Christmas at the Cat Cafe

I had long accepted that visits to the vet were a non-negotiable aspect of life as a pet cat and, though I didn’t exactly enjoy the experience, I never doubted that the long-term benefits outweighed the short-term discomfort. Jasper, however, had been born on the streets and had gone through life without ever experiencing the chill of the black examination table or the sting of the vaccination needle. His first-ever trip to the vet had taken place several months earlier, when he had begun to spend time indoors. Debbie had decided that Jasper deserved the same provision of care as the rest of us, and he had woken one morning to find himself being bundled into the cat carrier.

The fact that Jasper’s first visit had resulted in him being neutered did nothing to endear the vet to him. When he had returned to the café after his ordeal, groggy from the anaesthetic, he had immediately taken refuge in the alleyway and proceeded to sulk for several days. Eventually, though, Jasper had realized that life would go on. In time, he had forgiven Debbie, although he retained his distrust of the vet, as well as his aversion to the cat carrier.

So it was that, on the occasion of our annual check-up, John had been roped in to help round us up, and we found ourselves sitting in a row of carriers on the back seat of Debbie’s car. I shared my carrier with Eddie and Maisie; to our right, Purdy, Abby and Bella jostled for space; and to our left was a third carrier in which Jasper travelled alone, in bad-tempered isolation. I could make out his shadowy profile through the ventilation holes and, although he was silent, his resentment emanated through the plastic walls between us.

Over the sound of Purdy’s frantic scratching, the occasional squeak of complaint from Abby and Bella as she trod on their tails, and Maisie’s meek mewing behind me, I tried to concentrate on Debbie and John’s conversation. They were talking about Linda.

‘She is starting to do my head in a bit,’ Debbie admitted guiltily.

‘Has she ever left her husband before?’ John asked from the passenger seat.

Debbie shook her head. ‘Never. I thought she had the lifestyle she’d always dreamed of: manicures, personal trainer, skiing trips with her friends.’

John raised his eyebrows. ‘Very nice,’ he remarked in a tone of diplomatic neutrality.

‘Ray’s the finance director for some marketing company in London. Linda used to work for him,’ Debbie explained. ‘He earns a fortune, though I always found him as dull as ditch-water.’

‘Maybe money can’t buy you happiness after all,’ John said sagely, with the merest trace of a smile around his lips.

Debbie tilted her head in agreement. ‘Apparently not.’ She steered the car around a large roundabout, and there was a chorus of scrabbling on the back seat as we all slid sideways inside our carriers.

‘Any kids?’ John asked, once the car had joined the main road.

Debbie shook her head. ‘Only Beau,’ she joked, her eyes glinting as she glanced in the rear-view mirror. ‘They never got round to it. Or at least that was the official version. Who knows what the real story is.’ After a week in Linda’s company, Debbie seemed relieved at being able to talk about her sister.

‘She’s lucky she’s got you,’ John said, turning briefly to face Debbie.

She shrugged. ‘Linda’s got loads of friends, but they’re mostly the wives of Ray’s colleagues. They’re a gossipy bunch, from what I’ve heard. Linda would hate to think that her marital problems are the talk of north London.’ Debbie drove on, concentrating on the road ahead. ‘Sometimes I think I’ve been more of a mum to her than a sister,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘And since Mum and Dad moved to Spain – well, who else has Linda got . . . ?’ She trailed off, and John didn’t press her any further.

The rest of the journey passed in silence, broken only by the sporadic yowls and mews from the carriers on the back seat.

When John pushed open the surgery door I was immediately assailed by the smell of disinfectant.

‘Good morning,’ the receptionist trilled in a singsong voice, as we were lowered onto the grey linoleum floor.

‘Debbie Walsh. Check-ups for seven cats.’

‘Ah yes, Molly’s Cat Café,’ the receptionist smiled, scanning her computer screen. ‘Quite a job just to get them all here, I bet.’ She grinned, peering over her desk at the three carriers.

‘I’ve got the scars to prove it,’ Debbie replied, holding out her hand to reveal a livid red scratch left by Jasper in his struggle to evade capture.

The receptionist winced in sympathy. ‘Take a seat, the vet won’t be long.’

The young, enthusiastic vet seemed impervious to Jasper’s warning growls, which had risen in volume as soon as we entered the consulting room. ‘Who’s a handsome boy?’ she cooed through the wire door, undeterred by the high-pitched rasp issuing from inside. ‘Come on then, big boy, out you come,’ she coaxed.

‘Sorry, he’s always a bit grumpy when he comes here,’ Debbie apologized.