Free The Amazing Life of Cats by Candida Baker Page B

careful not to get too fond of us, but she was very pleased when I made it clear that her comfort was important to me—I placed a small box with a red Indian woollen shawl in it near the window that she used as her entrance and exit, and she took to it immediately, vacating it when people were around (although sometimes she would stay if it was just one or two of us). Being around Puschka allowed me to realise that I enjoy having a cat in my life, and that enough time had passed for me to feel safe enough to try again.
    This time coincided with a period of emotional turbulence resulting in my moving into a small cottage on a friend’s property where we were keeping our three horses. My children were keen for me to get a puppy, but I felt that would be a real betrayal of Ella, who had stayed behind. Still, the cottage definitely needed an animal, so after a little persuasion (not much) from the kids, we set off one February morning to our local cat-rescue centre to see if a cat would choose us.
    For those of you who have not been through the rescue centre process, it is not easy. To begin with there are so many animals begging for a home—how do you choose? The kids and I decided to sit down on a bench and just watch the cats for a while; we were all immediately drawn to a beautiful tortoiseshell who was playing with some younger cats, young enough for me to think that they might be her kittens. She was tall and slim, with a very elegant, almost Siamese face, and she was unbelievably friendly, leaving her games to jump on our laps and purr, and then hopping down to start playing again.
    While she and the kittens were playing, I noticed another, much smaller kitten, also a tortoiseshell, playing by itself. Taking no notice of the larger cats who were treating it with disdain, it tumbled itself into a tunnel and out again, chased its little tail and generally showed signs of an independence that was endearing in one so young. I thought it was probably not more than six weeks old; as it was a tortoiseshell I wondered if it might be the other cat’s kitten and whether she had deserted it for the larger kittens that were more fun. My daughter picked up the little kitten and held her close, while I tried very hard to persuade myself that I couldn’t possibly take two cats.
    We all knew that we wanted the larger cat—there was just no question. I learned that Ghia, as the centre had named her, had been found living under a house in Byron Bay, and that no, they weren’t her kittens, not even the baby look-alike—her own kittens had all found homes, but so far she had not. As for the baby, she had been found abandoned with her brothers and sisters on the side of the road at only a few weeks old—and she was the last one left.
    Well, there was no hope for it, was there? It had to be the two. So we set off back home, Ghia registering protests from the cardboard box we had taken with us, and the little one in serious danger of being cuddled to death.
    The kitten had no name, so various ideas were toyed with until Anna, my daughter, suggested Tiny; even though I pointed out that the kitten would grow up and get bigger, that was it, there was no dissuading her. Tiny she became and still is, even though she isn’t!
    The cats had very different personalities from the start. Tiny was already very eager to please, keen to use the litter tray, and only once or twice mistook my boxes of papers that I’d accidentally left on the floor. She loved to play, but was equally happy hanging out and being cuddled. Ghia, despite her affectionate nature, very quickly got the message across that she was not, under any account, to be locked in. A locked-in Ghia meant disaster on a big scale—it occurred to me that she’d obviously spent her whole life roaming, and that it was probably better to leave the laundry window open at all times so she could come and go, which she did happily enough for quite a few months.
    But then the wandering began to