Mitzi’s Kittens & Me

By Martin Bradley

Why do these things always happen to me???
Living in a neighbourhood where every other household seemed to own at least one cat I suppose there was a certain passive inevitability about what would eventually happen to a soft-hearted animal lover such as myself.
First one neighbourhood stray and then another moved into my back garden. Hungry and appealing, what could I do but offer them some food? Except that the second one forgot to mention that she had brought some ‘passengers’ along for the ride. Little did I imagine at the time that her five lovely kittens, adorable as they were, would turn my life and my house upside down, and that I would be the one being taken for a very bumpy, but strangely enchanting, ride.
Delightfully told as it happened over a period of several months, this is the lively and entertaining true story of how one man, living in peaceful tranquillity, suddenly found himself as the human ‘mum’ to five feisty and charming kittens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: NewGenerationPublishing
• Release date: Feb 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9781803695181

Martin Bradley

Martin Bradley was born in Richmond (Surrey, England) in 1931. From a very young age he discovered Far Eastern Culture (Encyclopaedia Britannica, Lafcadio Hearn, etc.). In 1947, he started to learn Classical Chinese from Arthur Waley, who taught him how to teach himself. In 1951, he met William Willetts, the author of Foundations of Chinese Art from Neolithic Pottery to Modern Architecture, who guided him in his understanding of Sino-Japanese calligraphy. In 1954, he received lessons in Literary Tibetan from David Snellgrove. During this period he supported himself by means of his painting.In 1960, Bradley obtained a travelling scholarship from the Brazilian Government, and he stayed in Brazil for two years, painting various pictures for the decoration of the new presidential palace in Brasília (o Palácio da Alvorada). Supported by a contract from his Parisian art dealer (R. A. Augustinci of the Galerie Rive Gauche), he was able to travel to Nepal where he studied the Buddha teaching and at the same time taught French at Kathmandu University. In 1970, he settled in Hong Kong, where he gave lectures on Western art history and also studied Buddhism under Hsin Kuang, who was then the Abbot of Tung Lin Temple. In 1972, he travelled on to Japan, where he studied the language and other aspects of Japanese culture.In 1974, Martin returned to Italy and in 1975 met his wife, who was then a student at the Accademia di Belle Arti di Roma. He has been using Japanese as a daily language ever since. After living in Paris for ten years, he and his wife moved to Bruges. Due to his deep interest in the Buddha teaching over the last few decades, they moved to Japan in 2008, where Bradley now lives quietly and spends his time translating the various writings of Nichiren Daishōnin.------“From the onset, his biography is fascinating, almost what we could label as ‘fictional‘, and even if we do not wish to delight in the anecdotal, it always helps us understand—albeit superficially—the circumstances that formed and shaped the author’s personality in order to understand his accomplishments, especially in the case of Bradley, whose work displays a huge grasp of knowledge and life experience, which permeated his existential philosophy, and are transmitted and molded into his work.”Raquel Medina Vargas,Art History Director,AICA

Book preview

Chapter 1

Little Blackie sat on the carpet looking up at me. It was approaching one o’clock in the morning. I had been out for most of the Saturday evening and had only just returned home, but, as the early hours of Sunday beckoned me toward a good night’s rest, something told me that there was more to be done before that particular luxury would be forthcoming.

I glanced in the direction of the adjoining kitchen area where my other resident feline, Cookie, was enthusiastically devouring a late meal; or an early one; depending upon how you looked at it. Momentarily pausing in his exertions to return my attention he showed all the supercilious disdain of one who knows better than to get himself saddled with anyone else’s problems. It occurred to me; and not for the first time; that I always was too soft hearted for my own good; especially where animals were concerned. But a loud meow from Little Blackie reminded me that it was too late to think about that now. About eight weeks too late to be precise…..

Two years earlier...

The neighbourhood was infested with cats. That’s the only word which applies to the situation. Virtually every week some new moggie appeared in my back garden; usually making itself known to me with a late night appearance, peeking in through the, usually slightly ajar, door to the porch at the back of my house. In most instances a particular cat would be seen for a period of weeks before disappearing, only to be replaced shortly afterwards by another. I suspected that some irresponsible person nearby was probably a cat fanatic of fickle affections. On a few rare occasions one might remain persistently local; invariably raiding the food supplies I often provided for the birds in my back garden. In years past these would have been sparrows; once the most common of suburban visitors. But, for reasons unclear, they had gradually diminished to the point where the merest sight of a sparrow was something of an exotic novelty in Britain. Consequently, in more recent years, one had to cater for a different clientele of larger birds such as pigeons, gulls and crows. Less cute than sparrows perhaps; but they too had to make a living. I didn’t actually own anything as posh as a bird table, so I just put anything edible out on to the garden. The birds didn’t seem to mind; which is how I came to meet Cookie.

My first sight of the black and white cat, which I was later to adopt, was when I caught sight of him walking along the roof of my garden shed. At the time apparently well fed and cared for, he was wearing a blue collar, which at least suggested a caring owner. A few months later the collar changed to a red one; so obviously someone was still looking after him. At the time this was just another cat in the seemingly endless parade of myriad moggies which explored the local area. I didn’t think much about it one way or another for some considerable time; well over a year in fact; some days he made a fleeting visit, and some days he didn’t.

Gradually his circumstances began to change as I started to notice that his previously healthy weight was beginning to diminish. His once casual interest in the scraps of food on the garden became more obsessive as he became a regular visitor. Assuming a female I started to refer to ‘her’ in my mind as ‘Skinny Minnie’ for reasons which became increasingly apparent with each passing day. In truth I was getting concerned for his well-being, and consequently started preparing a variation on the more usual type of bird food especially with him in mind. This proved to be a dangerous strategy, as the consequences of birds and a hungry cat sharing the same food source presented obvious hazards for the former and irresistible temptation to the latter. Initially, however, this didn’t present any problem at all, because the birds only came during the hours of daylight, and ‘Skinny Minnie’ rarely showed up before dark. Eventually time changed this happy state of affairs, as the advent of spring signalled the start of longer periods of daylight hours. Whilst the cat kept, for some long while, to his usual schedule, the mid-to-late-evening time at which he always appeared began to overlap with the longer daylight evenings. I suppose I was deceiving myself into a state of denial; until one summer’s evening the inevitable occurred.

Looking out of the kitchen window I observed a pigeon pecking optimistically at whatever might remain of the day’s food supply. Diligently moving first to one direction and then the other, with head bobbing up and down in the familiar staccato motion, he failed to notice his natural adversary appear in the garden with an admirably silent leap over the three foot high fence separating my garden from that of my next door neighbour. The bird may have been unobservant but the cat most certainly was not. Resisting the temptation to make an ill-timed dash toward his intended victim, ‘Skinny Minnie’ instead quickly scooted for shelter behind the nearest of the two sheds which were situated at the bottom of my garden to plan his next move with the strategic skill of a feline Field Marshall.

Now you do have to give credit to pigeons for their legendary navigational skills. With their built-in satnav capabilities able to carry them across thousands of miles on an unerring track for home, they put us mere humans to shame in this department. Unfortunately that’s pretty much where their skill set begins and ends; because when it comes down to basic day-to-day survival necessities they are certainly not the most intellectually gifted of birds; and this particular specimen was definitely not the brightest kid in his class. From a distance of no more than five or six metres away, and by now in plain view of his dim-witted potential dinner, Skinny Minnie could hardly believe his luck as he narrowed the distance with all the underhanded stealth characteristic to his species.

I could hardly believe it either. Watching this alarming spectacle unfold from my vantage point of the kitchen window I had initially expected the pigeon to spot the cat easily, and make a rapid ascent into the air. Clearly this wasn’t going to occur and so, in a state of some mild panic, I quickly tapped loudly on the window pane, which was certain to startle the bird into making a rapid getaway. It didn’t happen. Ignoring me completely the pigeon continued pecking pointlessly at the grass, ensuring that his chances of survival dwindled still further, as his opponent in this game of life and death gained ground with every second. But fortunately; although the pigeon had apparently not heard my frantic tapping; the cat was momentarily distracted by this unwelcome interruption and glanced upward, no doubt silently cursing me for my attempt to frustrate his nefarious intent.

Finally that annoyingly obtuse pigeon realised the danger and made a break for it; flapping frantically and lifting noisily away from the ground as the cat abandoned any attempt at subtlety or stealth, making a dash toward his target. He nearly made it too: partly because cats are very quick and partly because a pigeon’s take-off speed rivals that of an overloaded jumbo jet with mechanical problems. But, in the event, all ‘Skinny Minnie’ ended up with was a paw-full of feathers as he had to watch, helplessly earthbound, as the dimmest and luckiest pigeon in England reached the safety of the open sky.

Much of the next day was occupied with the construction of a bird table. It’s true that it would have been a lot easier just to go out and purchase one ready-made, but my needs were slightly more specialised than the average. I didn’t particularly require a nice elegant bird table with a cute little hut sat on top; with maybe a couple of hooks on the sides for attaching small bird-treat feeders. No, what I had in mind was one of sufficient height to frustrate the agility of even the most determined moggie. And fortunately, on this occasion at least, I’m one of those people who are loath to discard anything which might conceivably one day come in handy. This being the case, there was plenty of suitable wood around the slightly scruffy garden and in the shed. The only piece lacking was something suitable for the table upon which the lucky customers would rest whilst dining in peace and safety. I glanced around, but of all the junk in house, garden and shed, nothing presented itself as having the necessary size, whilst also being light enough in weight for the job. Fortunately, however, the garden next door was another matter. I noticed a large piece of plywood leaning semi-upright against the wall, which, with minimal trimming, could have been made to order. A quick word with my friendly neighbour and I was soon hammering the final crucial piece of the construction into place.

By late afternoon it was finished. Not exactly a visual masterpiece perhaps, but it was nearly six feet tall with a table surface of sufficient dimensions as to accommodate Mr Dimwit pigeon along with his wife and kids and most of their in-laws if need be. I breathed a little easier as I placed some food on the table and retired to the kitchen to see how it all worked out in practice.

My vigil that evening was largely a waste of time because, although the cat showed up as usual, the birds, of whatever species, stayed away for all the remainder of that day. Maybe that pigeon wasn’t as dim as I had supposed, and he had already learned a short sharp lesson which made him wary of approaching this particular garden. By the looks of things over the next few days the word must have spread pretty extensively around the birds in the neighbourhood as I rarely saw any for at least a week: after that, when birds of whatever description did avail themselves, the resulting effectiveness of the giant bird table proved uncertain. Where I live it pretty much came down to either pigeons or crows. The crows are a very intelligent species, and had consequently established their own, highly efficient, early warning system. Mostly they lived in the trees situated at the front of my house and rarely appeared in the back garden anyway. They would meander around amongst the cars and people who came and went, with apparent indifference, and, never having been troubled by anyone, showed almost no fear of the human species. But when a cat appeared in the vicinity it was a different story. From their vantage point in the trees the crows could easily spot their age-old enemy and raise the alarm. This manifested itself in an extremely loud cawing among these crows, causing those at ground level to immediately take to the air until the culprit made itself scarce. This system proved so efficient that, to the best of my knowledge, there had never been a casualty amongst the crows despite the virtual omnipresence of the numerous neighbourhood cats.

Indeed crows can be aggressive when the occasion demands; and one rather timid little black cat which lived a few doors away from me was quite intimidated one day as several loudly cawing crows approached at ground level, virtually chasing the poor startled cat toward the safety of her home. But this was the exception, and generally the crows wisely remained in the trees when threatened by a potential predator of such lethal efficiency as a cat.

Time passed and there were no more incidents. The bird table proved semi-useful in its intended purpose of separating cats and birds; partly because the crows were too canny to get caught off guard anyway. They would eat whatever was on offer very quickly; keeping a wary eye out for the enemy; and then disappear. It was the same story with the occasional appearance of seagulls, because they could despatch food with the speed of light, and then disappear almost as fast. Besides, as predators go, cats are essentially quite cowardly (or maybe just wise) and tend to be wary about trying their luck with anything as large and aggressive as a seagull. Unfortunately, with the pigeons it was another matter entirely. They would peck untidily at their food, often resulting in the scraps falling from the table and landing on the surrounding garden. Then, instead of sensibly staying on the table well out of reach of danger, they would often follow it down and eat their food on the ground, rendering the intended safety benefits of the bird table entirely redundant. So I added a ledge onto the sides of the table in order to somewhat prevent the spillage. It didn’t work. Their pecking action was so enthusiastic that it continued to overspill just as much as it had done before. Quite honestly I might as well not have built the bird table at all. It was virtually useless in terms of keeping the pigeons safely away from the cat(s) on the ground. I knew that it was only a matter of time before problems would arise.

Late one afternoon I caught sight of an alarming flurry out on the garden. What had happened was that a pigeon was eating on the bird table when ‘Skinny Minnie’ appeared from behind the shed. In one quick dash he ran toward the bird table and made a remarkable leap upward. Although he couldn’t quite make it high enough to actually reach table height, somehow he must have gotten his claws into the unfortunate pigeon as it was attempting to escape. I didn’t quite see exactly how it all played out, but I did witness the aftermath of the debacle. The short version is that the bird had suffered severe injury and, now unable to fly, had somehow scuttled behind the shed seeking shelter behind the rubbish bins. I dashed out into the garden and shooed the cat away. Fearing the worst I found the terrified pigeon in its hiding place. Obviously it had been badly traumatised by the experience, but I was still naively hopeful that it might survive if I could get it to some medical attention without delay.

I was pretty certain that taking it to the local vet would be a waste of time. Maybe I’m being cynical, but most vets seem to be in it for the money, not for the welfare of wild creatures in need of assistance. They would doubtless recommend euthanasia without hesitation. And the RSPCA, in my experience, are somewhat less impressive in real life than on television. Also; with their endless succession of answering machines; it could take all night just getting through on the telephone. I figured that the best bet would probably be Secret World Wildlife Rescue. This wasn’t exactly local to me, being about twenty miles away, near Highbridge in Somerset; but at least they would have someone on duty at that time of evening. Over the years I had found it to be wise practice to keep a sturdy box in any car I owned; time and experience having taught me that sooner or later it would come in handy for the transportation of whichever form of wildlife I encountered on my travels. You see; I told you that I was a bit nutty where animals are concerned. Anyway I quickly placed the pigeon in a box which was always kept in my car, and headed out on to the A38.

Birds being quite delicate creatures I knew that the odds were not favourable. They have hollow bones to lessen the weight load for flight; which makes perfect sense, until it comes to withstanding any impact or attack. And, having ‘rescued’ several injured birds in the past; I could not recall one as having long survived the experience of whatever misfortune or form of attack it had sustained. Consequently I arrived at the wildlife centre around 7.30 that evening in no state of optimism. The lady on duty looked into the box at the dishevelled bird, made some sympathetic noises, and asked me to fill in a form admitting the pigeon to their care. Although I figured this would be virtually pointless if, upon closer inspection, the patient was beyond saving, nevertheless I obediently did as requested whilst my erstwhile charge was taken into another room to be examined by their resident ornithological specialist.

Having completed the admittance form I glanced around the reception area. Set in the heart of the Somerset countryside the whole place had an appropriately rustic ambience. And, although this was far from being my first visit here, I had never actually ventured beyond this one small part of the building. I presumed that the grounds must be quite extensive to permit room for all the various forms of wildlife. Foxes, badgers, deer, owls, hedgehogs, wildfowl, rabbits…; you name it; if the species existed in this region of the South West then it would, sooner or later, find its way here for repair and recuperation. Although much of the work was done by unpaid volunteers, still I wondered how they paid for it all. I stopped wondering as the door to the inner building opened and a man appeared to deliver his verdict on my unlucky pigeon. It was exactly as I feared; having been in more-or-less this exact situation several times before, with other injured birds. The damage inflicted by the cat had been too severe and the poor old pigeon would have to be put out of its misery. It was depressing but hardly surprising. Cats may look cute and cuddly to us, but statistically they are responsible for a great deal of wildlife fatalities throughout every year.

Next day I was not in a very cat-friendly state of mind. With the depressing events of the previous evening still fresh in my mind I was initially inclined to discourage my feline acquaintance from hanging around the garden. When he finally appeared I reluctantly shooed him away, to a response of bewildered looks from ‘Skinny Minnie’. Of course, in his mind, nothing untoward had happened. Cats have no conscience; no sense of right and wrong; all actions are instinctual and carried out with complete absence of malice. In fact he had probably forgotten about the incident entirely. He must have wondered what I was doing, standing there like an idiot, clapping my hands to chase him away. And, despite disappearing over the garden fence on those first couple of occasions, pretty soon he disregarded my mild rebukes and merely sat on the path waiting to be fed. Clearly this wasn’t going to work as a long-term strategy. I needed to think again; although, at that time, I really had no idea whether or not this roving moggie was genuinely a homeless stray or just a local cat whose owner existed somewhere in the neighbourhood but was perhaps not as conscientious as he/she should be. The fact that (as I later came to realise) he had been neutered clearly indicated that someone, sometime, had behaved as a responsible pet owner. But, even so, there was no doubt that, in more recent times, they were not feeding him often, if at all. This put me in a state of uncertainty about what to do, because I could hardly call up the cat rescue people to have him re-homed if someone nearby might be wondering what had happened to their missing cat.

I had an idea. Although his original collar had since become so tatty that it had to be removed for his own safety; lest it get entangled in anything whilst he was out and about; I made up a paper replacement collar which had a message written on it. This simply asked any interested parties to contact me on the enclosed telephone number, otherwise I stated that I would have him re-homed. This, I reasoned, should certainly elicit some definite response from anyone who read the message. Not that the cat was inclined to be helpful to this strategy. Every time I attempted to fix the message to his collar he took fright and disappeared out the door. But eventually, after about three days, I did manage to achieve the objective and watched thoughtfully as he finished up his food and went off on his daily rounds. It would be interesting to await the response, if any, to the collar message; which would resolve the uncertainty once and for all.

Next day came, with me half-expecting to hear the ring of the telephone signalling a call from someone concerned about their feckless roving pussycat. So, all that day I waited…, and waited, and waited some more. Around 8pm still no call had arrived; unlike my black & white moggie friend, who strolled casually in for dinner as usual. The cat was here, but without the collar I had fitted on that previous day. Did this mean that someone had removed it, or only that it had become detached by chance, whilst the cat was on his travels? As a response to my message this was noncommittal and completely uninformative; in other words; useless. Nevertheless, just in case it had gone astray without human intervention I decided to give it another try with another paper collar – when I eventually managed to get it fitted on to the reluctant moggie – but another day passed with again no useful outcome, nor indeed any sign of the collar when the cat returned again. It was all inconclusive, but I gave up wondering about it all either way and just decided to feed him in the house from now on; at least that would prevent any conflict between cat and birds during feeding times.

As the weeks passed I noticed that birds no longer came into my garden. Perhaps they sensed the potential danger and decided that it wasn’t worth the risk. Or maybe it was just the changing of the seasons, from summer into autumn, which had something to do with it. Whichever; at least it was one less problem to worry about.

Gradually, as the weather grew cooler my feline friend began to spend more time in my house and less time wandering the neighbourhood. His new routine became, arrival in the early evening, followed by dinnertime, and then lounge around