The short history of my cat, Oscar.

My cat Oscar is not a feline who takes to everyone.  He can be quite choosey. And he can also change his mind, so he keeps everyone who meets him on their toes.  It’s just his cat thing.

He is an American shorthair, mainly white, with black along the back and a completely symmetrical face mask so that, head on, he is perfect.

He came to live with me about eight years ago, when his original owner died.  John was an institution on my block, having lived there a very long time and always with a cat or two.  When I first met him, 33 years ago, he had just one; an ancient bag of bones called Lily.  Named after the British actress Lily Langtree, she was already old, deaf, toothless and hardly ate anything.  But the vet assured John she was fine, so the two of them just aged together.  I used to feed her if he went away and was always terrified she would expire while I was in charge. 

Before the last of his trips abroad, John warned me that there was a small stray that was likely to turn up on the doorstep of his Brooklyn brownstone.  He was feeding this cat some dry food outside the door and if I saw this interloper, it was okay for me to do the same.  Next day I met the cat, who was to be called Oscar (after Oscar Wilde).  As I came up the stoop, this small skinny bundle was just hurtling towards me, jumping along the ledges that featured on all the brownstones.  He was a doing a long jump from one to the next and within seconds was right there and hungry.

Lily had died sometime back. Sadly, so did John.  He had been fighting cancer for years but in the end, it would take him.  On one of my last visits, as he had come home to die, he asked if I would take Oscar.  Of course I would.  I had been without a cat for several years and missed the feline interaction.

So Oscar moved two doors along and took up residence and became the feline thug-in-chief of the block.  Like all cats, he could lie on his back and invite some tummy-tickling.  You only did that once, as the clamshell of legs and teeth closed around your kindly hand. He hated all other cats, so when on patrol outside, he would see them off and if a fight ensued, he was always going to be the winner.  He wore his scratches as a badge of honor.  I suppose, once a Brooklyn street cat, always a Brooklyn street cat.

We settled down together and he would be more than happy to have a lap to sit on, but on his terms.  I got to recognize the body language of when he was about to decide that he had had enough and could turf him off fast.  He would spend hours outside, even on the coldest of New York winter days and sometimes stayed out all night.  The moment the kitchen light went on in the morning, there he was at the window. 

Then, eighteen months ago, I sold my brownstone and moved to a posh apartment on the 46^th floor.  Oscar, of course, would come too, but I was desperately concerned that being high in the sky was no replacement for a garden, with trees to climb, birds to chase, mice to catch and bring home and all the usual things that he enjoyed.  How would he cope with just looking out of a window and not being part of the action?  I had already thought of a few people I knew who I could ask to take him, as I had visions of him just beating the place up and being very, very unhappy.

So what happened?  He took to apartment living like he knew no other.  No more the need to defend his turf.  No more helping to  keep the rodent population down.  Now he could really retire, at about the age of eight and take to napping or full out sleeping.  He likes to stretch out to sleep, no rolling up in a ball.  He can be found flat on his back, four paws in the air – it is so inelegant.  If needed, he could look out of the window, which he does from time to time and stares down at the stick insect people, but he really is not too interested in them. 

He is nosey, so if I am talking on the phone, he will come to see who it is and generally get in the way.  Now he enjoys a Zoom call and can become too excited by the different voices, so usually ends up being shut in a room. I have a walk-in shower here and it is his daily pleasure to sit outside, watching the water cascading down the door.  I am presuming this of course; he could just be a voyeur.  He is not above sticking out a paw with a few claws ready, just to show who is boss.  But then five minutes later, he is lying in my arms, purring up a storm, paws still doing the kitten clenching and we are both happy.  

Oscar has gone from being a waif, probably from an unmarried mother, (he doesn’t talk about it) to being a posh and fat pampered cat.

As always, he fell on his feet. Or, I suppose, his paws.