When my last furry tyrant died at 19, I was determined not to get another for a while. I was going to save money, travel, not have to make arrangements for a cat if I went out to stay with friends overnight. However, the rest of the family staged a serious protest. The house was empty (it didn't seem to matter to them that the humans were all here). It was boring without a pet.
So I rather glumly consulted the internet for small local rescues, and found a photo of a raggedy cream and white longhair who was living rough and being fed by a couple of kindly locals. He was 'tailgating' through cat flaps, clearly desperate for a settled home. He had been neutered by one of the rescues, but they were all overflowing and he was on the wait lists and had been for a long time. It was coming up to autumn and it was pretty clear he would not make it through another season. Before I could change my mind, the rescue caught him and ferried him straight to my door. He was underweight, his coat was a mess and he was riddled with fleas. He had been outside for at least eight months, through rain, wind and winter storms.
Two years on, he rules the house with a velvet paw. He is the most polite cat I have ever lived with He uses his litter tray and scratch post perfectly, doesn't damage furniture or carpets, has a soft meow which he rarely uses, enjoys being groomed and lets me sleep in. He always comes when called and is very loving but not needy,
Someone must have taught him manners, but they didn't care enough to have him neutered or microchip him. We named him 'Hatton Gardens' after the famous jewellery quarter in London, because he was a rough diamond. If it were not for the dedication of a network of rescuers, we would never have met and my life would be much poorer.
London, United Kingdom
