed visiting rights. She was not entirely satisfied with the fact that kitty would have to share her residence with a blue roan cocker spaniel, the mildest of creatures.

WELL. I was as sweet as honey-pie (what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive – Walter Scott)

I took the cat home, she settled in all right, and Dannyboy (the dog) paid her no attention whatsoever. However, about 10 or so days later, cat-mama arrived at the door to exercise her rights. Kitty had found a wonderful spot for herself on top of the pelmet surrounding the thick plus red velvet drapes separating the lounge from the dining room—from which advantage point she had a wonderful view of what was going on in most of the house, and even outside. Cat-mama immediately hit the roof, seized the cat, and marched off slamming the front gate behind her. To her, it was clear poor kitty had been terrorized by the vicious dog and had to be rescued forthwith.

A few years later I answered another advertisement when my children decided they wanted a cat. This lady subjected me to third degree in regard to the kind of home I had. Did I have any other pets? How old were my children? Girls or boys? Were they well-behaved? Etc. etc. all of which I replied to in a mild and conciliatory manner. Then she asked about my marital status, and when she heard that I was divorced, the fat was well and truly in the fire. No, no. no. no. Her cats would definitely not be happy in a broken home. Oh? thought I—but remained patient, and talked her round, agreeing with everything—until—aha—she agreed that I could have a cat—but only on condition—that I would have it spayed.

Remaining very, very, cool (a little devil was whispering to me)—I replied very, very, smoothly, 'Oh dear. Oh no. Oh, no, I couldn't do that'. I HAD her!

When she asked 'Why not?', of course I replied that I thought it was cruel 'to deprive the cats of their natural functions' and in no way could I agree to this. Try as she might, she could not persuade me otherwise. You know what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object?

Later, when I was running a small neighbourhood library, there was yet another cat-lady who was one of our borrowers. Her whole person and all her possessions reeked of 'effluvium du chat': including every book she borrowed and returned.

© Betty Collins