However, that was in the days when I lived in a flat, quite close to London bridge. It had a small private balcony on one side, as well as a communal walkway on the other side. I kept the doors open a lot in the hot weather, I like to think that my several cats choose to stay with me, rather than were prisoners. My cats however, never stepped over the threshold, although they often sat in the doorway, watching. They were house cats, quite spoiled, and quite happy living indoors. Only once did I lose one, it was Sapho, my queen cat, the one I had the longest. She was so called because she was a female living only with other females, as queen Sapho on the lesbian isle of Lesbos. Poor cats, they had little chance to being other than females together, not for several years anyway. At which time, my Sapho went into breeding the most adorable kittens quite happily, with a strutting black, half Siamese cat who found his way to our home.
My poor queen, as female Siamese cats are called, was the victim of foul play when she disappeared. Someone....whom I always had my suspicions of, posted her down the garbage shute from outside our first floor flat, to the ground floor garbage shed/cupboard beneath. Unfortunately for her and me, this was during a strike by the council waste disposal units, although in those days they were called dustmen. As always in these situations the black sacks, along with piles of all sorts of refuse grew larger all around us, spreading like smelly malignant growth around the surrounding London streets. This meant that the door to the rubbish shed remained firmly shut, I dreamt of as a destination. Knowing well the power of her voice, I went out regularly, calling for her, knowing she would answer me, as always. Despite asking all the neighbours, even the ones I suspected, and putting out the usual leaflets, I heard nothing of her. I never stopped looking, or stopped missing her.
It was three weeks later, whilst standing, calling, longer than usual, in the small car park near the door to the rubbish shed that I heard something. It was small, it was weak, but it had the right tone, that timbre of raspy yowl I hoped to hear. Not knowing where it came from, I kept calling, moving around as I did so. It never occurred to me in a million years that someone would post her so heartlessly down that chute. Plus there were bags and stuff, boxes, of all sorts piled in front of the door. Knowing there was no way she could get in from the top chute, the metal lid was iron, very heavy. So heavy it would snap painfully on your fingers if you did not pay attention. The door itself in the par park was a snug fit, designed to avoid scavengers getting in to the bins, so I knew she could not get in there herself. Although right at the begiinning of the search I had forced the door open, calling and looking, as you do. Already the giant metal bin was full and overflowing, as was the floor and surroundings, at that point, she wasn't there, I'm sure.
By now, three weeks later, the piles of rubbish were much worse. By the process of elimination, thinking it was the only place left to look, i walked towards the piles of stinking rubbish in front of the door. I had searched the corners, under the cars, around the cars, behind the surrounding wall all around with no success, could it be.....? I moved what I could, creating more smelly chaos in the process, eventually getting the door open a small space. Calling again, hearing nothing else, I despaired, forcing the door open a little more, letting in a sliver of light. Suddenly. There was a crackling, and a scrabbling from the top and back of the pile of refuse, that I sincerely hoped wasn't rats. My calling intensified, until with a croaky yowl, she fell down off the pile in front of me, nothing like as elegantly as usual. Covered in dust, all bones, but with brilliant blue eyes wide, as I scooped her up.
To this day, I remember my joy, my relief and how she clung to me like a lost child. I don't remember how I left the rubbish that day, clear, tidy or abandoned in disarray. All I wanted was to get her upstairs, fed and much to her disgust, bathed. I thought about it a lot afterwards, I believe someone took her home for a while. Knowing her, and her faithfulness to me, I think she would have searched for me, and made a lot of yowling in the process. She had done it before when I went away, leaving a friend in charge. No doubt, they decided it wasn't such a good idea after all, getting rid of her in the easiest way. It's lucky, in one way that the strike was on. Otherwise she may have fallen to the bottom of the giant sized bin, and found it impossible to escape, or been injured by stuff falling . I can only assume she found enough food there to survive., but she was even thinner than normal by the time I had her home again.
So....as you can see, I loved my cats...they seemed definitely only good. An asset to my life and routine. However, it was not to stay like that forever.....
Read part two for the next instalment on cats.
Happy reading.......
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