The Magical Shahua and Fifty Shades of Fur

By Paul Mathews

Shahua is a very magical cat, who can cross time and space, bringing luck and good fortune to those hoomins who deserve it. In Taiwan Mark and Kitty save Shahua from certain death. She/he magically brings good fortune to Kitty and her family of cats. Twenty years later Mark meets Ping, “the cat lady” in Australia. He helps her feed the cats, and coming to know her they fall in love. But Ping thinks she is ugly because of her deformity. Mark helps with Ping’s life and together they discover a prophecy from Shahua. Following instructions, they discover Ping’s father has left her a large inheritance. Now she is able to fulfill her dream of having a safe-house for abandoned cats, to fix her hands, and marry her ‘prince’. But in this journey Mark and Ping also meet with a ‘fairy’. Is she also an incarnation of Shahua? While the narrative tells of Mark meeting Ping and their good fortunes, it also draws parallels with a story that Mark reads to Ping about his experience with Shahua in Taiwan. It is the same story across time and space, of how we cast out those who are disabled, strange, or simply different, much to our regret. It is purely magical.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Warrior Publishers
• Release date: Aug 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463363607

Paul Mathews

Dr. Paul Mathews is an anthropologist and sociologist who has worked on Philippine issues for 25 years, and also spent 2 years in Taiwan. He has written extensively about Philippine society and culture in such areas as health, gender relations and sexuality, values, and economic development. He is currently freelancing, following a Research Fellowship at the Australian National University. He is Secretary of the Philippine Studies Association of Australasia, and former Managing Editor of Pilipinas, A Journal of Philippine Studies.

Book preview

Chapter One

The Canal Cats

Mark Messenger was, as usual for the past 3 months, on his way to work, racing toward 9am, with perhaps a bare ten minutes to walk from where he had parked the car at an exorbitant cost of $9 a day, over a footbridge that crossed an open storm water canal of some 50 yards in width, then across a busy road, walk a block, and finally reach the government building at which he was employed, located in Barmah, on the south side of Cambervarra City.

But he also knew, within his time constraints, that somehow he had to stop and try to feed some of the stray cats that barely survived in the canal and its large storm water pipes that fed into it. And all without bringing attention to his deed of kindness from other office workers scurrying to their jobs.

He had devised a way to quickly drop some food to at least a few of the cats, who, no doubt, he knew, would be hoping to get some breakfast in the morning. His own cat, a moggy with enormous whiskers (and hence the name Chewie), who looked like he was wearing a tuxedo, living in the comfort of his home, was fat and lazy, largely spoilt; but that was not his, Chewie’s, fault. Indeed, so spoilt was he that he ate too much, but often left unfinished any meal that Mark gave him, expecting a new tin to be opened at every meal time—which ranged from 5 or 6 times a day. Yes, Chewie was spoilt, undisciplined, and had trained Mark well.

But to be fair, Chewie had learnt some English, and Mark also had learnt some cat language—Catalinga? Felino? Chewie had his very own special word for food, which was more of a huff or gasp than a meow, almost as though he was coughing up a mini-furball. And he had his own behaviours to show Mark what he wanted: he would simply ignore all entreaties and go to the cupboard where his food was kept, and sit in front of it, sniff, paw the door, and huff.

He also could understand words such as hot, no, up, down, inside, come here (although he often chose to ignore some), plus hug, kiss and even claws in. But he never seemed to learn ‘Don’t scratch the bloody door!’ That notwithstanding, he was the only cat Mark knew who, even as a kitten, self-learnt how to open a sliding door—by laying on his back and putting his paws under it. Mark couldn’t even go to the bathroom without Chewie wanting to follow.

But we digress…

Mark wrapped Chewie’s left-over food in paper-towels, knowing that when he dropped it from the embankment at the canal, some 15 feet high, the cats could easily unravel it and have their gourmet, without the food having splattered everywhere.

So, on this particular early Autumn morning, when the night temperatures were just beginning to drop to the low double-digits and some rain had increased the drain’s water flow, he darted off to the right once he had crossed the footbridge, and amidst a few pine-needle trees checked that no one was in sight of what he was about to do. He was quite shy, indeed embarrassed, about doing this. He thought onlookers might consider him strange and give him the name of the cat-man. Strange that, he thought, to somehow be labeled deviant because he was doing good. What if he had saved a thousand Jews…?

He quickly dropped three packages over the fence, down to where he could see small congregations of cats of all shapes and sizes and colours—50 shades of fur—lazing about, welcoming the warmth of the rising sun, but no doubt wondering when their next meal of lizards or grasshoppers or yellow-beak birds might hop along.

Thankfully no one saw him, this time, so he harried to his office building, through the security turnstiles, up to the 6th floor via the scary computerized elevator with no buttons, and rushed to his desk, with the usual ubiquitous politically correct salutations, as he hastily unpacked his bag—somewhat smelling of cat food that no one had the discourtesy to mention—and turned on his PC that seemed to take an interminable (no pun intended) long time to come alive after his user name and password were entered. Then off to the expansive kitchen to make coffee, then settle back to have his own breakfast, while unraveling the tasks for the day. So long as he was physically present, even if doing nothing, was validation of his somehow contributing to the GDP.

Now, he couldn’t keep the other satchels of cat-food in his cubicle of the open-office space; even though it was cool, at about 22 degrees, cat food had a tendency to go off quickly and put out a strong odour—and his nearest co-worker, behind him, was barely 5 feet away.

He had wrapped in paper-toweling some of the remaining cat food, mostly the tin-variety, as well as cut-up left-overs of chops from the night before, and had put them into small plastic bags, and the several bundles then put into air-tight plastic containers. Putting them into the common staff fridge, with a blaring sign that said Mark’s. Pls do not open, he hoped the food would be well preserved for the cats’ lunch and dinner—depending on how much he had.

That taken care of, he leaned back to contemplate doing some work, wondering what his colleagues might say if they knew what he was doing outside, or if homeless felines ever bothered their hoomin conscience, as many of them must also pass over that footbridge and see the cuddly darlings that were once warm, dry and well-fed as someone’s adorable and pre-loved pets. How much love, he wondered, when eventually the loved ones were simply tossed out, disposed off, as an inconvenience? Is that how they might treat their children?

To drive home the point to any of his colleagues who might stop by, he had posted a picture in his small box-like cubicle:

He couldn’t understand, as hard as he might, why people dumped their cats, disposed of them as if past their use-by-date. They must bundle their cats up in the dark hours of the night and literally dump them at the canal, to survive as best they could, to hopefully make friends with the existing tenants and learn from them. Indeed, it may well be some of the very Public Servants with whom he worked who had done such a dastardly deed.

Maybe they had moved house and couldn’t take the cat, or she was pregnant and the humans—hardly worthy of the name—didn’t want the burden of another half dozen riotous, furry play-things, or maybe their child had moved out of home so the parents took the opportunity to get rid of that blasted animal that they had never wanted.

Some people just don’t like cats because they are too independent, unlike dogs and kids who are so stoopid they will at a whim sit, lay, come, go, roll over, fetch, or play dead—he wished some of the mutts would more than play dead. No, with cats you had to earn their respect and love, whereas from kids and dogs it was expected, automatic, indeed demanded. Oh, cats are smart: they roll on the floor, often a dirty floor: Look at me, look at me, I’m so cute, hug me, love me, or Oh I’m so dirty, brush me, brush me.

Chewie had that down to a fine art. Several times a day he would roll on the patio concrete out back, collecting in his long fur the dirt, leaves and whatever else lay there, then expect to be brushed, and if not walk into the house spreading debris everywhere.

Anyway, Mark had been following much of his feeding routine now for two months. He had returned from Taiwan, where he had been a Professor for 2 years, teaching so-called English to rather incompetent students—some of whom at least took their stoopid dogs for a walk in a pram.

Having finished his contract in Taiwan he returned to Australia about 15 years ago, intending to semi-retire, and pick up some part-time or temporary work. This had worked well for him so far: at first he had a 2-month contract with some government department on the north side of Cambervarra, then had a short break, and subsequently landed several jobs consecutively either in government or as a contract academic. Between times he travelled throughout Asia or stayed at home and wrote books and papers. Now, he had this current job in Barmah, a rather god-forsaken, boganite suburb in the southern parts of Cambervarra, and a 30 minute drive from his home, in the north, in a bit of a posh suburb called Nowra. The job was for about 3 months, which would see him through to the end of the approaching autumn, if not beyond.

So settling in for the morning, he dabbled in the easy project for which he had been engaged: transferring selected data from PDFs to a spreadsheet, identifying rorts, churning out some descriptive stats, chatting about politics, attending staff meetings at which he was superfluous, and not much else.

Come lunch time at 12.30 he gobbled a sandwich with tea, before setting out for a walk: where else but to the canal, with two packs of cat food wrapped inconspicuously in a newspaper, hoping their smell would not be detected in the elevator. He strolled to the top of the embankment, but no cats were to be seen; perhaps they were sleeping in the warmth of the day, as cats are wont to do. He knew from growing up with cats that they were nocturnal, and had an innate clock: tiffin time was 4 o’clock, almost on the dot. Indeed, one could almost set one’s clock by their awakenings. He wondered if the Swiss watchmakers had ever considered this possibility.

He pondered. If he dropped two satchels now, they might go off before the felines found and consumed them. Or, wait until about 5pm or 5.30 when he went home, having to traverse the same route as in the morning, knowing some of his feline friends with no names and 50 shades of fur would be about.

There were no humans about then, at lunch time, so it would be safe; but at 5pm there would be many humans, like himself, scampering home to their warm homes and indulged pets.

He decided to return to his office, to await a more fruitful time. But, in the meantime, having some time to idle about, he walked some of the distance of the canal in contemplation, and in doing so espied some old empty cat-food tins.

‘Oh, someone else is feeding the cats," he thought to himself. ‘That’s good.’ He was happy someone else felt the same as himself, as caring. ‘I wonder…who could it be…? The cat-lady!’ But, dare he even know who it was? Would he ever approach her, or him? He had read or heard stories of aged pensioners doing this, some called the ‘cat lady’ or some-such, who often had no one in their lives, and who may adopt 100 or more cats. ‘No, that’s going too far,’ he surmised. He would do the little he could…just to help them, make his downtrodden friends’ lives just a little more comfortable…but to what end? He didn’t want to think that far. As lonely as he was, he didn’t want to end up like ‘them’, the cat-ladies of the world. He just wanted to do what he could… Just a little, to help his little furry friends.

To meet a ‘cat lady’ would be confronting, having to deal with someone eccentric…. But what was he thinking!? Wasn’t he eccentric already? Certainly others might think so. But for Mark, he was normal, and wanted to stay that way, deny his loneliness and his preference for the love of 50-shades of fur, whose respect and trust he had to earn, as against humans who thought they ruled the world. Ha! Little did hoomins understand cats!

He had pinned another apt picture, one of many, in his box-like cubicle at work to reflect that thought:

No, just feeling sorry for the poor little blighters, doing the little that he could, was enough, since no one seemed to care, or want to take responsibility—so much for an eco-environment in Cambervarra! Sometimes he thought that, just maybe, his little furry friends were reincarnations—but he wasn’t sure of what. Or that perhaps he himself had once been a cat in a previous life—that’s why he had such empathy with them and they most readily took to him. They could sniff affinity across eternity.

But he was an academic; he had to dismiss such notions as fantasy…. ‘Easy to say that’, he thought, ‘but…. Shahua had changed all that.’

The afternoon at work wore on, uneventful as usual, until 5.30 when he gathered his belongings, not forgetting the few remaining food packs in the refrigerator. It would be a bit dodgy feeding the canal cats the little he had, since it was still daylight and there would be many office and other workers heading across the footbridge to the car park. But he was a bit lucky this time: in a rather nonchalant manner he eased himself to the low wire fence that ran the length of the embankment, with a food parcel clenched in each palm; looking over, as though in curiosity or idleness, and noting people were too focused on their own trajectories, or too far away to see anything discernible that he might do, he dropped the packages down. A few cats jumped at the movement and noise, but with their keen sense of smell quickly became curious. He watched with some delight as one, then two, then maybe three of his friends approached the packs, while others, perhaps more cautious, or aware of territorial rights, watched on with suspicion, or anticipation. Several pawed at the packages, smelling something that attracted their attention. As he left, knowing that they had discovered this gift from above, he could see some of them enjoying the fare, while others also began to approach in order to share. He hoped they would not fight over the oh-so little he could provide for just a few felines, when there were so many.

Arriving home some 30 minutes later, he was greeted by Chewie, who was glad to see Mark, equally because he was lonely and hungry. He had been cooped up in the house all day, alone, lonely, unable even to watch TV. He of course followed at the heels of Mark every inch into the kitchen, saying hello in his language, ‘Brrrll’, rubbing against Mark’s legs, then sitting in front of his own ‘table’ on the kitchen floor.

He knew—and indeed had trained Mark to know—that sitting in that place with big eyes meant he expected dinner. Mark of course opened a new can of food, and kneeling down gave Chewie a gentle head butt, to say they were friends, and began to dish out his food, change his water, and sit with him and talk. Mark didn’t like Chewie to eat alone.

How was your day, Chew…? Sorry I’m late, my little man, but…I had to stop and feed your friends. You’re very lucky, Chewie, you know that? I know you’re alone, baby, but at least you get your food, a safe place to be, warm in winter and dry…. But I know, my sweet, you’re bored and lonely…I really should have got you a playmate when you were young. Oh well, that’s our lot now, Chew, we’re safe, we have shelter and food, and have each other….

Mark could not help but reminisce, as he talked, about the plight of the poor little buggers back in the canal…what they might eat, if anything, or perhaps worse, some ‘hoomins’—hoons—might come along and harass them.

Chewie finished eating, for now; he’d be back later. Mark tried to give him a pat, but he pulled away; for some odd reason he didn’t want to be coddled straight after dinner. Maybe he thought he had done his bit by leaving some morsels on the plate for Mark, his buddy, to have. He often did that, or would look at Mark and check if it was ok for him, Chewie, to eat, seemingly willing to share. As selfish as he was at times, he also was willing to share. He was a good cat; he would have made a good father, always wanting to wash Mark or anyone else. He would readily wrap his front paws around an arm or a leg, and often, unfortunately, with his large claws extended, insist on washing someone, who could not escape. Claws in was not always comprehended—or obeyed. But, Mark reminisced, when he was a wee kitten his favourite game that would send him more wild than a dose of catnip was Spider Man; and even 8 years later Mark only had to say ‘Spider Man!’ and Chewie would be all ears and eyes!

But, it was now getting dark, and Chewie was in his element, so he went outside. He relished the night. In their former large house with a huge backyard and vegetable garden, Chew would hunt mice and, much to the chagrin of Mark (although he never said so to Chewie), would bring back mice, dead or alive, to share with Mark. And the occasional bird… He would always show appreciation to Chew for bringing home food, or a gift, by many melodious thank-yous and a hug, before surreptitiously throwing the dead rodent over the neighbour’s fence.

But now, in their townhouse with a small backyard, there was nothing to do except anticipate in expectation: perhaps a grasshopper or moth might come by, which would excite his neurons, or some bug he could even chase or play with. It was odd, Mark thought, that the night for Chewie brought excitement, whereas for the canal cats it brought hunger and danger.

Mark prepared and ate his own dinner, thankfully undisturbed by Chewie who, once hearing the micro-wave turned on, had the bad habit of demanding to be let in and then sit on the ironing-board that Mark used as a table, while Mark tried to eat unmolested. The iron-board was almost a permanent fixture in the lounge room, where Mark ate as he incidentally watched the most stupidest tid-bits of TV, and Chewie would literally molest him in all ways and manners to get some thing. But tonight he was preoccupied with something outside, so Mark was left in peace. He then went upstairs to check his email and maybe do a bit of work, downing a few glasses of wine to put him to sleep, ready for the next day’s round of mundaneness.

At 10pm he called Chewie in, who totally ignored Mark and just rolled on the artificial grass in the dark. ‘Look at me, look at me! I’m so cute. Hug me!’

If it wasn’t for Chewie’s white ‘bib’ on his chest he would blend totally into the blackness.

Come on Chew, sleep time, a term he used to understand, but now chose to pretend to ignore. Come on Chew, you know the routine, it’s late, it’s midnight, he lied, you can’t stay out here, the foxes will jump the fence and bite you. Another lie. Chewie didn’t know what a fox was.

Chewie was oblivious to all reasoning and practicality; his instincts had kicked in, taken over; he had to be bribed to come inside by appealing to his other instinct: food, especially yogurt or cheese. It was funny, Mark thought, how in the past he had sat on the floor and shared his own Weetbix and milk with Chewie; maybe not so funny if you witnessed the scene: his mum had never properly taught him how to lap his milk, so he mostly insisted on slurping from a tablespoon—talk about spoon-fed!—and getting half of it on the floor and over his face.

But, having achieved getting Chew to come inside for the night, they both retired to bed, with Chewie sleeping at the far left corner of the bed, where he could easily fall off, and chewing for half an hour on one of Marks’s old jumpers. Mark didn’t know if he was trying to make love to the wooly beast or had a tooth-ache, or just kneading it. But if Mark stuck his foot in the right position Chewie would unwittingly(?) give him a foot-massage.

Now Chewie had the insurmountable annoying habit of waking up at dawn, at the first sign of light and of birds chirping—time for him to pretend to hunt his breakfast. Perhaps that’s just what the canal cats were doing right now.

Fortunately, Mark had to be at work early that day, to catch up on things, or to just appear diligent. So by 5.30am Chewie had managed—by various maneuvers such as scratching at the bed, licking Mark’s hair and face, walking all of his 7 kilos over Mark’s body (including places where cats should not tread), kneading the wooly jumper, meowing his food word, or just saying ‘Hey! Wake the crap up, let me out, I gotta pee!’—to force Mark to attend to the day’s necessities.

Chew went out to scratch himself, sniff, have a pee, look around, wonder what he was going to do today… (The same as he did yesterday, just like Mark!) Then he came in, sat at his table with a look of ‘Feed me!’ on his face and in his demeanor.

Mark sleepily got himself ready for work, scooped up the left overs from last night and the morning, packed them in paper-toweling and plastic bags inside plastic containers, and so forth. He left Chewie outside for the day, knowing he would be ok during daylight hours, and as he preferred to be outside in the sun.

Bye Chew. I see you later, he lamented, knowing the poor mite would be alone all day, and probably bored. But then, Mark also would be bored…tit-for-cat… I’ll leave you some biskits, ok, and water. I’ll be home soon, knowing that ‘soon’ could mean anything.

Oh yes, cats do have a concept of time. Almost every cat Mark had been friends with knew when it was tiffin time: 4pm sharp. They would awaken from their slumber 5 minutes before, yawn, stretch, scratch, and look at their empty plate with expectant eyes, check their Rolex watch…. The Swiss could set their clocks by cats.

Bye Chew, see you soon, as his best and only friend looked at him with misgivings as Mark closed the back door behind him and exited through the front. It panged his heart to leave him alone, knowing he was bored and would sleep most of his life away.

Mark was indeed very early this day, partly because of there being little traffic at such an ungodly hour of 7am, and no less thanks to Chewie this morning who wouldn’t take a No or pillow thrown at him to desist his morning remonstrance. Oh well, by being early at work he could feed the canal cats easily, and go home early. Chewie would be pleased with that.

He parked the car, as usual, and headed on foot to the canal bridge. It had just turned 7.30, so he had plenty of time to stroll, feed his friends, and imbibe of some much needed sustenance when he got to work.

As he crossed the bridge he could see many cats out in the early warmth, unlike the day before when there were almost none. He thought he would drop down on one side of the embankment, that was maybe a 4 foot drop to the next level of concrete, so his packages could be more directed to where he wanted them. But as he branched off the well-worn path he espied a figure, in black, crouching, with many cats surrounding her—he assumed the person to be female, judging by her apparent size. Besides, no one had ever heard of a cat-man.

The cats seemed very friendly and trusting of her, and he could hear her muttering to them. Yes, it was the cat lady. But still he didn’t want to meet her.

She didn’t see him, so he turned tail, thinking that if she was feeding them in the morning, he would give the canal cats what he had in the evening, not knowing of course if she would also do so at that time. Surely it would be expensive for her to feed them twice a day.

Crossing the footbridge he walked slowly, hoping to catch a glimpse of this ‘strange’ lady and the cats’ attachment to her. Clearly she had built up their trust. He could make out her petting some of them, but in her crouching position he could not make out her features. Suddenly she turned in his direction, as if to look at his staring, but her face, all but her eyes, was covered in a black scarf. She turned away, seemingly unabashed.

He saw, also, on the 2nd tier of concrete that lined the embankment an old fashion shopping trolley, of faded canvas and two wheels—something that his own mother had once used some 50 odd years ago. ‘That’s the cat woman, alright’, he thought. ‘She must be an old woman, no doubt, if she uses one of those old shopping carts.’

He didn’t want to embarrass this mysterious woman, to cast upon her, even by looking, some label of eccentricity or deviance. He continued on his way, wondering who this person was, what motivated her to feed these strays, what was her life, now, and in the past, to bring her to this point. This point… What did he mean by that? He had never met a cat lady. And who was to say that a ‘crazy’ cat lady was miserable? They usually look happy in their own little world with their cats. People project the ‘they are lonely and crazy’ syndrome onto them when 9 out of 10 may be happy and carefree older women.

These thoughts streamed through his mind during the remaining day, during his mundane daze, perhaps no less boring than what Chewie was experiencing. He thought, these alley cats may not have a good place to live, or always food to eat, but they had company, friends, maybe even family. He wondered how Chewie would get on in such a situation, for Chewie had never been a sociable cat. But Mark could never, ever, abandon Chewie.

In fact the opposite. Short of being the cat man, he had some 20 or so years previously inadvertently adopted a cat—or perhaps more likely she adopted him: Mishka, which he was to later learn meant ‘cat’ in Polish, and also got shortened to Miska.

~

In his old place, with a very large backyard, he had come home one day after work, and as he entered the back door Mishka, a bare kitten, perhaps 8 weeks old, came running out of the vege patch, constantly meowing. She was clearly lost, destitute, and voraciously hungry. Her hunger had almost got the better of her. She stopped half way to the back door, realizing suddenly this was not her home, and maybe this hoomin was not nice. But her hunger drove her, albeit with some caution.

Mark knelt down to reduce his perceived size, and cooed her, holding out his hand. Tiny as she was, barely the size of Mark’s hand, she took a chance. She constantly meowed, which Mark knew was the cry of hunger and being lost.

Ok, ok, he cooed, come in, we get you something. He went in but she would not follow. It was if she suspected that going inside that box, that hoomins called a house, she was vulnerable, she might never get out. Maybe there was something in her young life that it was so.

Ok, sweet darling, stay there, he spoke softly, I’ll see what I can get for you. She looked at him pleadingly.

Now Mark didn’t have any ‘cat’ food ready at hand; he searched the fridge, cupboards and scratched his scalp. Then he espied some imported sardines that his then-wife had bought, probably expensive. But what was a dollar for a hungry cat?

He dished them out on a plate and took it outside to Miska, who readily gulped her fill. She now had a sense she could eat here, that this hoomin was helpful.

But she still would not come inside the house, despite all his coaxing. He was concerned about her safety now, with night falling. Where would she sleep? How could she defend herself, as tiny as she was? But she would not venture inside that house-box, of which she assuredly thought was certain entrapment.

He got a cardboard box, lined it with an old towel, and left it outside. After a few hours she seemed willing to be sociable with him, and he managed to detach a soft collar and bell from her neck. She seemed greatly relieved to be rid it if it. Mark hated such stoopid constraints and dingle-bells as much as cats did.

The collar had her name, and a phone number, but it was an interstate number, hundreds of miles away.

Well, there was a long story to her being at his house, and what was to follow, but the essence was that she had been placed in a neighbour’s house, from which she had escaped during a thunder storm that had frightened her, and she somehow had wandered into Mark’s backyard. Not knowing where she was, or how to get home, she had waited and waited, increasingly hungry, until she imposed upon Mark.

Mark tried to contact the owners, according to the information on her collar tag, but to no avail. She eventually moved in with Mark and his wife…..and stayed for 15 years. She was a tortoise-shell cat: black, orange, a lot of white, small ears, and short fur. And as Miska got older she clocked up a few extra kilos, which visitors often commented on; but Mark always had an answer:

Miska was a happy cat. Having been desexed she wasn’t interested in wandering far or in boys, although one day Mark did come home and find a motley collection of four boys in his lounge room wooing her! Mark had made a small sliding door for Miska by cutting a hole in the wooden back door and placing a piece of light plywood on runners that Miska could then slide with her paw to one side. It took only two demonstrations for her to learn how to do it. The problem was, however, that when she went out she couldn’t, and didn’t, close it. So that enabled other cats to come in!

On this occasion she was sitting on a lounge chair, smiling, watching TV—somehow she had managed to turn on the TV—and four toms had come in: one sat on another chair, two on the floor, and the last on the coffee table, all just wagging their tails and smiling.

But what got Mark mad was that, as he came in they just looked him, without any attempt to run! It was though they thought him just another suitor—take a ticket, stand in line. It’s like they were thinking, ‘Hey broh, we’re just chilling, watching the telly…’ Why, he even had to get a broom to get them moving and out of his house.

Miska certainly had her own mind. She liked to play in the garden, jumping on grasshoppers, chasing butterflies, sniffing in the vege patch, when she was young, but she was not a great hunter like Chewie came to be. She was content to snooze in the sun, be cuddled, and just play generally. Perhaps her most daring adventure was somehow climbing onto the roof of the house, and then unable to get down. So Mark had to build some makeshift steps from the roof down to the patio.

Another time she was out the front of the house one night, and must have been spooked by something, so she scurried down a storm-water drain; the problem now was that she could not jump back up. With the help of several neighbours, Mark lifted off the concrete access cover, weighing almost half a ton, and clambered down the ladder amidst cobwebs and redback spiders, and God knows what else, all in the dark and at near-freezing temperatures. Not to have a repeat, the next day he blocked with chicken wire the opening where she had gone down.

After about a year Mark’s daughter,