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

by Susan Finden

  When poor little Gemma was being prepared for her injection, I swear she held out her paw towards me as if to say ‘bye bye’. I cried my heart out – as I have done with all of them, and as I’m sure I’ll continue to do. All the cats touch me so deeply that I can’t help but be affected.

  I don’t feel guilty about making the choice to help them pass over, but I’m a little sad my decision does, in effect, betray my animals, even when I’m trying to do the right thing by them Gemma wasn’t the first pet I’d had to do this for, and she won’t be the last. All I could do as I said goodbye was promise her that I’d never forget her and make a commitment to do all I could for any other cat who crossed my path. It would be my life’s work and a privilege.

  CHAPTER 10

  Keeping Track of Casper

  After a while, we moved from Frome to Crewkerne, an old-fashioned market town in Somerset. Unfortunately our new house was on a busy road. I knew for certain that Casper was a wanderer, so I had many worried moments. I didn’t know many people to begin with, so I had no idea whether the residents and workers here would be as tolerant of Casper as they had been in our previous location. He was a very trusting cat and I felt he was willing to assume all humans were good. I shuddered to think what might happen if he put his faith in the wrong person, but I kept my fingers crossed that all would remain rose-tinted for my lovely cat.

  Casper was obsessed with crossing the road outside our house. I used to say to Chris that I had no idea why, as there was absolutely nothing of interest on the other side. It was as if he had a nosiness gene. I’d sometimes watch him from my window with my heart in my mouth as he narrowly dodged a car. He was behaving the same way he had in Frome: always trying to nip out, always trying to be at the heart of things.

  It was bad enough when he ventured out during the day, but when he started disappearing overnight, it was even worse. This was a new development in Casper’s wanderlust; perhaps he was just spreading his wings (or paws). His travels had all been so successful in the past maybe he thought it was time to try a few night-time excursions. I never knew if he’d be there in the morning when I came down, though eventually I did manage to piece together a few things to get some idea of where he’d been.

  At the bottom of our garden was a building where the sails for HMS Victory, Nelson’s famous flagship, had originally been made, but it had been converted to a block of offices. One day I got chatting to a lady who worked there. As we talked, I saw Casper boldly trotting down the road to the offices.

  ‘Oh, there’s Casper,’ she remarked, as my eyes popped open wider.

  ‘How do you know him?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s always hanging around where I work,’ she said. ‘He’s like our little office mascot.’

  Is he, now? I thought to myself.

  ‘We all like to have a little cuddle with him when he pops in, give him a few treats and suchlike. He often hangs around all day and the girls in the office just love having him around.’

  Well! It hadn’t taken Casper long to return to his old tricks. He may not have found a pharmacy or a doctor’s surgery in which to while away the day, but he’d still managed to access attention. This lady told me he was very popular among the office staff and brightened up their day. They looked forward to him coming in as a break from the monotony of their routine. On the days when he found something better to do, there was general disappointment that their little visitor hadn’t appeared.

  The office block wasn’t his only new hangout. There was a family a few doors down the road from me who had actively been encouraging Casper into their cottage. When another neighbour told me about this, I was quite confused – he was clearly someone else’s cat, as they could see from his name tag and disc, but perhaps, like me, they couldn’t resist any visiting cat even if it had a perfectly good home. I felt it was asking for trouble with this cat in particular though, and it probably contributed to his wanderings. I plucked up the courage to go and speak to them and, lo and behold, when I got there, who should be lying in a basket by the fire but Casper.

  The woman who lived there had bought it especially for him, but when I asked her whether she thought he was homeless, she admitted that she knew he lived with me. It felt as if he were a tug-of-love cat and I was going to have to fight for him – my chances were good, as the lady was heavily pregnant. I had to ask her to stop making her home quite so attractive to him. Casper was a clever enough cat but he was bound to be confused with the house move, the new roads and now a complete stranger inviting him in to a nice new bed. I asked her if she could please stop doing this and, if he visited again, to encourage him gently to return to his own house.

  He continued to wander, and I suspected that he was still visiting his nice other bed, but I couldn’t keep haranguing this woman, who was only being kind. However, there was a lingering feeling, perhaps some sort of sixth sense, that made me concerned about those particular trips.

  One day in March 2005, Casper had his breakfast as usual and then went out after about ten minutes. From what I can tell, he then wandered down to the car park beside the office block from where he could often get over the wall into the house and garden of the family who’d bought him his new basket. However, instead of disappearing for the day, he came back within the hour. As I was standing in the kitchen, tidying away the breakfast things, I heard a strange snuffling noise, like hedgehogs make. I opened the back door only to see my darling Casper covered in blood.

  His face was almost unrecognizable. All I could do was grab him in my arms and run to the vet. The news was awful but it could have been worse. I was told that he had definitely been hit by a car and, although he had no apparent fractures, his jaw and mouth were both very bruised and he was extremely lucky to be alive. As he was cut and shaking with shock, he had to stay in overnight.

  For the rest of his days, Casper’s lower lip area always had a black mark where he’d been hit and he dribbled slightly whenever he ate or drank. I had to keep an eye on him in case he developed sores on his lip. I couldn’t help but think that he had used up one of his nine lives with this accident. He was very lucky to have got out of it with only a few scrapes. ‘Oh, Casper,’ I whispered to him one night when he was safely at home, ‘you’re always going to give me sleepless nights, aren’t you? I don’t think I’m ever going to be settled with you around, young man.’

  I went back to the house that Casper seemed so drawn to and asked the lady once more if she would please stop encouraging him – knowing full well that if Casper was determined, both she and I would have quite a job stopping him from doing whatever he pleased. I was terribly worried by the fact that he had probably been hit trying to get to this house with the comfy new basket, and was so relieved when the woman said that she would keep her door closed to her little visitor and not let him in, even if he turned those pleading eyes on her.

  As I suspected, it wasn’t long before Casper threw a cat-shaped spanner in the works. Although he must have been very confused to have been given a new bed one day and faced with a closed door the next, he soon found a way round it. I discovered that he climbed onto the slanted roof of the house and got in through the bathroom window, which was always open. It was only when the woman had her baby and found Cassie in the airing cupboard one day that she made serious attempts to keep him out, and he finally got the message.

  Casper may have had barred from one of his haunts, but he still had the attention of the women in the office block. Sometimes as I walked past, I would see him on the car park wall, surrounded by admirers, who would all clap him as he lay in the sun. His accident had me worried though, and I printed lots of posters to hand round the local offices, asking people to look out for him and make sure that he wasn’t locked in overnight. I also wanted to make sure that everyone knew that he had a loving home, so they weren’t tempted to take him away – that was one of my biggest fears, as he was such a friendly cat. The poster read:

  PLEASE HELP!

  You may hav
e noticed a black and white

  cat in the car park or in the offices.

  He is called Casper and he is wearing

  a collar with two tags on it.

  Casper is very friendly and as quick as lightning.

  Can I ask you to be vigilant for him and check

  that he is not locked in overnight? He comes from

  a loving home and we would really appreciate

  whatever little you can do to help us keep him safe.

  Thank you.

  Wherever we’ve lived, Casper has caused trouble and I’ve always had to appeal to people’s good nature, asking them to be vigilant. Sometimes they have been more than happy to help; on other occasions, as I would later find out, they would take offence and suggest that I was trying to get others to look after my cat, which was never my intention.

  Casper didn’t have to be out and about to be naughty. I remember one Christmas Day when I thought I’d be terribly prepared and get the food for Boxing Day ready in advance. I took out pork chops and sausages to defrost for the next day’s dinner, but I must have been full of Christmas spirit to think for a second Casper wouldn’t help himself. I didn’t hear a thing, but somehow he managed to knock the top plate off and help himself to a few mouthfuls. All I could think about was that he might get food poisoning, so I quickly cooked all the meat for the cats to have as their Christmas Day treat. I suspect the others put him up to it.

  Any time I was frying sausages, he’d appear from nowhere when he heard the sizzle to sit beside me, almost on tenterhooks, looking as if he hadn’t been fed for a year. It always worked, and he always got his way. There were other times when Chris was away that I would treat myself to dinner in front of the television. As I sat there paying more attention to what was on the box than what was on my plate, I’d often see a paw reach up, quietly and swiftly, and grab something.

  Casper would eat anything that wasn’t his. One day, after a long road trip, Chris and his friend Martin decided that they would have fish and chips. We were both in the kitchen, and while Martin popped to the loo, Casper helped himself. Martin came back to find a cat sitting in the middle of his chips, licking his lips happily.

  I wonder whether his need to eat anything, any time, was a product of his past? Maybe he never knew where his next meal was coming from; that’s why we indulged him so much. It wasn’t just me – whenever Chris came home, he would do so with a package of blue cheese for Casper. We never begrudged him anything and I’d do anything to be able to buy him his little treats again.

  Apart from food, Casper’s other great love was gadgets – a typical boy! I used to tease him with the DVD remote control. I’d press the button as he sat there staring at the machine, and he would catch the little tray that holds the DVD as it popped out. Just as he got his paw on it, I’d press the button again and slide it in as he sat there with his head to one side, looking confused. He’d sit there for ages, watching as it went in and out, in and out. Sometimes he would realize that the VCR was close by too, so he would give up his reconnaissance mission for a few moments to stick his paw into the videotape slot, then trot back to the DVD player again. Perhaps we should all spend more time getting such pleasure from simple things – it certainly worked for Casper.

  CHAPTER 11

  Trying to Help, Trying to Love

  Like all pet owners, I loved all of Casper’s little idiosyncrasies. I’ve often wondered whether part of the reason for getting more cats is to fill the gap left every time I lose one. Of course, they’re all different and can’t directly replace each other, but Casper ticked an awful lot of boxes with his funny ways. Over the years, there have been plenty of other characters who have brought something special to my life too.

  Even if a cat becomes a member of my family through the cruelty of others, I’m thankful I’ve been given the opportunity to help that cat experience some love and comfort in his or her remaining days. There are many good people in this world, but the actions of the few cruel ones can have such a terrible effect. I don’t like to dwell on that side of things, but there was one story that affected me and made me grateful for the cats I could truly help.

  One day there was wailing at our back door, which I opened to find a bag of bones masquerading as a cat. ‘Listen to this one,’ I called to Chris. ‘We’ll have to call it Bob Marley, there’s such a wailing coming from it!’

  I didn’t want to let the cat in straight away, as I didn’t know how the others would take to her. We had an old barbecue that she sheltered in after a while, then she eventually made her way into the house. Bob Marley was clearly a very ill cat; there was something wrong with her that I couldn’t put my finger on. Once she was as good as living with us, I took her to the vet. He told me she had kidney trouble but he also said that, as she was really someone else’s cat, maybe they knew about this and she was getting treatment already.

  I got a big blackboard and wrote a message on it to say that we had the cat; I described her, and asked if her owner recognized her, could they please get in touch? I put it at the entrance to the cul-de-sac where we lived. I felt it was the right thing to do, as someone could very well be distraught without this sick animal. I was willing to let her go if her owner contacted us.

  A few days later, there was a knock on the door. I opened it to find a young boy, who, with no introductions, said: ‘The cat’s ours and my mum wants it now, so give it back.’ I asked him if he knew that she was sick and needed medicine, but he just shrugged and repeated the message that I was to give her back – now It was pouring with rain, but I put Bob Marley into one of my baskets and followed the boy back to his house. He shoved his front door open and left me standing outside, dripping wet, with the cat basket in my hand. His mother came to see me, and snatched the basket out of my arms. ‘Actually, that’s my basket,’ I said, although she clearly knew this. She stared at me, opened it, shook Bob Marley out and roughly handed the basket back to me. I repeated what I had said to her son about the poor cat being ill and gave her the medication we had bought. She didn’t say a word.

  On the walk home, the rain mingled with my tears and I felt that I’d done the wrong thing. Bob Marley wasn’t our cat but what sort of life would she have with people who seemed to care little for her? I’d willingly take on the cost and trouble of looking after her. After a couple of hours, I’d cried myself out and managed to feel a little better.

  Since this family had asked for Bob Marley back, they must have some feelings for her, I reasoned. I decided to go back and gently remind them about the kidney problems. When I got there, I could hear Bob Marley before I saw her. She was making her strange wailing sound and she had been kicked outside in the torrential rain. The little thing was soaked through. I huddled down to stroke her and I knew the woman was watching me from her window Bob Marley wasn’t my cat and there was nothing I could do about it. I said ‘goodbye’ and walked home, crying once more. I never saw Bob Marley again.

  There is often heartache where cats are involved. You won’t be surprised to hear that Clyde, who was so caring when Gemma was ill, had a sister called Bonnie. Bonnie’s main hobby was to squeeze herself into the smallest space imaginable, in any sort of container, no matter how unlikely it seemed that she would get into it or how uncomfortable she appeared once she’d achieved her goal. As soon as she saw any basket or box, she would dash over and turn herself round and round and round, edging further and further in, until she’d managed to wedge herself into whatever confined space she’d found. She seemed to be able to get into things that were a quarter of her size, and she was very determined. She’d sit with her bottom stuck high up in the air with no space whatsoever.

  Bonnie talked incessantly. She constantly yapped away, even while she was trying to get into her various small places. As she went round in circles, she’d yabber away to herself, as if she were either complaining about what a terrible bother these things were or reassuring herself that it could definitely be done despite the laws of physics
. Even when she wasn’t taking part in her favourite activity, she would chatter. If I was going about the house, cleaning or tidying, Bonnie would discuss matters with me and, if I didn’t join in the conversation, she’d nip me quite hard, often on the hand, as if to say, ‘I’m talking to you.’ I laughed at her little reminders. I loved her character and the way she would spend hours trying to get back into the tiny place she’d left minutes earlier.

  Cats have their own characters, just like people do, and you can build up a different, marvellous rapport with each one. Chris had his own relationships with the cats, and was particularly fond of Bonnie and Clyde, and Jack. Bonnie and Clyde always went looking for Chris when he was away on the lorries: when he left, one of them would go out the front door to try to track him down, while the other went out the back. They were very close, which isn’t always the case with siblings.

  You always knew where Bonnie was with her ‘yap yap yap’ chatter, but one terrible morning after Chris had gone, I realized that I hadn’t heard her for a while. I spent hours looking for her, going into every shop nearby, asking everyone, ‘Have you seen my cat?’ and describing the beautiful creature she was. The last shop I went to was a newsagent’s, and, by chance, I bumped into the young lad who delivered the papers. I didn’t have a photograph of Bonnie with me (I now keep a pile of photographs on my kitchen worktop, one of each cat I have, in case of such eventualities), but as I described her yet again, I saw his face drop.

  ‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘I saw a cat just like that.’

  ‘Where? What has happened to her?’ I asked, scared of the answer.

  The words were as bad as I’d expected. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he muttered. ‘She was lying in the gutter in front of the hairdressing shop.’