They were both at death’s door by the time the team reached them, brought back to life by the quick-thinking emergency services on the street.
Josh’s sister and her two smoky cats came to stay with us. That much I was expecting, but what I wasn’t expecting was how traumatized the cats would be. They were scared and jumpy and I felt desperately sorry for them.
As a child, I’d only ever briefly owned a dog and never had much of a connection with cats. But in the month that Pickle and Pootle were with us, I formed a deep bond with them. I found myself rushing home to see them every night, and when they left after a few weeks, I missed them. I missed their little faces and the unwavering love and affection they showed me whenever they were near. It had been a very special privilege to watch them recover from the fire, to go from crying, scared cats to boisterous and mischievous adventurers once more. I was honoured it had happened in our home. But, more than that, it was amazing how quickly the pair had felt like a part of the family, a part of our home, and I was sad when they left.
Josh and I decided to visit Battersea Dogs & Cats Home and put our names down for a kitten. We explained we were going on holiday, and were told that when we returned, we’d be in a good position to take one or two cats home.
I hadn’t been sure about taking two but, months earlier, Josh and I had begun to talk in earnest about having a cat, or cats, while we had been on holiday in America. One afternoon we were driving from Phoenix to Tombstone, a town famous for its cowboy past, when Josh had said, ‘We’ve just exchanged on our family home and, once it’s renovated, we’ll be in the perfect position to finally get a cat … or two.’ As our Jeep bounced along the highway, we talked about all our options, where we would get the cat from, where we would put its bed and even what we could name it. As we did, I flipped the radio station and a song blared out. It was a Jennifer Lopez number, featuring the rapper Pitbull, and when I heard the rap at the beginning, I laughed. ‘Did you catch that?’ I said. ‘The lyric there?’
‘Which bit?’ Josh said.
‘Something about Tonka. Isn’t that a great name for a cat?’
‘It is a great name,’ he said. ‘We need to keep Tonka on our radar.’
Next day, as we headed to New Mexico, we passed through a beautiful little Bohemian-looking town. It was filled with art galleries and we spent a blissful day there pottering about. At dusk we were driving out when we spotted a big sign at the side of the road: You are now leaving Bisbee. Josh said: ‘Bisbee. That’s a cool name for a cat.’
It was settled. Tonka and Bisbee were firmly on our list of favourite cat names and we agreed we would check out Battersea for cats to adopt.
We returned home from our holiday, renovated our house in south-west London and, more than a year after Pickle and Pootle had stayed with us, we started looking at the Battersea website.
One Sunday the profile of a beautiful silver tabby called Thunder caught my eye. When I showed Josh, he said: ‘Let’s go down next weekend.’
It seemed so far away when I wanted that cat there and then but, after a slow week at work, Saturday eventually arrived. We took ourselves off to Battersea. At Reception, our details were taken and we were interviewed. I was pleasantly surprised by how vigorous the interview process was. The lady asked all sorts of questions.
How long have you lived at your current home? Is it near a main road? Is there a cat flap, a garden, any other pets?
The questions went on and on. It was clear that Battersea were committed to making sure they matched potential owners with the right animal. Not only was an animal rehomed quickly, but it went to the right home.
Then she said: ‘Finally, can I have a copy of your IDs and a recent utility bill?’
We handed them over. ‘It’s very thorough, this process, isn’t it?’ I said.
She smiled. ‘It has to be, for the sake of both you and the animals.’ Then she added: ‘Just so you know, Battersea reserves the right to inspect the house and your living arrangements.’
We nodded.
Afterwards, we waited in the reception area for another member of staff to give us a tour of the cattery when I spotted a familiar face. He had silver fur and eyes that shone … It was Thunder and he was in a cat carrier being taken home by his new owners! I nudged Josh and the despair I felt was reflected on his face. Just like that, the gorgeous cat we’d set our hearts on was gone.
I felt deflated as I watched the couple disappear up the slope and out of the Home. Worse, when we got upstairs to the cattery, a lot of the pods were empty. Neither of us had had any idea how busy Saturdays were for Battersea and how many animals were rehomed at the weekend. I later discovered that over one bank holiday weekend alone thirty-six cats were rehomed.
It was now four thirty and, although a lot of pods were empty, there were still some animals waiting for new homes. Each one had a little description sheet stuck to the front. Some said the cat needed company, others that the owners needed previous cat experience, or that the cat couldn’t be left alone during the day. A sinking feeling settled inside me. Perhaps we weren’t meant to take home a cat today. Then I noticed one glass door with no information on it. Inside, a tabby cat was sitting on his haunches – and winking at us. I did a double-take. He really was winking at us. I nudged Josh. ‘Look at that,’ I said. ‘Are you seeing this?’
‘Yes, Niall, I see it.’
The cat really was blinking one eye at us. I went off to find a cattery assistant and asked her to help us. She followed me to the winking cat’s pod and I said: ‘What’s the story with this cat?’
We learnt he was called Sammy: he was fine to be left alone, and no previous cat experience was necessary. ‘He’s only just come in but he’s in great shape and ready to be rehomed. Would you like to meet him?’
My heart skipped a beat.
Was Sammy the one for us?
Josh, or Dr Doolittle, as I jokingly called him, and I were allowed inside the pod for a bit of socializing with Sammy. He was very calm and friendly, and as we crouched down to stroke him, he brushed his tail against us. He wasn’t hissing or frightened, but totally at ease. Of course, within seconds he was all over Josh and purring away. I had had no experience with cats but, from what I could see, Sammy was a beautiful friendly cat and I was really taken with him, as was Josh.
We were in there for five minutes and we’d made our choice. When the Battersea rehomer returned, Josh and I found ourselves saying in unison: ‘We’ll take him.’
She gave us a confused look. ‘You’ll take both?’
‘What do you mean, both?’ I asked.
She pointed behind us to a cardboard box. I lifted the flap across the top and inside was a ginger tom. He was shaking uncontrollably. The poor sausage was scared out of his mind. It threw me but Josh’s eyes lit up. I knew what he was thinking. That two handsome little cats would be perfect.
As we popped the lid back down and gave the shaking cat some space, we learnt the two had been acquired from different litters but kept together by their owner in a fourth-floor flat.
Some people don’t leave much information about the animal they have brought to Battersea, but Sammy and Tommy had been left with reams and reams. Our rehomer explained: ‘It’s quite unusual for us to have all this history but the lady who brought them in had written copious notes about what they liked, didn’t like, their medical history and even their personalities.’
As she went to fetch the lady’s notes, I felt really quite sad. It was obvious the cats’ owner had loved them and to hear that she’d had to give them up for financial reasons was heart-breaking. The rehomer flicked through a thick binder that contained the notes and read out the bits she felt were important for us to know, starting with the medical stuff. Tommy had suffered a mouth problem so she fetched a vet to talk to us.
He examined Tommy’s mouth and showed us his teeth and gums. ‘He’s in really good shape now,’ he said, ‘so there’s nothing to worry about in terms of his previous pro
blems.’
It was good to hear that. The vet continued to talk about both cats. ‘They’ve had a battery of tests and are both healthy.’ He told us that a lot of felines have a form of HIV, known as FIV, but that these two were in the clear. He stuck around to answer all our questions, even though it was well past closing time. He didn’t rush us and was very patient. We truly felt we were in good hands. When he had said goodbye and left us, the rehomer told us more about the cats from the notes in the binder.
We learnt Sammy and Tommy’s exact birthdays and more about their past. Though they were from different mothers, they had been taken in by their previous owner at the same time. ‘They’ve never spent a day apart,’ the rehomer said, ‘and that is one of the strict instructions we were given by their owner. Under no circumstances should they be rehomed separately. They have to stay together.’
Josh’s eyes were round with urgency – the urgency to say yes now. But I needed time to consider things. I’d gone from wanting a dog to wanting a cat, and now I was being offered two. ‘Is it possible to have a think about it overnight?’ I asked.
‘Yes, of course. We’ll reserve them for you but please let us know by tomorrow lunchtime as we really would like to rehome this pair quickly because, as you can see, Tommy is having a really tough time in here.’
I totally understood. But with the night to think about it, I was confident we would make the right choice, not only for the cats but for Josh and me, too.
Over dinner and late into the night, Josh and I talked about what it meant for us to have two cats instead of one. It was a bonus knowing the cats were happy to stay in all day and be alone while we were at work, and that they would keep each other company.
That night, I tossed and turned, replaying our visit to Battersea in my mind. In the morning, I woke to find a familiar face staring intently at me.
‘So,’ Josh said, ‘have you decided?’
He’d obviously been awake for a while and, as the fog of sleep lifted from me, he didn’t let up. He’d clearly been dying to find out what I thought. And he knew me better than anyone: I was a procrastinator and sometimes I needed a nudge to get into gear. It was lucky that he knew exactly how to press my buttons.
Josh said: ‘Think of it this way, Niall. What if we say no and those beautiful cats end up in an abusive home?’
Well, that did it.
‘As soon as they’re open, we’ll call Battersea and let them know we’ll have them both.’
We made the call and headed straight to our local pet shop to stock up on everything we needed for Sammy and Tommy. Two days later, we returned to Battersea. Before we were given our cats, we were handed a rehoming pack and also some sound advice. ‘As these two have always been indoors, leave it a significant amount of time before you let them out. That way they’re unlikely to go out and never come back.’
I hadn’t even thought of that.
‘Try letting them out after two or three months. Also, try to keep them in one room for a week before letting them explore the rest of the house.’
I said: ‘That’s interesting. Why?’
‘They’ve had a bit of trauma, first of all being uprooted from their home and owner, then coming to Battersea where it’s noisy and busy and very different from what they’re used to. Now, coming to your home, it will make them feel better to have one safe, secure and calm room to get used to before they venture further.’
It made perfect sense.
‘Just make sure they have plenty of toys and access to litter trays,’ the rehomer said, ‘and visit their room to get to know them over that week.’
Finally, we were given the rehoming pack, then Sammy and Tommy were handed over to us.
Back home, we put down the cats’ carry cases in a quiet, sparsely furnished room, and opened them. I was so excited to have them home that I pulled out my phone and began videoing their arrival.
Straight away, two very different and interesting personalities emerged.
Bisbee, as we’d renamed Sammy, was quite cocky in his approach. He strutted around the room and explored everything in his path. He sniffed and pounced and played in his new environment, brushing past us as he sashayed around.
Tonka, as we’d renamed Tommy, was the complete opposite. When he eventually came out of his box, he ran towards the curtain and hid behind it. He was so painfully shy that when I pulled the curtain back he looked away. It was endearing and heart-breaking all in one go.
That night, we retreated to the lounge and read the rehoming pack from cover to cover. It was written in a very straightforward and helpful way, explaining how to get Bisbee and Tonka used to their litter tray, how to begin getting them used to going outside, and why neutering cats is so important. When we had finished, we flicked back to the beginning and read it again to make sure we hadn’t missed anything.
Over the next week, we could see Tonka was having a hard time and it was clear he was still quite traumatized. He couldn’t bear to be looked at and spent most of his waking hours hiding. When he wasn’t hiding, he was shaking.
We took Battersea’s advice and gradually introduced the pair to more of the house. Tonka wouldn’t often leave the room but Bisbee had a good snoop around.
After a week, we noticed Tonka’s microchip was sticking out of his skin so I called Battersea, and was asked to take him in. It was a hard task getting him into his carrier, and once I’d managed it, Bisbee paced around me manically. It was difficult to see their distress at being separated but I knew it had to be done.
At Battersea, a vet checked Tonka over, quickly removed the chip and reinserted it. He gave Tonka a rub. ‘It happens in a few cases but it should be OK now.’ As easily as that, the problem was fixed and the boys were reunited. Bisbee had waited by the door till we returned.
Several weeks passed and, while Bisbee settled in, Tonka didn’t want to interact with us and still hid all the time. Even though I’d witnessed Pickle and Pootle’s trauma, and their gradual recovery, I was anxious about Tonka. What if he was an antisocial, unhinged cat? Josh reassured me and told me repeatedly to give him more time. I vowed to be more patient with him.
One night I was crashed out on the sofa after a particularly hard day at work when I felt something licking my toe.
I realized it was Tonka. He had left the cats’ room and ventured into the lounge. Now he jumped up on to the sofa, tiptoed up beside me and took a seat right there on my stomach. Following weeks of us feeding him, being there for him and giving him what he needed, he had decided we were all right. I tried not to make any sudden moves and scare him off, just held my position, sprawled on the sofa, even though I wanted to squeeze him.
Instead I picked up the phone and called Josh, who was away on business, and told him about the breakthrough. He was as excited as I was so I took lots of pictures of Tonka napping on me and sent them to him.
From then on, it was as if a switch had been flicked. Tonka no longer hid behind the curtains and began to explore the house with fervour. He was finally home, and we could get to know him properly. I learnt he was chatty and affectionate, as well as demanding. He wanted our attention, our cuddles and our cooing over him. But he was equally giving of his time and love.
Whenever either of us came home, Tonka was waiting at the door. To follow his miaows of ‘Thank God you’re home,’ there were vigorous head bumps and demands for strokes … and food.
We learnt that if we were to put ten bowls of food in front of him, Tonka would not stop when he was full. Instead, he would methodically work through each one. We kept a keen eye on Bisbee’s food in case Tonka made a beeline for it, which, if we weren’t careful, he most definitely would.
Even when he didn’t want more food, Tonka rushed up our clothes, climbing us until he reached a shoulder, then perched on it like a pirate’s parrot to be as close to us, and any interesting action in the kitchen, as he could get. He was proving to be a right character and loved being around us.
At night,
it became impossible to shut our bedroom door because he would sit outside and miaow until we gave in. Once that door was open, he jumped on to the bed and chatted away or kneaded our arms and backs, oblivious to the fact that we were trying to sleep.
If Josh and I ignored Tonka’s vocalizations, it was only a matter of time before he started head bumping. After that he used his paw to tap us on the cheek. If we slept through that, the final stage was a gentle nip on the nostril. Josh complained about it every day but, deep down, he loved it.
Tonka monopolized Josh and often ended up sleeping on his pillow, snuggled under the duvet or sprawled out on him.
But it wasn’t just us who enjoyed having an attention-seeking toddler in the house. Our parents were equally enamoured of Tonka and Bisbee. (Later, whenever we went away for work or a holiday, there was a scrap over who would cat-sit. It was on one such cat-sitting weekend that Tonka figured out a new skill: if he threw himself at the door handle with sufficient force, the door would open. At 5.5 kilos, he had enough strength to do it easily.)
One night, my parents came to stay after a trip to America, where their hotels had had twin beds. Before she retired upstairs, Mum joked: ‘It’s been great having my own bed. Tonight will be a bit of a challenge getting used to your father again!’
Off they went. Next morning, I asked how she’d slept.
A bemused look crossed her face. ‘I woke up in the middle of the night,’ she began, ‘with your father snoring right in my face. I turned the light on to tell him off but it wasn’t him. It was Tonka asleep on my pillow!’
I couldn’t stop laughing. ‘Poor Dad! He gets the blame for everything.’
Tonka’s night-time adventures continued. Bisbee, on the other hand, liked nothing more than to relax with Josh and me in front of the telly, or to sit quietly by himself in deep contemplation.
Being inside didn’t stop Tonka getting up to mischief. Over a weekend, when we’d gone to Lisbon and a friend was popping in to check on the cats and feed them, Tonka went missing. We almost flew home when we found out but the flights were so expensive we had to rethink our strategy.
Christmas at Battersea: True Stories of Miracles and Hope Page 6