Life

My brother's cat – home after midnight, swinging her handbag, clutching a kebab

In the early morning, we open the door just a chink because we know McGregor is out there, waiting. We peek through that chink like we’re expecting someone on the doorstep who wants to steal our souls for a demonish cult

Nuala McCann

Nuala McCann

Nuala McCann is an Irish News columnist and writes a weekly radio review.

I'm the boss around here – and don't you forget it
I'm the boss around here – and don't you forget it I'm the boss around here – and don't you forget it

OUR resident cat is stalking prey in the jungle out our back. We don’t own him. Rather he is of the opinion that he owns us – our land; his territory. He has bought the rights to our back garden with two purrs and a flick of his whiskers.

He picks his way through old autumn leaves and that bag of compost crawling with silverfish, last year’s abandoned hanging basket, the broken plant pots, the china hedgehog and the faded plastic gnome.

He weaves through the weeds and ambles, apropos of nothing, to where our small birds nest.

To us they are song on a branch; to him they are dinner.

“It’s nature red in tooth and claw,” I sigh. My housemates roll their eyes.

I may have to go out and chase our resident cat away with a rolled-up newspaper.

The coal tits and the cheeky robin and our sweet blackbird and that big nasty bloke of a magpie have his measure. The magpie flashes an iridescent blue wing at him and squawks like he owns the street.

“Did you say something?” says the cat in a single sideways glance. He sits and his nonchalance says: The cat may look at the queen.

Even as we chop up yellow apple, crumble Nutty Crust and lift a handful of seeds for the birds, we wonder are we luring them to sudden death.

We call this cat McGregor because he is a brazen fighter. He’s not afraid. He’s a yammer of a cat who butts you with his head if you try to pet him.

Dreamies? Yes... he likes the chicken ones... but dammed if he’ll roll over on his back to get his tummy scratched and he would not thank you for a pat on the head. Huh, go to hell, his yellow eyes flash.

But there’s something about him that I get. It’s that air of tranquillity, the calm way he walks in the world and that sudden burst of energy – zap, straight out of nowhere.

McGregor is forever trying to get inside our front door. We are forever keeping him at bay. He’s barred because he is not ours – he belongs up the street, we’re just on his circuit.

Now, in the early morning, we open the door just a chink because we know he’s out there, waiting. We peek through that chink like we’re expecting someone on the doorstep who wants to steal our souls for a demonish cult.

On the other hand, there might be a man who calls me Missus, sets a fatherly hand on my shoulder so I cannot duck out and guides me to the gate to tut tut the moss on my roof. Be afraid, be very afraid: there is no way in hell that I want my roof cleaned for a king’s ransom, nor indeed would I want my ould lobby washed down.

We haven’t finished with cats.

My brother’s cat, Choo Choo, is a stroppy teenager of a cat.

“Out on the tiles every night, home after midnight, bold as brass, swinging her handbag, clutching a kebab,” sighs my brother.

She’s a little wild cat and she has befriended a house cat across the road. He’s not allowed out to play, so he stands staring out of the window. She stands outside staring back with a “Come n get me,” look in her eyes.

In a land not so far away, close to a certain university halls of residence, there lives another cat that we love. He is brown and black mottled with a tail that stands straight up like a sooty bottle brush. He wears the surprised expression of one who has stumbled and fallen down a very dirty chimney.

He goes by the name of Stranley – see reference to uni halls of residence above. But he is a loving affectionate boy is Stranley.

We met him when our son went to halls. My son, equally loving and affectionate, smuggled him out the odd sausage and bit of bacon from the student restaurant. They became great friends. It was love all.

Now when I sift through the snapshots of my life, I always pause on the one where I turn the corner at those university halls on a sunny evening, and come upon my son, perched on the edge of the pavement, bag of books slung beside him, Stranley cradled in his arms.

It’s one of my all-time favourites.