Busy week so here’s one from the current edition of The Trumpit.
Many years ago, I decided to go to the Cats’ Protection League in search of a new friend; I have no idea what first attracted me to a skinny black and white cat with piercing, manic green eyes. The lady assured me that he was a “house cat, very quiet”. She might as well have said “one careful owner, nice runner, bargain buy!” I returned with a seven-month old new pal and the stand-off began, him refusing to move from the top of the stairs, fixing big eyes firmly on me. There would be only one winner and so I gave in and went to the pub, leaving him to sort out his own supper and scratch about in the newly acquired litter tray. I would need a stiff drink to come back to clean that out.
Every time I returned home; he would head for the cat flap in search of some delicacy other than Whiskas; we were like passing ships in the night. I needed a name and was struggling so much so that one day, I resigned myself to naming him after the next street name I drove past. So, I named him Gladstone after a small row of terraces in Yeadon, just outside Leeds. It was not long before I shortened this to Glad often shouting out into the dark night air “Glad, Glad oh Gladdy!!!” My Dad’s long held fears might have appeared to be coming true.
He quickly had life well and truly sussed and knew relying on a half drunken bachelor to feed him was not a good plan. Unashamedly he became the darling of the neighbours plus a brutally efficient hunter of all kinds of prey. Often, I came home to the tell-tale sounds of him wailing “I’ve caught something…thought you might want to look first”. They say that when a cat brings home a kill it’s really a gift which must have made him the most generous cat ever. He used to punch his prey around the house taunting them “I’m the greatest, you can’t hit me, come on sucker…fight back!”
Sometimes the half-eaten prey somehow managed to escape, albeit temporarily, as there were few survival options. One afternoon he was in my bedroom amongst a mass of feathers, howling up at the curtains. “Don’t think you can escape me up there, I’ll rip these cheap shitty curtains down!”
I honestly thought that the prey had escaped through the window. As I pulled the curtains back, suddenly a half-eaten sparrow dropped onto my head, bounced off my shoulder and into the awaiting jaws of Glad who, I swear, winked, stuck up a paw for a high five and said “Cheers mate!” It was the closest I came to having a heart attack in my twenties.
When I moved house the adjacent fields must have appeared like the plains of the Serengeti; sometimes the “gifts” were so big they obscured the magnet on his collar that got him through the cat flap. If I got advanced warning, I would stop him on the doorstep. “Okay then the mouse gets it here!” After a bit of show-boating the mechanical jaws got crunching again followed by a “Can I come in now?” In he would stroll nonchalantly, take a sip of milk and retire to his chosen spot, usually my freshly washed duvet.
He even managed to bring home a giant rat; I was watching television, laid out on the sofa when I heard the usual cries. “I’m home, look what I’ve brought for you tonight…” I heard a thud on the floorboards and, to my horror, he had dragged this massive – and fortunately dead – rat into the room. I went white as he just sat there assessing a week’s equivalent of Whiskas – “Pretty good, eh?” I did the only thing a mate could do and took it down the road, placed it on Big Al’s doorstep and awaited the screams the next morning as he brought the milk in.
He was a supreme socialite and very soon had been unofficially adopted by my new neighbours who were very keen on barbecues all year round. It soon became clear to both of us that the chances of a decent feed had improved markedly with Phil the Grill now in situ. Sometimes Grill would place chunks of salmon so large on a plate for Glad I would fight him for the best bits but a swift claw and a “Try it if you dare, remember I’ll get you when you’re sleeping” soon re-established the boundaries. Inevitably he began to use Grill’s house as a holiday home.
If I was planning a romantic night, he had an uncanny ability to ruin it as I vanished to the supermarket to pick up a slab of mince to cook yet more chilli, the only dish I knew. When I returned there would be carnage all over the house and, to cap it all, he regularly did a muddy dance on my bed, making the duvet look like an African print. You could be sure that he would test the lady in question, skilfully bringing in a mouse with some life left in it to finish the kill indoors. There seemed to be a real possibility that the RSPCA may whisk him away on charges of genocide. For me this clearly had its plus points as it saved me a fortune on cat food and, courtesy of Grill, my diet improved markedly too. Life was almost perfect and Glad seemed like he would live forever.
The end was slow, painfully sad and the most heart-breaking thing I have ever witnessed in my entire life. The gifts started to dry up as did his appetite; not even the best on offer from next door could turn the old hunter around and we knew his time had come. Mice came to the door and sparrows peered through the window with sad, teary faces knowing their chief tormentor was fading fast and the fun was over. I went to work for days on end hoping, in truth, to come home and find him peacefully at rest. One bright Saturday morning, tears welling up (big boys don’t cry?) I put him into the basket he always hated only this time I lost no skin or blood as he slunk into a corner, no more fight left in him. The young vet’s assistant cradled Glad as the fluid drained from the needle in tandem with the glint from the old warrior’s eyes – he had gone. I went home and cried like a baby.
Phil the Grill says
Ah Gladdy, my chief food tester and critic! Every time I wanted to try a new recipe on the grill Gladdy tried it first before I offered it to Michelle. The rule was if it was good enough for my food tester and he didn’t turn his nose up at it then Michelle would be fed the dish.
He always seemed to know when Salmon was on offer and would turn up with an expression of ” I didn’t get the invite but I’m here now so just feed me”!
I once made “boozy banana’s” (baked on the grill split open and filled with Bailey’s) and left one carefully wrapped in plenty of foil on Gladstone’s landlords door step for the lucky lady he was seeing at the time. Gladdy wasn’t having that and devoured it himself, his slow and meaningful walk became a little different for a while!
The landlords holidays were always looked forward to as the prince of prowlers knew that Michelle and I would be the keepers of the castle and things would be different. We both went round one day to feed him and as soon as we both walked in he looked at us and seemed to say “Just have a look at what this bloke feeds me” He walked to the kitchen cupboard door and appeared to tap on it as to say “it’s in there” Once duly offered and placed on the floor the expression was “really”? Oh and what time is the grill on? We left after turning the central heating up from 15 degrees to Michelle’s customary 30 degrees and there it remained until the day of the landlords return.
Very fond memories of Gladstone and of course Michelle and I sniggering when Steve would receive his next gas bill.