Casper the Commuting Cat: The True Story of the Cat Who Rode the Bus and Stole Our Hearts

CHAPTER 3

Our Family

Casper may have had a new name, but he wasn’t too impressed with his new home. He had come into a house full of other cats, although he wouldn’t have known that from his hiding place under the bed. The cats had arrived via different routes and with varied histories. I hoped that Casper would venture out soon so he could meet his new family.

At the time, I was working in a centre for adults with learning disabilities in Weymouth. A few years earlier, one member of staff, Bill, had opened up a cat rescue centre to try to help local kitties. Bill came in one morning to say that they had a geriatric black cat being advertised in the paper the next day. He was hoping to get a good home for him, as he was such an old fluffy darling; he was sure that he would settle well and be a fantastic addition to any carer’s life.

My husband Chris is a long-distance lorry driver and was away on a job that day. When he called me later that night, I was full of stories about Bill’s cat. No sooner had I finished telling him than he simply said, ‘If you want him, Sue, have him.’

I was delighted and skipped into work the next morning to beg Bill, ‘Please, please, can we have the cat you were telling me about?’

He laughed at me. ‘You could have saved me the money for the newspaper ad if you’d said that yesterday! I’d be over the moon if you took him, and I won’t even have to do a house inspection, will I?’

We arranged for Bill to bring him round that night. I already knew what I’d call him – Jack, as in Jack Daniels. At that time, all our cats had ‘boozy’ names, which makes us sound like a right pair; we’re not raving alcoholics, I just liked to have a theme. As always, I was excited waiting for the cat to arrive. Receiving a new member of the family is, to me, as thrilling as waiting for someone to have a baby. Although I’d already chosen the name of this cat, I was still thrilled to find out what he would be like, what his personality would reveal to us and how he would get on with the others.

When Bill brought him in, I was struck by how beautiful this cat was, but as soon as Bill put him down on the carpet, I noticed he had wobbly back legs, which gave him an unusual walk. In fact, he fell over quite often as he walked along. The vet Bill used for the rescue centre said that he had arthritis, but it didn’t look like that to me. I’d had cats who’d suffered from the condition and this seemed different.

Jack settled in very well and it wasn’t long before we felt as if he had been with us forever. He was good-natured and caused no trouble. Everyone who visited loved him. Like me, they didn’t know what to make of his strange walk. I was mystified, until one day a friend called Peter came round for a coffee and saw Jack for the first time.

He watched him for a while, walking around with his distinct wobble, then said, ‘That’s Edmund.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘I know that cat,’ Peter said, ‘and he’s called Edmund.’

I scoffed at him How could he know my cat?

‘Well, there aren’t many cats who walk round Weymouth like that, falling over every two minutes, are there?’ he replied.

My heart sank. If Peter knew him, then he must belong to someone and wasn’t just a stray Bill had picked up. If he belonged to someone, then I’d have to give him back. This was always my concern when taking in cats from rescue centres: perhaps they were lost rather than abandoned, and, if they were found one day, I’d have no choice but to give them back. I would never knowingly keep a cat from its rightful owners, no matter how much I cared for it. I said as much to Peter, who immediately put my mind at rest.

‘No, Sue, you’ve got no worries in that department. I’m thrilled to bits that you’ve got him. He belonged to this couple I knew – George and Hilary. Their marriage was rocky from the day it started and it didn’t get any better. Poor Edmund, or Jack, was a casualty of their divorce, really.’

Peter told me that when Hilary left, George felt he couldn’t look after the cat as well, which is why he ended up in the rescue centre. Hilary was now living in the area again, and Peter was able to get in touch with her to say that we had Edmund/Jack. If she wanted him back and could offer him a safe home, I’d have to let him go.

My heart was in my mouth as I waited to hear from Peter. He said he would do all he could to contact Hilary quickly, but as the days passed I got myself into a terrible state, wondering each morning whether it would be my last one with Jack.

Finally, Peter did get back in touch. He had told Hilary that Chris and I had her cat, and explained to her that we loved him dearly. It transpired that she was over the moon at the news: she had been worried about the cat for ages and was now more than happy for us to keep him, as she wasn’t in a position to take him back. I felt like jumping up and down when I realized that Jack would be staying with us. Peter gave Hilary regular updates on how he was getting on, and it was a happy ending for everyone.

Jack soon settled in and turned into a very loving boy whose favourite hobby was being brushed; I was quite happy to be the one doing all the brushing. Towards the end of his days, he became unwell, and I tried to treat him as I would want to be treated myself. I’d lie on the floor with him, saying his name over and over again, telling him that everything would be all right and that we loved him. Of course, these were empty words to some degree – the love was there, but he was clearly so ill that everything was not going to be all right. I feel that we offer such words of comfort for the peace they may bring through their tone and repetition as much as anything else. I tried to keep my voice steady and my presence calming while I lay beside him. Affer a while, he would seem calmer. I would whisper to Jack he was such a good boy and I was very proud of him, but I knew that his time was running out. By the time Jack was put to sleep, I’d seen him through so many bad times that I could take some comfort that he was finally at peace.

When we first got Casper, Jack was very much part of the family. He had fit in easily, unlike the new boy. Those early days showed us just how stubborn Casper could be. His determination could outlast everyone else’s.

Casper was also sharing his new home with our lovely ginger boy, Oscar. We hadn’t chosen Oscar; he’d decided to come and live with us. When we lived in a different house in Weymouth, he’d been homed a few doors down the road from us. It wasn’t long after we moved in that he decided he would take up residence too. I’ve heard lots of similar stories and it seems as if the determined nature of some cats simply won’t yield to humans trying to tell them where to live. Of course, if there is cruelty or ill treatment involved, then you can understand why a cat with the freedom to roam would choose a kinder habitat. As far as I could tell, Oscar had a perfectly decent home; he just opted for a change.

I knew one lady who had looked after her cat beautifully for years, then, after a new family moved in next door, she never spent another night with him He would sit in their garden or on their wall, looking at her as if he could almost remember who she was but didn’t really have that much interest. She had done so much for that cat, but he preferred the new people. They were terribly apologetic about it, but, as my friend knew that her cat was being well looked after, she had no concerns – even if she was a little offended by his lack of loyalty. She told me it was as if he’d been waiting for his new family all along and had simply been passing the time with her. How funny cats are!

My Oscar was a very affectionate creature, towards both people and other animals, but he sprayed a lot, so I wondered whether he was stressed about something. The frustrating thing is that you can never know what is going on in a cat’s head to make it act in a particular way, and you can never find out whether there was something in its past that is still affecting it. If only they could speak!

Casper had other new companions to get used to besides Oscar and Jack. We also had KP and Peanut, who’d originally been my son’s cats. When he was widowed at a tragically young age, my son felt overwhelmed. I was happy to help out by taking in this sister pair. One of the reasons my son felt he couldn’t cope with the cats was that KP had thyroid problems and required daily medication to help her live a healthy life. She was a quiet, reserved little thing, quite shy – just like her sister, who recently developed the same thyroid condition. KP and Peanut didn’t have much to do with Casper for a while, because, as siblings, they had each other. However, as the years went by and we sadly lost KP to ill health, Peanut and Casper got friendlier.

Clyde, a huge gentle giant of a cat, was friendly with everyone. He weighed over a stone, but he was the one other kitty who broke into KP and Peanut’s little gang. Clyde’s favourite thing was to lie on his back and have his tummy stroked – he would roll over as soon as he saw anyone go near the cat brush, so you felt obliged to give him what he was so clearly desperate for. He also loved having his face washed by other cats, and it was KP who spent most time doing this.

Maybe it was no wonder that Casper took so long to come out of his hiding place; he must have wondered what mad cat world he had come into. Maybe he’d imagined his new home would be quiet, with only him and Tuppence in it. Instead, he had been transplanted somewhere full of cats and he was going to make us wait until he was ready before we were allowed to feel he had well and truly settled in.

Casper was joining a distinguished extended family of rather naughty cats. Whisky came to mind whenever I thought of all the cheeky things we’d witnessed over the years. She hadn’t been with us for long before she got up to nonsense. We prepared for Christmas when she was about four months old, setting up a huge real Christmas tree, laden with baubles on its strong branches. One day I went to work as usual, but when I got back I found the tree lying on its side in the sitting room with all the decorations spread on the floor, and what seemed like a million pine needles festooning the place. Sitting beside the tree was a little black ball of fluff looking terribly innocent – Whisky. As I got closer to her, I noticed an odd bulge in her mouth and then saw the green cable stuck between her lips. Our angelic looking little Whisky had a Christmas tree light in her mouth – thank goodness I’d unplugged the lights before going to work. From then on, we’ve always had artificial Christmas trees, but the cats in our lives have never run short of mischievous things to do.