Jaffacake With A Twist

I’d love to say that I like animals, but I don’t. I had always told people I liked cats, with no actual backing. I had never really been around cats to know if I liked them. But they all seemed sweet and cuddly on screen when watching cat videos were all the rage.

The first experience I had with a cat was when a school friend had invited me over to her house after school to see her new kitten, Bubbles. Skittish little thing, she couldn’t get him out from behind the sofa that he had used to shield himself from newcomers. I ‘ahh’-ed and ‘aww’-ed at all the right moments, but could never really get that close enough to her kitten to decide if I did like the feline species that I had aligned myself with in my head.

And just like sharing cat videos, the rise of new kitten owners in my circle had peaked, the hype had travelled like a virus and everyone and their dog were bringing home a new addition to the family. I begged my parents for new cuddly little friend, hoping they had also gotten a little feverish for a new addition. They said no. Again and again. Meanwhile I had started visiting friends who were all keen to show off their new accessory, and although I had been telling myself that those little creatures were so adorable and I wished I could have one, I could never bring myself to touch them.

The fear that entwined around my heart at the thought of being even slightly close to these tiny beasts, was debilitating. Being from a different species, you never really know what they will do. Their thoughts, their reactions – they’re all unknown. From slight but dangerously murderous knives that peek out of their paws to serpent-like fangs that reside within their mouths. They were a cesspool of danger and the unknown frightened me most of all. From afar, they were the cutest beings, but up close, as you try to pet one, you never know if they might view the proximity of your hand as an aggressive gesture and react by savagely piercing your skin with one of their many deadly tools.

With time, my pleas to my parents had decreased, with my fear of being mutilated by these ferocious felines having reached an all-time high.

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We moved houses and strangely to an area which held an alarming number of cats. It was fine, I wasn’t scared of walking past them, knowing of their lonesome nature. Every day, I would walk past a neighbour whose cats were always outside her window, and every day, I would look, comment with an ‘aw’ and continue my journey.

One day, I had enough of my own skittish behaviour, especially since a friend of mine would aggressively parade her love for her own cat in front of us. I decided I was going to stroke my neighbour’s cat. However, once I had come to this decision, I had a hard time scheduling their playtime outside with my journey to and from home, and this only strengthened my determination to pet one of the cats when I next laid eyes on them.

The two candidates included a white, fluffy Aegean cat while the other was a ginger cat which I had affectionately named Jaffacake in my head. It was the second cat with whom I ended up building a relationship. From skittishly stroking the fiery beauty to training it to run to me at the click of a finger. We would sit outside my neighbour’s window, me crouching on the floor, and him half sitting on my lap, his eyes closed, enjoying my attentive fingers through his fur. My neighbour was a sweet woman who enjoyed being part of my journey from fearfully liking her cats from afar, to creating a bond with them while she tended to her new baby, unable to give her cats as much attention as they were used to before.

She had asked me if I wanted to adopt one of her cats, and I politely declined, knowing my parents had not yet come around to that idea, even though they had also built some kind of a relationship with this feline duo. That was before tragedy hit and the little safe corner of my world had been rocked with unimaginable anguish.

There had been a murder.

It was a difficult time for my community, my street, my little safe corner of the world. My family and I had tried to console and support my neighbour as much as possible, after losing her husband so tragically. We had cooked frequently, providing meals for her and others from the street had also done the same. We were supportive, and communicated frequently. She was in a world of pain and we could only be a supportive shoulder for her to lean on. She had welcomed us to the area when we had first moved there, and so it was the least we could do. We all helped with celebrating his life and contributed respect and tokens of compassionate gifts and candles to a public wall with his name.

The unthinkable had already happened, but what happened next was something I wouldn’t have predicted.

She knocked on our door on a Saturday afternoon. She was leaving. Moving houses. She asked if I could adopt one of her cats; she couldn’t manage looking after her family and her pets during this time. She offered me the ginger cat, Jaffacake, and said she was giving the other one to her sister. She knew how good of a relationship I had built with her first baby and she didn’t want to take him to the shelter, because she knew he loved me and that I’d take care of him.

We hugged and cried, and said our goodbyes. I closed the door and welcomed the new addition to my family.

Jaffacake.