We knew all the windows and doors were locked so there was no chance he’d made an escape. He was probably snoozing in a cosy hiding place somewhere in the house. It was the only explanation.
But when we arrived back home, there was still no sign of him. Bisbee was sitting by the American-style fridge-freezer so we gave him some food and continued looking for Tonka.
In another room, I could hear Josh calling Tonka. He was becoming more and more distressed. He came back to the kitchen, tears streaming down his face. ‘I think Tonka’s gone up the chimney. He could be anywhere.’
As the more logical of the two of us, I told him to take some deep breaths. ‘Let’s just think this through,’ I said.
Bisbee, though he’d been fed, was still staring at the fridge-freezer.
As I followed his gaze, I noticed something. There was a small 15-by-20-centimetre gap to the side of the unit. Surely not …
I climbed on to the counter and shone a torch into the gap. And there, in the spotlight, two pitiful eyes were staring back at me.
It was Tonka! Somehow he’d fallen into the gap and got himself wedged halfway down between the fridge-freezer and the wall. I called for Josh who came running in. We ended up pulling the doors off the fridge-freezer to get him out.
As soon as we did, Tonka dashed to the litter tray. The poor mite hadn’t made any mess while he’d been stuck.
It was a wonder he hadn’t made any noise with all the calling we’d done for him. He was usually such a loud and talkative cat but we reckoned the fright of getting stuck had sent him into shut-down mode. After he’d had some food and water, though, he couldn’t wait to tell us all about it. He climbed all over us, miaowing and chatting, cuddling into our arms while he talked and squeaked at us.
That was one life out of nine gone, for sure.
In mid-December, three months after the cats had come to live with us, I climbed into the loft and pulled down a number of specially labelled boxes. Each was marked ‘CHRISTMAS’ and was packed to the brim with baubles, tinsel, lights and other festive delights. Of course, for Tonka and Bisbee, it really was like all their Christmases had come at once. Every box had to be thoroughly investigated, and both trees, a real one for our downstairs living area and a fake one for our lounge upstairs, where we spent most of our time, were of great interest.
They bounced around as I tried to put up the decorations – it turned into a real mission, taking several hours longer than ever before. Everything that jingled was a target for pawing practice and, like two lithe little boxers, Tonka and Bisbee each picked one of the reflective disco-light-style baubles and went crazy for it.
Eventually, the trees were decorated and, for the most part, we kept the cats away from the real one in case they hurt themselves on the sharp pine needles. But the fake one upstairs became their new home – like a big climbing frame for cats. Bisbee was smaller so, with delicacy and agility, he climbed up into the tree and found a spot to settle near the warmth of the fairy lights. He napped his way through most of December in that tree.
Tonka, not one to be left out of anything fun, did the same. Only he knocked half of the decorations out of the tree as he climbed, making it sway from side to side before he settled opposite Bisbee. Every morning, I had to reconstruct Tonka’s side of the tree and there were more than a few bauble fatalities.
One decoration stayed out of reach: the boys’ stockings. I had bought four and stuck initials on: T, B, J, N. Josh and I filled Tonka and Bisbee’s with cat-nip toys, little stuffed mice and treats and hung them high above the fireplace, ready for Christmas Day.
That first Christmas with Tonka and Bisbee was magical. Josh and I were finally in our dream home, a five-storey townhouse that we’d made our own, and now our family had expanded to four.
When my parents arrived, the Christmas presents under the tree quickly piled up –Tonka and Bisbee had more gifts than the rest of us combined. They were due to get thoroughly spoilt but we couldn’t help ourselves.
On Christmas Eve, the house was full of family, hustle and bustle. During the day, Dad spent hours playing with Tonka, who loved chasing tennis balls, and Bisbee, who never tired of chasing a toy mouse on a string. In the evening, when we all settled in the lounge, the cats mooched from one person to the next, gaining cuddles and spoils as they went.
Next day, as Christmas got under way, Josh headed to the kitchen to cook up a storm while my mum got to know the cats a bit better. Ironically, she had always said she wasn’t keen on animals, but whenever there was a pet about, it loved her.
By the time lunch was ready, my parents were smitten with the pair of them. And who wouldn’t be? They were so handsome and so loving. It was impossible not to fall for them. Tonka and Bisbee were very much the stars of our Christmas and explored everything from wrapping paper to the presents under the tree. The first time Mum saw them climbing into the tree for a nap, she howled with laughter.
Meanwhile, it was a major task keeping them away from Josh who was cooking. They jumped up on to the counters despite our best efforts to keep them off, and we couldn’t leave a single scrap of food out. To keep them occupied, we gave the boys their presents and they sprang into life. Tonka rolled around in feline heaven with his cat-nip toy and Bisbee adored his stuffed mouse. Like a dog, he padded around the house with it hanging out of his mouth. He hid it, found it, dragged it and squashed it all through Christmas Day. And at the end, the two dragged their favourite toys into the Christmas tree, found their respective spots halfway up and began to snooze. It was the funniest sight I’d ever seen. Before I knew it, I’d taken more than a hundred photos of our first Christmas together.
At work in the New Year, my desktop became more and more cat-oriented with pictures of Tonka and Bisbee on my computer and on my phone. I was becoming a crazy cat person, but I didn’t care. Neither did Josh, though he did like to point out something every now and then: ‘And you were the one who wanted a dog!’
It was true. But now we had Tonka and Bisbee, I couldn’t imagine our lives without them.
Come Easter, I’d made every excuse to put off the final hurdle: letting them outside.
We’d installed a magnetic cat flap in the patio doors and Josh told me: ‘It’s time for Tonka and Bisbee to go outside.’
I was nervous, but I knew he was right.
It took Bisbee two days to figure out how the cat flap worked, but it was two weeks before Tonka had conquered it.
But conquer it they both did. They loved being outdoors and it was a real joy to watch them. Tonka and Bisbee explored every inch of the garden and quickly worked out they had an enemy lurking in the tree. Cyril the squirrel, as we called him, had made himself at home in our ash tree and the cats made it their life’s mission to catch him.
Some time later, we had friends over for dinner and one was in the bathroom on the top floor when she let out a shout: ‘Josh, Niall, you need to see this!’
I found her peering out of the window. I took her place, and when I looked out, I came eye to eye with Tonka, who was thirty feet up in the tree. He’d clearly been chasing Cyril and now he was stuck. It was worrying and, beside me, Josh was freaking out, as usual. I reckoned the safest thing to do was leave Tonka to his own devices and let him come down in his own time.
We didn’t have to wait long. By the time we’d all gone into the garden with a box of his favourite treats to rattle, Tonka had embarked on a somewhat uncontrolled and rapid descent to the ground.
Josh let out a gasp beside me and rushed over to our cat, who had landed gracefully on his feet. ‘You silly beast!’ he said, scooping Tonka into his arms. ‘What were you doing up there?’
Tonka turned casually to look at Josh, then me. There was a flutter of movement above us. There, high in the tree, was the squirrel. Tonka gave him a good stare and let out a miaow, but before he could jump out of Josh’s arms for round two, Josh rushed inside. ‘I’m not letting that happen again anytime soon.’
We set
Tonka down and he waltzed off to his bed, oblivious to the drama that seemed to follow him everywhere he went.
In time, it became clear that Cyril wasn’t the cats’ only enemy knocking about the area. Next door, our neighbours had a yappy little dog that was constantly in and out of their back garden. Whenever they arrived home, the dog would start yapping. After a while, that kind of a noise becomes part of the background so it didn’t bother us too much.
But one evening the dog was noticeably quiet. I pointed it out to Josh. ‘Isn’t that weird?’
‘It is,’ he replied, ‘but at least we can have some peace now!’
Not ten minutes had passed when there was a knock at the door. Our neighbours were there, and they looked a bit pale. ‘What’s the matter?’ I said. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘I’m not sure,’ came the reply. ‘Can you come next door for a minute?’
Down our steps we went, through the gate and up to the front door at our neighbours’ home. It was open and we were ushered inside.
At first, I didn’t spot anything out of place. Then, my eyes moved towards the stairs. At the top their little dog was sitting bolt upright and looking more than a little confused.
I nudged Josh and, as he followed my gaze, I tried desperately not to laugh because on either side of the poor little dog a cat was flanking him. One familiar grey one and the other his ginger brother. Tonka and Bisbee had snuck into the house and were now casually asleep beside the dog.
I turned to our neighbours with a sheepish grin. ‘All that breaking in must have knackered them out. Erm, so sorry about this …’
It hadn’t been the first time they’d asked me to remove Tonka and Bisbee from their home as they often liked to sneak in.
I moved quietly up the stairs and scooped both of them into my arms. After that, the neighbours fixed their back door with a magnetic flap through which only their dog could pass.
Tonka and Bisbee’s shenanigans with the locals didn’t end there. When they were out in the garden, their favourite spot was on the fence to the left of the house. They’d often perch there, face to face, while keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. Not much frightened Tonka but the neighbours to the left of us had an obese ginger female cat called Boo and she terrified him. Whenever he saw her, he’d slip into stealth mode, and would inch in super-slow motion towards the house, thinking that if he moved slowly enough, she wouldn’t see him. Around Boo, Tonka was a complete coward.
But Bisbee was nothing of the sort. Whenever Tonka was in trouble or there was the slightest whiff of danger, Bisbee shot outside to protect his brother. His tail would fan out to five times its normal size and he’d instantly be ready for battle. It really was a sight to behold. One afternoon, Bisbee flew past me and out of the cat flap. All I could hear was a scuffle and a skirmish, then lots of hissing.
I looked out of the window and a panther-like black cat was trying to tear into Tonka. Before I could react, Bisbee had jumped in and chased away the assailant. I felt like a proud dad as the two brothers limped back to the cat flap and sloped inside for a rest.
When each of their birthdays rolled round, Josh and I gave them a card signed by both of us and the other cat, plus special treats. Bisbee’s favourite was prawns and Tonka’s was chicken breast. We figured that out because whenever Josh or I had a prawn or chicken dish for dinner a little paw would creep in under an arm and try to snatch a bit.
That wasn’t the only mischief Tonka got up to with his paws. When I worked from home, he milled about near me and sometimes jumped on to my desk. He’d watch my fingers tapping away on the laptop and suddenly pounce on them. Once, I untangled myself, looked at the screen and realized that everything was now in Chinese. In hitting some crazy cat combination on the keyboard, he had changed the language on my computer.
An awkward conversation ensued with the IT team at work, who had to fix the laptop. I couldn’t bring myself to confess that my crazy cat had caused the problem.
When Christmas came round again, the minute those decorations were brought down from the loft, Bisbee and Tonka were straight in there. They sniffed at everything, pawed at every bauble and, once again, scrambled up the tree to have a nap. My life over the Christmas holidays seemed to revolve around scooping up the trinkets Tonka had knocked off the tree and putting them back in their place.
But it doesn’t matter how much havoc they wreak on our lives, be it at Christmas, Easter, the weekend or just another week night, we love having Tonka and Bisbee with us. They make our house a home and, although they continue to bring us gifts of hunted birds, frogs and mice, we wouldn’t change a thing about them.
When I look back at the day we went to Battersea and met these two, I wish I hadn’t worried so much about taking in two cats instead of one. I am so grateful Battersea were so thorough with their vetting service. They knew before I did that Tonka and Bisbee would be perfect for Josh and me. The support and time everyone gave us, from the receptionist to the vet, were invaluable, as was being able to think overnight about taking them both. We made our decision in our own time, and in our own way. It was the best decision we ever made.
5. Molly the Sweetie
After a gruelling twelve-hour day at work, I returned to the hotel room I’d been calling home for the past three weeks and flopped on to the bed. I was a costume supervisor and my current on-location contract for a TV series was short but intense, with early starts and late finishes. I could be away for weeks at a time and it was physically and emotionally draining. Right now, there was nothing I wanted to do more than succumb to sleep, fully dressed. Even kicking off my shoes was too energy-zapping.
This trip had been even more of a rollercoaster for me because, days before, I’d lost my longest-serving companion – my beloved Whippet cross, Beni. I’d taken him in when he had been abandoned by his owners as a tiny six-week-old puppy seventeen years earlier.
While I’d been away on location, my partner Steve had moved into my home, with his two cats, to look after Beni. When my dog had suddenly become unwell, Steve had taken him to the vet and the inevitable conclusion had been reached. There was no option but to put Beni peacefully to sleep. Of course I’d known the day would come, and Beni was no spring chicken, but he’d been a scruffy, gorgeous boy with so much character and loyalty. He had lived a wonderful life, but nothing could have prepared me for the moment Steve confirmed the news to me on the phone.
I’d shaken from head to toe and my chest had felt heavy in a way I’d not experienced before. My Beni, the little scamp who would bolt away in the park and run all the way home while I searched for him frantically, my Beni, who would sit outside the house looking chuffed as anything when I returned to find him there, was gone for good.
As well as news of Beni, I had just discovered I was pregnant. It was bittersweet, knowing Beni wouldn’t be there when we brought the baby home because I’d always pictured having a dog when I started a family. Now things were looking quite different. It was going to take some time to get my head around everything.
A week later, I returned home and, instead of the click-click of Beni’s paws on the floor, there was nothing but silence. Then Steve appeared in the hallway and I rushed into his arms. I cried for Beni until there were no more tears to shed. I felt guilty that I hadn’t been there for him at the end so had had no chance to say goodbye. But as the days turned into weeks, I realized it had been for the best that I hadn’t been there when Steve had taken Beni to the vet. The thought of saying goodbye to his little face was unbearable. I doubted I’d have found the strength to do it.
Beni had been there for me through thick and thin; he’d been my constant companion through lonely times in a shared house in college while I had studied, and then been my housemate when I’d moved to London to start my career. Beni had come everywhere with me and travelled with me to wherever I’d worked. I knew for certain it would have broken me to take him to the vet myself and leave without him.
One wonderfully l
ong chapter had ended with Beni’s death but, soon, a new, thrilling chapter was about to start for Steve and me. As the tiny life inside me started to make its presence felt, I got to thinking about how my life with Steve would soon be changing. Our home would need a crib, nappies, bottles and a high chair. We’d need a pram, blankets and romper suits. We’d be up all hours taking care of the amazing new life that would soon be turning things upside down.
It was a very exciting thing to look forward to. But it would be many months before that happened and, for now, there was a certain void in our home. Even though Steve and his two cats had moved in, and my parrot, Pookha, brought colour and life to our home, without Beni, the house seemed unfamiliar.
Things simply didn’t feel right without a dog.
At the weekends, I asked Steve: ‘What do people do on a Sunday without a dog?’
Steve joked: ‘Play with their cats?’
For seventeen years, Sunday had been the day I’d take Beni for a lovely long walk near our home in Tooting, south London, without worrying about getting to work or beating the dark hours of a winter night. On a Sunday, Beni and I had been in the park for hours without a care in the world. Now, my Sundays didn’t have meaning. I missed Beni terribly and I knew with certainty that I wanted another dog but, out of respect for Beni, I held on for as long as I could. Maybe it was out of a sense of loyalty. Just thinking about getting another dog made me feel I was dishonouring Beni.
Then one Sunday afternoon, I blurted out: ‘Let’s go to Battersea Dogs & Cats Home.’
Steve missed Beni, too, and a smile swept across his face. ‘I’m ready when you are, darling,’ he said.
We went to Battersea after lunch, and the Home was packed. There was a hustle and bustle of excitement, and a very tangible sense of new beginnings. I watched as couples, families and singletons came in empty-handed and emerged, some time later, with a cat-carrier or a fabulously excited dog on one of the famous blue Battersea leads. Suddenly I had a sense of urgency. I wanted to be starting a new journey.
Christmas at Battersea: True Stories of Miracles and Hope Page 7
