Low life
Cat flap
Jeffrey Bernard
In an age in which children and old people are more than ever in need of love and protection — society was probably more compassionate in the Dark Ages than it is today — I felt quite sick this morning to hear on the radio that an old woman has left £3 million to the RSPCA. She left not one penny to her housekeeper. I hope that
at this moment she is being reincarnated as a lemming. A bankrupt lemming at that.
She only had the one cat herself and I wonder what will become of it although I do not give much of a damn. People who prefer animals to people have always been a mystery to me. I conclude that they must be a little stupid and rather lonely. I have had four dogs and three cats in my time and although I loved the dogs they didn't have a lot to talk about. Do you know of a man who could leave his wife for a cat? But cats can look after themselves. Any self- respecting cat with a mite of guts can walk into any house and be sure of a saucer of milk. They make very good ponces.
The only cat I know of in urgent need of protection is the black bastard downstairs. One night last week he opened the fridge — and it has a catch on it — and ate a pound of calves' liver I was going to share with a friend the following day. It was very inconvenient, the following day being a Sunday. I would have kicked it had I been alone. But I don't think cats are particular- ly nice, for want of a better word, once they are fully grown. They want a warm lap to rest their heads on and lots of stroking. So do I. Most cats end up living with mad women and so do I. Yet nobody has ever mentioned me in their will. Is there no justice?
I have a friend who manages a stud farm in Wiltshire who was sustained for many years by a succession of aunts. Three years ago he ran out of fun money and only had one aunt left. When she did finally go she left £175,000 to a cats' home and she left him a rocking chair. His fault in some ways. It doesn't do to admire trivialities. If I had any rich aunts I would visit them wearing a pantomime cat suit. 'Oh auntie, I just adore your Cezanne. Easy on the milk.'
If by all this you think I don't care for animals you would be very wrong. I could shoot a gamekeeper who could shoot a bird of prey just as I could shoot an ivory poacher, but as a general rule people do not go around shooting cats. I did once shoot a dog when I lived in Suffolk. He was a dirty old dog and he would insist on trying to do the deed with my labrador, Smedley, when she was in season. I got him one day from the bedroom window with an airgun pellet up his arse. He ran off howling, not injured, never to be seen again. That might have been snobbery on my part but Smedley had a touch of class being especially partial to lamb chops. The shot dog was a farmyard dog that would eat anything from bread to pig trough slops. The trouble with Smedley and many of her breed was that she offered me complete and utter adoration and that can be a little cloying.
There was another violent incident once concerning an animal. When I was about eight years old I was playing one day on a beach with a little girl — a cousin — and she killed a sandpiper for no good reason so I hit her over the head with a rock. Of course at the time I was too young to appreciate the deed could have killed her. She was probably brain-damaged and may now be living alone with 15 or so cats.
Anyway, I have been pondering the business of making a will and although the RSPCA may be outraged I think my relatives will come before cats, although I would very much like to think they will give a sack of carrots to the great Dancing Brave should they ever be passing through Newmarket. He, poor thing, is ill again and at the moment is only able to cover one mare a day. My guess is that he is malingering. He had better be very careful and not overdo it. The idea of being tinned and then fed to moggies is quite awful. If the RSPCA don't give the housekeeper a couple of thousand out of that £3 million I think I shall be sick again.
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