He was a street cat, rescued as a kitten on his insistence and cared for all of his life. He was sixteen when his owner died, and unlikely to be at the top of the list in any rescue centre. People want kittens. I don’t blame them. Kittens are cute.
Then again, Max is pretty cute. He’s knock-kneed, apt to go off in a dream world and his breath is eau de rotten whale carcass, but he is a loving cat. He is calm, placid, accepted our residents cats’ frankly unladylike greetings with a blink and loves nothing better than to rest on a human shoulder and snuggle.
When we first met him, he was in a cage awaiting adoption. A big cage, with outside access, an igloo and fresh food and water, but – a cage. He purred and snuggled into any human shoulder he could reach and we said yes, but we had to make arrangements for collection. When he was returned to his cage and we left, he wailed and honked, and cried. When he did come home with us and had the traditional separate quarters in one room while our cats got used to the notion of sharing their house with this foreigner, he turned it up to eleven, seriously, howled and wailed and choked and whimpered like he was drowning. I have never heard a cat make noises that desperate. But there’s a system to be observed in introducing cats, and woe upon ye who stick two strange cats together and expect intellectual debate rather than DefCon 5.
Our resident cats are decent females, and he wasn’t a fighter. Or a lover, for that matter, having had his vital parts removed very early in the century. So he was wandering the house within a week and snoozing on the same bed with them within a fortnight. They tolerate him, just as aristocratic women allow the butler to touch the front door handle and serve them afternoon tea. He’d like to play kiss-chase with them sometimes, but they’ve been brought up nicely and know not to talk to strange lads. Give them another month and they’ll be family.
He’s the oldest cat we’ve ever adopted, though we did take on a 14 year old as part of the house purchase, and a 13 year old rescue cat some years later. He’s good. Really good. He’s placid, rarely makes a fuss and doesn’t pick fights. He’s done nothing wrong (unless you’re a rodent or a bird) and he deserves a good retirement home. If your local rescue centre doesn’t have any kittens when you visit, ask to see the old folks. Kittens grow out of kittenism in months, but an old cat – you get what you see, and it’s a good deal.
And any cat you get out of a cage is a happy cat.
Julia Chalkley 