I need to apologise to cats

The musical didn't do them any favours.

I have only been travelling for a month, and already, I’ve changed so much.
I’ve started to like cats.

I used to call them “it”, the same as babies or any child that’s sub eight.

Then I met Bug.

Compared to other cats I’ve existed with, like the ones in Tuscany who would stalk the pasta pot just to flick in their fine, grippy hair, Bug was different.

Bug would kindly watch me gag at his kitty litter, gag at his tinned food and then sever any bond we had left by wedging a pillow between us while we watched TV. Yet, he still remained respectfully near, but distant enough to let me assemble my own tinned tuna in peace.

As I was housesitting his house, I did have to feign some respect. So occasionally, I’d swish a feather for him to chase (always away from me). It was purely tokenistic, the same as taking a kid to the park and pushing them on the swing for five minutes. Fortunately, in both situations, you can get away with looking bored.

But Bug’s teardown was patient. Each morning, for eight days, he’d prance on the bed. At first, he’d curl up at my feet to have another sleep. And because I consented, never nudging him away, he gradually got closer to my pillow. I didn’t realise I was enjoying the routine until he was lying next to me and I felt the need to send a picture of this to my mum.

“What’s gotten into me?” I said to myself in the privacy of the toilet… I thought I only liked the obvious wagging affection of a dog, but this cat had flattered me. Maybe all I needed, like them, was the 29 years of respectful distance. Flushing, I then remembered the litter I had to dry reach over later. It wasn’t a moment too soon.

Sharing this revelation with my sister, she passed back her latest cat theory: the link between men who hate cats and men who are misogynists. Conveniently backed by this week’s SubwayTakes, we agreed that a relationship with a cat is based on respect, something a misogynist is unlikely to give to a self-assured cat. Answer to the patriarchy? More “cat dads”.

Since Bug, I’ve also pet Talia’s 21-year-old (!) cat Treacle who has dementia. I again found I was enjoying myself. Then there was the cat that wormed under an old gate in the Loire Valley to (again) sleep at my feet. This is the most cats I’ve petted in one month, and I’m feeling better for it.

So gallantly fulfilled by nature, I almost tripped the other night to make sure I didn’t squash a snail. I’m not saying I’m an angel (…), but on contemplation I realised it was Bug who had sniffed out a new softness. My next thought was that I may as well become a vegetarian, but then I thought about chicken thighs on the BBQ.

Maybe I need to pet a chicken.

Watching the most recent cat at the end of the bed (The Loire Valley Cat), I realised I really do like their company. Unlike other things you tend to take care of, they don’t wail or die from overwatering. They are self-cleaning and occasionally like company. They’re also soft, with tiny paws.

Cats: I’m sorry.

While the stench of the litter and The Musical delayed me, I’m ready to like you.

Can you like me???

It’s okay if you don’t want to.