TREECAT

I am a cat lover and have had cats for years until recently. My writing life prevents me from having more cats as I travel regularly. My last cat was a large Tabby, called TreeCat because he lived in my neighbour's tree. I immortalised him in a short story that was published in the April 2009 edition of YOUR CAT magazine. I've reproduced the story here for those of you who missed it.

TREE CAT

'The trouble with working from home is that there is no-one to talk to in the office,’ Lauren reflected as she took her mug of coffee to her upstairs study and switched on her computer. After an hour she realised she was being watched through the window, from next door’s tree. It was a gnarled old tree, much too tall for her neighbour’s garden. But it was close to their party wall and Lauren enjoyed its welcome shade in summer. Crouched in a fork in the branches was the biggest tabby she had ever seen.
‘Hello, Cat,’ she said. It continued to stare at her and did not move.
She went back to her computer screen. ‘It’ll take a while to get established locally, she thought, ‘but a marketing plan for a charity shop is a start. Cat watched her on most mornings and she talked to him about her project. It helped her ideas along.

‘Puss, Puss, Puss, Puss, Puss,’
Lauren heard a voice from the other side of the wall as she sowed rocket and radish in her small vegetable plot. She was enjoying the lengthening evenings.
‘Come on, Puss. Come down now. Nice din-dins for you.’
She grinned at the language from such a masculine voice. A few minutes later she recognised the clatter of a metal ladder being extended and stood back to watch the action.

He didn’t notice her at first because he was concentrating on reaching the cat. Cat growled as he approached, but this guy was made of stern stuff. Well, he looked as though he might be, Lauren observed with interest. She hadn’t seen much of her neighbour. He was a commuter and she sympathised with his long days at the office. An older woman visited him sometimes. His mum, she guessed. And a younger woman brought a little girl round every other weekend.

‘You can’t stay here all night again, Puss,’ was followed by more growling.
Suddenly he stretched forward and clamped his large hands around the fluffed up fur. The ladder rocked and creaked, then settled. There was a brief struggling spat which, Lauren noted with surprise, the man won. He bundled the cat, teeth and claws firmly under his old parka and looked at the ground. That’s when he noticed her.
‘Can you give me a hand here?’ He sounded desperate. ‘Hurry up. He’s ripping me to shreds.’ He clambered down awkwardly and said, ‘Follow me.’
She did and helped him shove the protesting creature into a cardboard box waiting in his kitchen. The growling grew worse.
‘He doesn’t like it in there,’ Lauren commented.
‘Well, he can’t live in my tree anymore.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s a stray. Somebody must miss him.’
‘Is he a him?’
‘No idea.’ He gestured towards the growling box. ‘Do you want to look?’
‘No thank you. What are you going to do with him?’
‘The pet shop said there was a cat rescue centre somewhere.’
‘Didn’t they say where? Or have a leaflet to give you?’
He shook his head.
Well, she thought, ‘wherever the rescue centre is, it needs a marketing plan. She said, ‘Do you have a telephone directory?’
He brought it from the hall. ‘You search and I’ll make coffee.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Mark Thornton. I moved here a few months ago.’
I know, she thought. She grasped his hand. ‘Lauren Banks.’
The growling turned to a plaintiff crying.
‘He must be hungry,’ Mark said and went to the fridge. ‘I’ve bought cat food... and a feeding bowl.’ He looked around. ‘Where is it?’
‘It’s at the bottom of the tree, with fish in it.’ Lauren remembered the smell.
‘Oh yes.’ He searched the top shelf of a cupboard for a saucer.
‘You’ll have to let him out to feed him.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll close the door to the hall.’
It was a mistake. The cat leapt out of the box and raced around the kitchen in a fury, banging into the table legs and cupboard doors. Lauren jumped from her chair and opened the kitchen door. The cat shot outside into the failing light.
Mark stared at her in disbelief. ‘What did you do that for?’
‘He was frightened. He was hurting himself.’

They walked outside in time to see the cat scrabble up the tree and settle into his nest.
Mark groaned. ‘I think he was a bird in a former life.’
‘Sorry,’ Lauren said.
Mark examined the scratches on his hand. ‘I’m not carrying him down again. Not tonight anyway.’
‘He seems to like it there. Why don’t you let him stay?’
Mark looked surprised. ‘What if he belongs to someone?’
‘You could ask around. The rescue centre will know if anyone’s lost a cat.’
‘Did you find them in the book?’
‘Yes. They’re not far.’
‘I’ll go at the weekend. You seem to know about cats. Can you come with me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Will he be all right up there until then.’
‘He comes down sometimes.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘We’re friends. I talk to him.’
His eyebrows went higher. They were dark and straight and his eyes were blue. ‘I work from home.’ She pointed to her back bedroom window and added, ‘That’s my office.’
He called up to the cat. ‘All right, Puss. You can stay.’
‘Puss? He needs a better name than that.’
‘Well what do you call him when you talk to him?’ he demanded.
‘Cat,’ she admitted sheepishly. ‘Let’s think.’
‘He might be a girl. So it has to be non gender-specific.’
‘Non gender-specific?’ she laughed.
‘Sorry. I do staff training.’
Ah yes, she remembered doing that herself.
‘What about Treecat,’ he suggested.
‘Original,’ she commented.
‘Suitable, I thought.’
She agreed and said, ‘Goodnight, then. Treecat.’
He heaved a sigh. ‘Would you drink something stronger to drink? Wine, for example?’
‘I would.’
He smiled for the first time that evening and she heard a purr from somewhere.