Master Shopcat, Suggs, Dickhead, Achmagh (Farsi for dickhead), Pushkin.
Most of the time - Rain Dogs by Tom Waits. But when I am exercising (which the human insultingly refers to as my mad half hour), it is totally Wipe Out by the Surfaris.
“Well? I’m waiting....”
As I am attached to a Persian shop, most people expect me to be (a ridiculous) Persian (fluffball): I am, as you can see, a superior tabby. I was originally adopted by Mrs. Shopkeeper’s Iranian mother-in-law who admired my long white socks (they are rather special, aren’t they?). Mrs. Shopkeeper was involved with another cat (Fizzy) at the time, but I took a shining to her, bullied the other cat and took over. I occasionally feel a little bit guilty, as the other cat died shortly afterwards, and she was really quite a lady – but fortunately the feeling goes away quickly. I used to spend all my time in the shop window, but then they started selling a lot more food, and seemed to object to me curling up on top of a basket of nuts, so now I am mostly a warehouse and upstairs cat. I am told that I talk a lot (without saying excuse me), and dribble when I am happy.
STRING! Anything to do with string. Supervising the daily pigeon parliament from my balcony. Trying to get into the shop...and then amusing passers-by by pretending to be a toy cat asleep in the shop window. Hiding in the warehouse for just long enough to make Mrs. S. really cross. Sitting on the knee cushion of Mrs. S’ posture stool so she has to contort herself while she’s typing stuff. Whacking people playfully through the banisters. Climbing up my chief human to sit in her hoodie. Pushing my humans gently gently while they are sleeping so that I end up with my statutory half of the bed. Showing cuddly toys that I’m the man (best not ask).
What constitutes a perfect evening for you?
Ten minutes of frenetic string game (I change the rules of this game regularly just so that the humans know who’s in charge). Then I like to help Mrs. S. cook dinner: I can just about reach up to the kitchen work surfaces. The silly people usually try to share their supper with me: they really should know by now that I prefer to ‘help myself’. After they’ve eaten, I usually try to persuade Mr.S to sit still for while so I can wash myself on his lap: it annoys me considerably that he seems to prefer killing things on his computer.
Raw liver. Tinned tuna, natch. Raw chicken. Stolen pizza. Crunchies. Mrs. S’ houseplants.
Defining Moment of your Life
The moment that I went OUTSIDE. Into the HIGH STREET. And was (allegedly) so scared I just sat down in the middle of the road. Mrs.S. was always telling me that city outside is not like country outside, and that it was best to stay in. I listen to her now. I like inside. Inside is safe.
Oh yes. CHILDREN. And suitcases – they seem to take people away. I sulk under the bed if Mrs. S. is headstrong enough to try and go away.
If you could do one thing to make the world a better place for felines what would it be?
I would make human beings shorter. It’s really quite hard getting to be heard, and I usually have to climb on to the dinner table or the radiator to make eye contact. I would also abolish computers.
If you could meet a celebrity (alive or dead), who would it be?
Ernest Hemingway, of course. If I am destined to be a cat-loving writer’s cat, I may as well be the cat of a good cat-loving writer. *gazes spitefully at Mrs. Shopkeeper*
Which one of the cats from Under The Paw and Talk To The Tail would you like to be stuck in the lift with?
It would have to be the Bear. All the others seems to have egos to match mine. I am an only-cat and don’t play very well with other cats...