Molly and the Cat Cafe

For Suse and Louis

Behind every successful woman there is often a rather talented cat

Anon

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Epilogue

The Real Cat Cafés

The Feline Fascination that inspired Molly and the Cat Café

Extract from Christmas at the Cat Café

1

I don’t remember much from my early kittenhood, but when I close my eyes I can vividly recall the delight on Margery’s face when I was placed on her lap for the first time, a mewling ball of tabby fluff.

‘Well now, who’s this?’ she said gently, as I gazed up at her with not-long-opened eyes.

Margery’s friend answered, ‘This little thing is Molly. She’s eight weeks old. Her mother was a stray. The others from the litter have all been homed, so she’s the last to go.’

I squinted into Margery’s face as I sat on her lap. Her skin was soft and downy, settling into deep folds around her kind-looking eyes. She had short silver hair carefully groomed into waves that framed her face. But what I remember most about Margery in those days is her smile. It was a smile that made me feel I was the most important thing in her world or, as Margery would have put it, ‘the best thing since sliced bread’.

‘I thought you could do with some companionship,’ the friend continued. ‘I know you’ve been lonely, since Malcolm passed away. A nice lap-cat could be just what the doctor ordered.’

‘Well, I think Molly is . . . the cat’s whiskers.’ Margery answered softly, and there was no mistaking the pleasure in her voice.

And, with that, it was settled: Margery was to be my owner. She tickled me under the chin and I started to purr, tentatively at first, but as I relaxed my purr grew to a loud, steady rumble. Margery began to laugh at how much noise ‘a little scrap’ like me could produce.

As the months passed and I grew from kitten to young adult cat, Margery and I established a cosy partnership, based on mutual adoration. Margery enjoyed having someone to talk to and take care of, and I relished being the object of her loving attention. As an active, growing youngster, I was constantly hungry, and Margery seemed to delight in my insatiable appetite. She not only bought me the choicest cat food available, but would also make sure to save a portion of her own meals for me: chicken, lamb chops, a nice piece of salmon – whatever Margery cooked, there was always a Molly-sized portion put to one side in a dish on the counter.

Margery’s house quickly became my domain: I could nap where I chose and do whatever I liked. With such a comfortable life indoors, I never particularly felt the need to explore the world outside Margery’s home. From her bedroom window I could see the roofs of houses in the village and the rolling slopes of the fields that lay beyond. I did, on occasion, wander out of our cul-de-sac, but to be honest the village we lived in held no great appeal for me. There was not much to it: a parade of shops, a church and a couple of pubs. I knew that other cats from the village enjoyed hunting in the churchyard; but, being so well fed at home, I rarely put my hunting skills into practice.

You are probably thinking I was lucky, and I would have to agree with you. Life with Margery was all that a cat could hope for, and I loved everything about it. But that was before Margery’s sadness started.

‘There you go, Molly,’ Margery whispered one day, when I was about a year old. She bent over, using one hand to steady herself on the kitchen worktop, and placed my food bowl carefully on the linoleum floor. I began to purr in anticipation, I was hungry, and had been waiting patiently while Margery moved slowly around the kitchen, completing the domestic chores that always preceded my teatime.

I hopped down from the kitchen table, but a quick look in my bowl confirmed my worst fears. I sniffed warily at the contents, hoping that the beige-coloured mushy substance might conceal something feline-friendly, but my hope quickly turned to disappointment.

‘It’s mashed potato, Molly – your favourite,’ Margery said helpfully, noticing my reluctance. Suspecting this was the only meal I was going to be offered, I gingerly licked the contents of the bowl. With trepidation I took a tiny mouthful. The taste was bland and the consistency lumpy, and as I attempted to swallow it, I realized something solid had become lodged in the back of my throat. I felt my body spasm as I retched the offending mouthful back up onto the linoleum. I peered at it closely. It was a piece of unmashed potato, grey-looking and inedible. Not for the first time in recent weeks I realized that an evening hunting expedition would be required to satisfy my appetite.