Susan Finden - Casper the Commuting Cat - The True Story of the Cat Who Rode the Bus and Stole Our Hearts

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.’

That was the next one on my list. I ran along, but there was nothing (or no one) in the gutter. I went inside and asked the woman in charge if she’d seen anything earlier that day. She had; she’d called the council to come and collect the cat. I was convinced it was Bonnie.

It is one of the hardest things to deal with. When you lose a cat suddenly, your mind races through all the things you could have changed. If only I hadn’t let her out that morning. If only Chris had been at home, she wouldn’t have gone looking for him If only she had gone in the other direction. Just one change, just one second later, and she would still be with me. I’d be at home, none the wiser, and Bonnie would trot in, yapping at me, trying to fit into the fruit bowl.

I ran out of the shop and rang the council as soon as I got home. I was eventually put through to the department I needed, and asked if a cat had been brought in. When I was told that one had, I asked, ‘If she has a collar, could you please check her name?’