When the most beautiful cat in the world died, I swore I’d never have another. He was a blue Persian with orange eyes, full of mischief and never put a paw wrong.
It was a whole 15 years ago, but to lose him was so dreadful I still cannot bear to read the pages of my diary that describe his last days.
I vowed that in the face of all temptation I would never again share my life with a cat. And I kept that vow – until two years ago, when the Madame came into my life.
I did not want the Madame. I didn’t want anything to prevent me travelling and getting on with my life. Nothing dependent on me, not even a houseplant.
I certainly did not want a cat who was going to be rehomed because of her penchant for destroying the landlord’s furniture with her claws, as cats will do. This one had a special fondness for anything made of leather.
The Madame originally belonged to a friend. When his landlord put up the rent and he had to move, he planned to take her to an animal shelter. ‘Unless you would like her,’ he said, looking at me in that way that said: ‘This is her only chance. If you refuse, you will be guilty of catricide.’
And so it was that I foolishly said I’d have her for two weeks while he found someone who really wanted her. But brazen, beautiful, uncontrollable, arrogant and defiant, I quickly recognised her as a kindred spirit – my soul cat.
Naturally, two years on, the Madame and I are still living together. So devoted are we that she’s not going anywhere ever again. I only have to pop out to the shop and I have withdrawal symptoms; she only has to go on a walkabout slightly longer than usual and I’m looking everywhere for her.
Has she fallen off the balcony? Has she got into the street and had an encounter with a car? I can frequently be found on all fours in the road looking under vehicles, just in case – only to find her back in my flat, sitting on the coffee table, grooming her fur. I’m mad about the cat.
When she arrived, she was a little, cowering thing in a big basket with huge eyes, extraterrestrial ears and the teeniest of tiny wrists and paws. She was a plain old tabby – she didn’t even appear to have attitude – and yet, instead of coming out of her carrier, running behind the furniture and refusing to come out like most cats do in a strange environment, the Madame climbed on to my knee, curled her paws beneath her and refused to move.
Whenever I got up, she flew round the room then came to my lap again. She didn’t sleep, she didn’t purr, she didn’t play, she just sat close when she was not shredding the furniture.
And, yes, she has shredded the furniture.
‘Leave her to me,’ I said, confidently, when she first arrived. ‘She won’t dare destroy my flat. I’m used to cats. I know how to keep them under control.’
What happened? She has destroyed my sofas and dug up my rugs. She’s shredded handbags, leather coats, a leather-trimmed French bed, two leather Italian chairs and has started on a nest of irreplaceable, leather-trimmed occasional tables. She’s allowed to do so because I find her wilfulness charming. Also, I wouldn’t dare to tell her off.
In vain, I bought her a scratching post. Not interested. Nor in human food either. I can spend hours cutting up leftover chicken. She won’t touch it. She’s only interested in top-of-the-range, specialist cat food and as for cat litter, it has to be violet-scented.
My Madame may just be a plain old tabby, but she has the personality of a diva. That’s why she’s known as the Madame even though that’s not really her name.
She started life as Shadow, the name given to her by the little boy who first had her as a kitten. It is the name of some film character with supernatural power and it has certainly rubbed off on her.
She has used her magic on me – there’s no way I could get rid of her now.
Though I’ve had cats since childhood, I’ve never had one so opinionated and who insists on being obeyed. Having said that, if the news is on, she sits with me and watches it.
She doesn’t get up at 4am demanding food, she snuggles under the duvet and lets you sleep. When it’s time to water the garden, she sits by the tap. When it’s time to take a bath, she stares at the shower attachment.
When it’s time to write, you have to turf her off the keyboard. When feeling off-colour, she’s right there, draped over you like a hot water bottle.
She loves cocktail hour, and when the sun is over the yardarm, she stares at the bottle opener. I am afraid she has a taste for a nice glass of wine, so you have to remember to put it out of reach.
When it’s time to play, she crouches on top of the sofa with a look so beguiling you have to stop whatever you are doing and get out the dressing gown cord.
The Madame won’t play with anything else. She’s gone right off the laser because she knows she can never catch it. She despises games-for-cats apps and flings the iPad over the other side of the room because it’s quite clear to her that a picture of a mouse is not the same as a mouse; and yet she will sit for hours with me, watching the live stream of Sunday Mass.
Of course everyone thinks their cat is special. But my Madame really is a very unusual cat. I’ve never known another feline who is afraid of birds. She turns tail and runs away from sparrows. As for pigeons, she flies back into the house and under the table.
She has a boyfriend who lives next door and she won’t let him get away with anything. She won’t let him in the house – that’s her domain – and she won’t let him anywhere near me, she’s so possessive. I like to think of it as loyal. We’re the item and he’s intruding.
In fact, it’s fair to say the Madame hates everyone else but me. She hides from the cleaner, she disappears when the gardener comes, she’s suspicious of the TV repair man and perish the thought that I would have a dinner party – the Madame is not keen on me having visitors at all. Our house is our house and no one else must cross the threshold.
The Madame just gets under your skin, quite literally when she gets her teeth and claws out, which I am afraid she does often. I don’t dare trim the claws because she thinks I’m trying to kill her.
We’ve had to have a heart-to-heart about this but I think she’s finally got the message. She certainly understands everything I say and you don’t get better than that in a human.
In fact, she doesn’t think of herself as a cat at all, but as my companion. She’s my friend and, as for me, I’m happy to be her slave.
Retriever will be by my side for ever
By Antoinette Foers, Sheffield
I read Kate Spicer’s article with tears in my eyes. I have had many dogs over the years and currently have two – Blakie and Dinah – but my soul dog was my beloved Taggart. He was a black, flat-coated retriever and only five years old when I lost him.
He died in a terrible freak accident. We were out early on a November day and he ran off with a tennis ball which he had stolen from my other dog, Drummer. He was a naughty, mischievous boy but always came when called… except that morning.
I found my darling boy dead, the tennis ball firmly wedged in his throat. As I bent over him, I saw the light go out of his eyes. My heart broke that morning and pieces of it will never heal.
He was a unique character. A comedian who was always in some kind of trouble – you couldn’t be with him for many minutes without laughing.
He used to dance with me in the kitchen and he’d put his paws on the worktop and lean his big head on me as if to say: ‘Let’s dance again.’ He was a wonderful swimmer and would take flying leaps into rivers and lakes, heedless of danger.
I absolutely adored him from the day he came into my life at eight weeks old and the feeling was mutual.
I know he loved me as much as I loved him. He was always by my side and somewhere, deep in my heart, I feel he still is.
Loyal parrot made me want to be a vet
By Malcolm D. Welshman, Somerset
I was nine years old when I first met Polly, one hot, dusty morning in Nigeria. A grizzled Hausa trader in a grubby white robe waddled out of the crowd. From his hand swayed the cage from which the African Grey parrot stared out.
Polly became ours for five Nigerian pounds.
She had a powerful beak and a vicious bite, so no way was I ever going to go near her. Until the day I was carrying my aquarium through the lounge and knocked it against a door handle. The glass splintered. Out poured the fish. So, too, did my tears.
I ran to Polly’s cage. For a moment she looked startled. Then she waddled forward, putting her head down against the bars as if asking for a scratch. Still blubbering, I didn’t stop to think and poked my finger through the bars.
Polly’s beak caught the tip of my finger. But no bite. Just the gentle feel of her tongue over my skin as she kissed me before she, too, burst out sobbing.
From that moment on we were firm friends and no further encouragement was needed for her to scramble out of her cage and waddle up my arm.
I hadn’t appreciated how close a bond one could develop with a parrot. But Polly’s trust and loyalty made me determined to be a vet when I grew up.
When I turned 11, I was sent to school in England. ‘Wotcha mate,’ she’d exclaim on seeing me back for the holidays, as if I’d only been gone a day.
Once we returned to the UK, Polly was housed in the kitchen where she soon picked up the sounds of daily life. She did a wonderful imitation of a beer bottle top being removed. Phish. A glass being filled. Glug… glug. The beer drunk. Gump… gump. To be followed by a hearty belch. Father’s belch or Mother’s belch? I could never tell as they both liked their tipple.
For 20 years, Polly provided marvellous entertainment, a much-loved member of the family. My soulmate. So, you can imagine the emotions when, having just qualified as a vet, my mother phoned to say Polly was dying. A swelling had developed on her neck.
There was no way I could let her slip away, painfully being asphyxiated as the cancer pressed deep into her neck. So the sterile operating instruments were laid out on the kitchen table. I drew up a dose of anaesthetic, conscious my hands were trembling. The operation went better than expected, though a desperate week followed. She ate nothing for three days.
One morning, I went down to the kitchen fearful I’d find Polly dead in her cage. But no. She was still on her perch. As I approached she waddled across, pressed her head down against the bars of the cage and in a croaky voice, my voice, said: ‘Wotcha mate!’
As a young vet still wet around the gills, it gave me a great sense of achievement – I had successfully completed a tricky operation with all the emotional difficulties of the patient being my own pet.
From then on, if ever I had any pre-operation nerves, I only had to hear that chirpy ‘Wotcha mate!’ in my head and any doubts flew away. All thanks to Polly, my ever-loving friend. My soulmate.
Magical myrtle conquered world
By Daphne Constantine, East Sussex
Myrtle, my small black Pekingese, was my soul dog at first sight. She travelled with me to Cairo and the Pyramids and across the Sinai Desert to the Red Sea. We had many adventures, which I eventually turned into a book.
Myrtle’s eyes had an expression which I have never seen in any other animal – deep, changeable and intelligent, but transmitting huge comprehension and love. She drew people and animals to her.
When she died in 2021, I received bouquets from every continent except Antarctica, plus countless cards, letters and gifts.
Such was her magic, that almost four years after her death, she is still remembered all over the world, through Pekingese Facebook sites. Her vet recently said she was like a human in an animal skin. Since his clients number over 800, to recall her, as he still does, after so long is remarkable.
I have owned two dogs since and, though adorable, neither gripped me with the intensity of a bond as Myrtle did – and still does.
She once won a PDSA commendation for saving the life of an elderly lady who had fallen in her flat. Myrtle refused to allow me to walk past the door, scratching and barking until I investigated. It was mid-December and bitterly cold. I heard the cries for help, thanks to Myrtle.
A soul dog? Yes. It was as if she was sent to uplift and reassure me. She was never owned. She was almost bestowing her presence on me. No one expects that from a tiny Pekingese – they should be on a sofa eating treats. But Myrtle took on the world and conquered it – and me.
