What Cats Do for People that People Can’t Do for Themselves

How fate and a few felines intervened to cancel my pet-free existence

I was happy living pet-free. Really. I traveled a lot. Who needed pets? Oh, the responsibility.

But then fate and a few felines stepped in and I unexpectedly found myself responsible for three cats who adopted me as their human.

I inherited one after his owner died while I happened to be looking after his cat at the time. And two literally squatted on my doorstep and wouldn’t leave.

Did they know something I didn’t?

Growing up in northeast Scotland, we lived with my maternal grandparents. Pets were banned, held hostage by grandma’s arthritic knees and bad nerves.

“They jump up on grandma’s knees/get on her nerves,” was the frequent refrain.

Grandma’s knees/nerves had a lot to answer for it seemed to me.

It wasn’t until we moved into our own home when I was 9 years old that I got a cat, Sooty, which made me deliriously happy, but Sooty deliriously unhappy.

I dressed Sooty in dolls’ clothes — a frilly hat, dress, bootees — and paraded him around in a carrycot. (Didn’t everyone do that?) The scars on the back of my hand remind me of how much he hated this indignity.

One day, I came home from school and Sooty was gone.

“The cat was terrified of you,” said Mum, by way of explanation. “He would run and hide whenever he saw you coming.”

My parents had returned him to the cats and dogs shelter, whence he came.

I was heartbroken. I was also apparently a monster who tortured dumb animals.

Pet-free years came and went. I moved from Aberdeen to Edinburgh, London, Boston, Virginia, and New York, living in sublets, shared houses, and small apartments. None were conducive to having large or even small furry critters running around.

By the time I washed up in upstate New York in a Victorian fixer-upper, I had taken for granted that I was not an animal person.

Harry Potter’s brand of animal magic put a spell on me

Enter Harry Potter. Sleek, black, with piercing eyes of magic, Harry belonged to my friend S. And I became the designated cat sitter whenever S. traveled.

I embraced my new foster-mum role. I finally had a pet. One that was returnable. I got the perks but not the responsibilities, which suited me fine, because I still traveled a lot, too.

Then, S. committed suicide.

I was cat-sitting his cat at the time. And in a flash, given that possession is nine-tenths of the law, Harry Potter was mine.

Together, we mourned the loss of his former owner over tuna treats and lots of petting.

I vowed not to dress him up in anything, least of all dolls clothes.

Harry lived out his remaining years (he was already 14 when I got him) in domestic bliss, then I buried him in my back garden.

And for the first time, I forgave myself for my earlier cat indiscretions.

The comfort of strange cats

A year after Harry’s demise, I was in my garden, hacking the overgrown vines covering his grave, and thinking of him. I heard meowing, and turned and saw a small gray and white cat padding toward me. Fearless, he rubbed himself against my legs and let me pet him.

“Where did you come from?” I asked, pondering the coincidence/ synchronicity. Was the world trying to tell me something?

The gray tabby started showing up regularly. No one knew where he came from. A neighbor and I began feeding him, which only ensured his continued presence.

I called him Spalding after writer Spalding Gray. In time, I discovered he belonged to some poor soul with mental issues who rented a room in a neighbor’s house. The cat was neglected; had had no shots; and wasn’t neutered.

When that person’s landlord urged me to him take in, I decided it was fate, and that I was meant to be this cat’s human.

Two years on, Spalding, neutered and all shot up, is a permanent resident in my house.

After that, I vowed no more cats. I still traveled frequently. One cat was more than enough.

Then along came Bonkers

One day, a timid, tiger-striped bundle of fur showed up scrounging for food.

And being the cat lady that I was fast becoming, I obliged.

Soon, he was there every day.

Apparently traumatized, he bolted at all attempts to pet him. My neighbor, called him Scooter.

Gradually, he allowed tentative pets. He grew to adore being petted. I called him Bonkers, because he was schizophrenic; loving one minute, terrified the next.

During the depths of winter, I took him into my house. Terrified, he hid in the basement and only crept out when desperate for food. He seemed domesticated and knew how to use the litter box and scratching pad.

Had he been abused in a previous existence? I’ll never know.

Four months on, Bonkers is now also a permanent part of the household. He adores being stroked and gives back as much love as I shower on him.

Together, these cats opened a door in my heart that was previously closed.

And I realized, cats do things for people that people are unable to do for themselves.

Thanks for reading.

With thanks to memoir whisperer Marion Roach Smith for the inspiration for the title.

Give a few claps. Comments welcome too. The more the merrier.

If you enjoyed this story, you can read thousands more by taking out Medium membership through my link. It won’t cost you any more than going direct and I receive a wee commission.