Feral Cats In Britain

Read Time:6 Minute, 21 Second

There are dog lovers and cat lovers and, I must presume, gerbil lovers and even aardvark lovers but, as they love a particular species of animal they can’t be all bad.

cats

Personally I love animals. Dogs, cats, gerbils, aardvarks, giraffes, hippopotimuses / hippopotimi or ‘ami’ (I prefer hippopotimuses personally as it sounds nice), cougars – now how did you just know I’d love cougars then? ;-),  wolves, sheep, chickens, gerbils – did I already say gerbils? I’ve a gerbil fetish? Oh dear. Owls, Eagles, bats, ducks, geese – and I know, they’re birds, mammals and fowl not animals but I’m using ‘animal’ as an umbrella term all right?.

Anyway. If you love animals you have a saving grace – well, Hitler appeared to love his German shepherd but there’s always an exception eh? Besides, he killed it so he doesn’t count.

Cats have played rather a large part in my life. As a child we had a West Highland White Terrier called ‘MacTavish’ – he got run over by a bus after the dustbin men left the gate open but that’s another story – and we also had a cat called ‘TC’ short for ‘Top Cat’ as I adored the cartoon show at the time. TC came into my family as my parents owned and ran a general store – well my mother did as my father was a design engineer so didn’t have much time for getting involved in the general store. TC arrived to stop the mice nibbling the packets of chocolate in the storeroom. Very good at it she was too. My childhood is filled with pictures of various bits of dead mice scattered about the place before my mother cleaned up.

On marrying my unfortunate wife who, previously to marrying me, had never before made a bad decision, we decided that cats were the way forward as we both worked and leaving a dog at home was unfair on said dog so, cats it was.

We joined ‘Cats Protection’, a British charity run solely for the welfare of stray and unwanted cats. Generally they only concern themselves with ‘homeable’ cats but, occasionally they get involved in ‘Feral colonies’. They will pay for the neutering of the feral’s but their primary aim is to rescue feral kittens before they are too old to be domesticated.

The thing is, Cats Protection seem to appeal mainly to ‘mad cat ladies’ and, having a male join their ranks – me – was unusual. Not unheard of by any means but slightly unusual. As a result, in ‘our area’ they now had a man.

The ‘man’ (me) was, therefore, designated all the jobs that the ladies – and, in some cases I have to use that term loosely I’m afraid – preferred to avoid at all costs. Those jobs tended to include being scratched and clawed and bitten by some demented cat. As a result I have indeed been scratched, clawed and bitten by an incalculable number of demented cats.

On one memorable occasion I was sent to the grounds of Ealing Hospital in London as they had a problem with feral cats. Cats Protection were quite happy to trap and neuter said colony as there were local residents quite happy to feed them provided they would stop breeding all over the place. So far so good.

The ‘team’ arrived.

“Norman!” said the CP Group Co-ordinator, “get your goggles out” (that is NOT a gentle euphemism for anything pornographic I hasten to add)

“Why me?” I asked plaintively

“Because” she replied with unfailing logic, “you are a man!”

So there you go. If I decline I’m no longer a man, if I don’t decline I’m about to be torn to shreds. Women eh? 😉

I wrapped my original late 1950’s Parka around myself (my original late 1950’s Parka saw action in Korea don’t you know?! – it’s a ‘MOD’ thing. Just listen to The Who or The Kinks or The Jam and you’ll get the idea – or watch the Quadrophenia movie and you’ll sort of understand)

I put on my goggles and thick gardening gloves and set off through the undergrowth in search of the feral kittens who, it was believed were no more than about 5 weeks old so young enough to be ‘turned’ domestic. As I pushed away a few brambles from my path through the undergrowth I spotted them.

“Got ’em!” I shouted back.

At that point the mother cat dropped from a branch above my head. She wasn’t big really, she was BIG. She arched her back and hissed and spat like a mad thing – well, come to think of it, she was a ‘mad thing’ at that moment. There was I, a 5 feet 8 inch male (all right I’m not that tall but 5 feet 8 inches is taller than a cat) and she slashed her claws at my face, almost knocking off my goggles. Well, in fairness to me, when you come to think of it I was not much taller than the feral mother really as I was lying on my stomach.

“Er – can I come back out now?” I asked the CP ladies several feet behind in the safety of open ground and, unlike me, not lying on their stomachs being attacked by a junior lion.

“Not until you’ve got the kittens!” at least three of them said in unison and ended with, “are you a man or a mouse?”

“Squeek?” I said quietly

“What was that?” asked the haradans again in trio unison.

Now catching hold of the kittens – who were actually not much over 4 weeks according to the vet – wasn’t easy wearing thick gardening gloves so, obviously I removed them. This wasn’t a problem to the kittens – and even if it was their claws weren’t capable of doing any harm anyway – but their mother, who may well have been through this sort of inconvenience before, seemed to sense it.

“Ah!” she thought in her feral cat brain, “he’s taken off his gloves!”

Suffice to say that I emerged with four feral kittens to be ‘domesticated’ and blood streaming from many many scratches and bites from said feral mother cat on my hands and wrists.

“I’m bleeding!” I exclaimed.

“Oh don’t be such a pussy!” said the CP leader.

So you see MMA. I may be, and indeed am, many things. Some of which I am proud, some of which I am ashamed, some of which I am doubtful of at best but – BUT – I adore animals and will lose blood if necessary to help them. Hopefully not enough blood for it to be terminal I hasten to add.

So, am I really so bad a person after all? Am I?

OI! Who said “YES!!” ?

Quick update by the way – My Lacey, who isn’t mine she’s my neighbour’s dog, has broken her leg. She’s due home from the animal hospital this evening. You know how she broke her leg? She’s half Staffordshire Bull Terrier and half Whippet. Her face and legs are ‘whippet’ therefore thin. Her body is ‘Staffy’ therefore far rounder and solid. Her owner keeps her on a leash – unlike me for which I am in eternal trouble – and, guess what? She got her leash wrapped around her leg and, whilst struggling as she hates the leash, broke a bone.

Another update since I first wrote this. Thankfully in a way, it’s Lacey’s ligaments that are damaged. Still a long job recuperating but an initial worry was ‘brittle bones’ so at least her bones are sound. Bloody leash.

I will say no more. (Which, in itself, is somewhat unusual for me eh? ) 😉

 

 

 

 

About Post Author

Neil Bamforth

I am English first, British second and never ever European. I have supported Oldham Athletic FC for 50 years which has made me immune from depression. My taste buds have died due to too many red hot curries so I drink Kronenburg beer and milk - sometimes in the same glass. I have a wife, daughter, 9 cats and I like toast.
Happy
Happy
0 %
Sad
Sad
0 %
Excited
Excited
0 %
Sleepy
Sleepy
0 %
Angry
Angry
0 %
Surprise
Surprise
0 %
0 0 votes
Article Rating
Subscribe
Notify of

0 Comments
Inline Feedbacks
View all comments
Previous post Stop Stressing Cats By Treating Them Like Dogs
Next post Woman Commits Suicide by Crocodile
0
Would love your thoughts, please comment.x
()
x