Chris Pascoe’s Fun Tales

At first Spooky played a clever game with us

Does Chris need rescuing from himself… or from savage Spooky?

Most of the cats I look after on my catsitting rounds can be a little skittish at times – it seems to be a general cat thing.

Cinders, for instance, is continually shocked to find she lives with a goldfish, Maggie finds teacups terrifying, while all four of Gazza’s white paws leave the ground every time his owner’s clock chimes, even though it’s been doing the same thing every hour for eight years.

Often the most skittish and unpredictable of all are rescue cats. While some are so brilliantly balanced that you’d never know they’ve been through hard times in their lives, many can’t help but show the scars.

I bear many of the scars too – especially after a week in which one lovely but very upset rescue cat, recently released from quarantine after an arduous journey from America, decided that I represented a clear and present danger and took to viciously attacking me at every opportunity. Note to self: shorts are NOT adequate clothing for a cat sitter.

One of my own cats, Spooky, is a rescue, which caused a little confusion for my then toddler daughter.

Maya: Spooky is a rescuecat?

Me: Yes, that’s right.

Maya: A RESCUE CAT! WOW! WOW!! What does she have to do?

Me: Do? She doesn’t have to do anything. What do you mean?

Maya: How does she rescue people? Who does she rescue?

An image of Spooky with a St Bernard’s brandy barrel attached to her collar sprang to mind. I liked the scenario a lot, but in the early days my relationship with Spooky was never as simple as a friendly stroke and a glass of brandy.

When we first visited her at the RSPCA she played a clever game with us, demanding strokes and being generally irresistible. Once home, it was quite a while before we saw any of that sort of thing again.

She was a monster for weeks, particularly with me. After a month of her gashing my hand every time I thought a quick stroke might be possible, I proved beyond any doubt how stupid I am (were there still any lingering doubts out there?) by putting my face towards her instead of my hands.

Now while this might seem a little foolhardy, there was method in my madness. The terrified way in which she watched hands seemed to suggest she’d been hit by one in the past, so I hoped that keeping my hands behind my back, and only approaching face-first, might prevent her from panicking.

My injuries were truly horrific – no, not really! The gambit paid off. She brushed her face against mine and began instantly purring!

But it was Maya who really rescued her rescue cat. Something in Maya’s persistent attempts at friendship suddenly clicked with Spooky, and it’s testament to the success of her full rehabilitation that, as I sit here writing this week’s column, Spooky is lying on my desk and I’m typing around her paws.

Still no brandy, though.

Chris Pascoe is the author of A Cat Called Birmingham and You Can Take the Cat Out of Slough, and of Your Cat magazine’s column Confessions of a Cat Sitter.