Is That You?

It just sort of turned up one day, the way cats do. We didn't think anything of it at the time. That's how it goes, right?

Before people get a puppy, they research which breeds are right for them, or the shelter does a home visit and checks there aren't any holes in the fence. The owner names the new arrival as tenderly as they would a human infant. They feed him only what he is already accustomed to, and transition him to the best they can afford. They watch his coat and bowel movements for any sign that his precious digestive system has been upset.

Now, take your average cat. He just picks you, or possibly more accurately, your home, at random. He just wanders in one day and vomits behind the sofa to establish dominance. Or you fish him out of the rubbish in the freezing cold and he ends up with a stupid place-holder nickname that stuck.

This one was ordinary-looking. A little on big, but not remarkably so. His fur was a bit long and he was sleek and handsome, but his colouring was boring. Black, with a white streak that barely dodged his nose and ran down to his belly.

My dad was old fashioned and not a fan of animals, least of all pets. He insisted Gary could come in twice a day for food, but only as far as the kitchen.

Gary had other ideas. No matter how conscientiously we put him outside and shooed him away, he'd turn up inside again ten minutes later. We'd hurry to put him back out, to save the hassle of Dad finding him, and stomping about in a mood, but it did no good. It was the way he just kept appearing. It was uncanny. I've never been the superstitious sort, but I started wondering if Gary could teleport, or maybe walk through solid walls or doors.

Was he even properly real? Was he a ghost? The spirit of a loved one, maybe.

"Grandad? Is that you?"

I whispered it, because I felt so silly. Gary didn't laugh. He listened, perfectly serious, and blinked twice, slowly. He reached out with a paw, and patted my hand, the way Grandad used to do.

We aren't sure of his age, but we've had him nearly twenty years and he's hardly changed a bit.

We tried getting a kitten once, but he bullied the thing mercilessly, and we had to take her back.

Then last month, Nana died. Less than a week later, an imperious grey tabby turned up on the doorstep, meowing for, as it turned out a very specific brand of cat food. I couldn't help but remember how particular she could be about what tea she'd drink.

Gary and Barb are inseperable. They come and go as they please. Dad gave up on the mostly outdoor cat" nonsense years ago. We have litter boxes, now. Plural. A cat flap, too.

Dad remarked the other day,

"If you can come back, I think I'll come back as a cat. I'll want salmon twice a week, and you can leave the spare room door open."