A clowder of cats

Irene Nemirovksy could only have been a dedicated admirer and observer of cats. I refer to the clowder of cats slinking through the chapters of her final novel Suite Francaise. Most noticeably Albert, the family cat, pounces from the pages in one chapter devoted entirely to him and his prey, whereas some of the minor human characters are confined to several paragraphs.

Albert the cat is part of the wartime exodus from Paris in June 1940. Having suffocated between the buildings of Paris for most of his life, under the wary eyes of skanky city rats and hustler pigeons, war brings him the opportunity to lick the country air and all its bounty. Late one night he evades the sleeping wriggles of children and plunges from the window of the house in the country village where the family have stopped to rest en route to the South of France. He is a sensory fur ball, egged on by smell and sound to commit all kinds of savagery.

Later, drunk on blood and feathers he heads home under the eye of the night. Planes slink stealthily through the beating clouds, sniffing out their prey. Albert is back inside, warm and purring before the night is broken up by yowling bombs falling from the sky and setting the village alight with pain.

Hearing an undecipherable noise which sounds close, I look up from this chapter to study the ears of my cat who is reclined on the couch across from me, one paw placed dandily in front of him. He gives me a bored but loyal look. His powerful ears haven't registered any abnormality - no flat ghoul trying to slither through the crack under the door. I watch him a bit longer to confirm also that the low rumbling sound beneath my bed is just the regular creepy sound of the after-hours metro carrying banshees from one empty station to another, and not the beginnings of an earthquake. But my noise meter gives the all clear and I return to my book.

All the guides on cats that I've read say that cats make perfect pets for children who are afraid of the dark because the warmth and tickle of a cat's whiskers makes you feel peaceful. Since I've had my cat I'm certainly a lot calmer. I now manage to fall asleep before the witching hour, and if necessary, I can blame the noises on him. Things that bump and scratch in the night are no longer the transparent undead. At least in my own head, those noises are probably just my cat.

Speaking to a friend the other day she was saying how she doesn't particularly like living alone.
I love living alone! I said.
Well, that’s because you have a cat.
And it’s true. When you have someone who sleeps on your head and drools in your lap there is no sense of being alone.

It’s not the first cat I’ve had. There have been others. But those were family cats. In my diary I’ve duly noted that my last cat died at the same time that one of my formative relationships disintegrated. Two great loves dead in one searing week.

My current cat arrived in my life heralding the birth of a relationship. I’ve posted the relevant post from my old blog below.