Mike Devlin Asks Cats Don’t Care? Tell That to the Five Who Wait for Me to Come Home

I’m going to begin this with an admission—not one of guilt, but one that may upset a lot of you out there: I don’t like cats. There, I said it.

I am a dog person, and nothing is ever going to change that. Or will it?

I did have a cat, many moons ago, when I was a child. He was a ginger tom—big, fat, and utterly magnificent. He cared little for anyone or anything, carried himself like royalty, and had such presence that the neighbour’s German Shepherd was terrified of him. In fact, I think he believed he was a dog. His name was Tsuki (silent T) and, as I’ve said, he was awesome. Unfortunately, he had to be put down because I had chronic asthma (so many doctor and hospital visits), and no matter how hard we tried, there was no one we could send him to. From that point on, I despised cats—not because of anything they did, but because nobody could ever replace him, and I was the reason he wasn’t around anymore.

Besides, cats don’t care about us at all; cat owners insist they do, but they really don’t. We are their servants. They only stay because we feed and house them—if someone offered better service, they’d be gone in a heartbeat. Dogs, on the other hand, genuinely care, often to the heartbreaking extent of staying loyal even to abusive owners.

And yet… I now have five cats. Five! And I suppose I should introduce them.

Jill

She’s the dark grey ‘mum’, and the other four know it. She can go from sweet to vicious in a split second, and if she decides to push you away from your bowl of food because she wants it, there is nothing you can do about it. She suffers from a form of dwarfism that affects her legs, so she’s on the stumpy side (and she’s lost most of her tail as well). She also has slight dementia, meaning she will often stare into nothing, trying to remember what she was doing.

Have you ever seen the prison comedy Stir Crazy with Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor? There’s a character called Grossberger—Jill is Grossberger. Everyone is terrified of him, but he’s actually quite sweet. You should watch it.

Jill hates people. I mean really hates people, like it’s her full-time occupation. Jill—Mooky, as I call her—adores me and despises me leaving for any reason. I suppose that means I don’t count as ‘people’. She once accidentally scratched me quite badly, and spent the rest of the day apologising in that guilty, “I can’t believe I hurt my favourite hooman” way.

Jill abhors being picked up or having her feet touched. I can do both, and she doesn’t mind.

Ivan

This is the most self-centred, self-entitled cat I have ever met. Ivan is the aristocracy of the feline world. His food must be his favourite and freshly served (even if it’s kibble). His water must be in his preferred cup and continually topped up. The litter box must be of the correct kind, scent, and arrangement.

He eats like a horse but remains nothing but skin and bone—well, and a fur coat any cat would kill for. Ivan took it upon himself to sleep by the front door, listening for any sound he didn’t like so he could inform Camille.

From the day I arrived, he stopped doing that completely. Ivan also hates people. Ivan also likes me—at least as much as he is capable of liking anyone—to the point that he lets me pick him up and cradle him upside down like a baby. Ivan hates that I’ve told you this.

Jack

He’s old, yowls a lot, and has only one eye (nobody knows why). He doesn’t know when to stop eating and routinely gives himself stomach aches. He craves human touch. Outside of eating and annoying Sharon, there isn’t much else to say, other than his fondness for sleeping in the bathroom sink.

He likes to think he is in charge. He isn’t—Jill reminds him often—but he likes to think it. Jill/Mooky will sit with me in a possessive “He’s mine” way, and Jack will wait for her to leave, then immediately move in. When Jill returns, she gives him the look, and he shifts. Sometimes, perhaps because he has only one eye, he doesn’t see the look, so she resorts to punching him in the face.

Sharon

The youngest by far. Known as Monkey because she climbs everything and is just as cheeky. She is the most affectionate of the five—she actively asks for cuddles, and if she doesn’t get one, she will climb up your leg to collect it. You do not get a choice in this matter.

Her hobbies include brown paper bags, her teddy bear, and tunnelling under blankets as though searching for the remaining Dead Sea Scrolls. She is fast, nimble, and agile, which is fortunate, as her antics frequently irritate the elders.

She’s terrified of sudden loud noises and will seek you out to rescue her. A quick cuddle and a blanket solves everything. She also disapproves of torrential rain, even from indoors.

Lyra

She may as well be called Karen, because she complains about everything—and on the rare occasion there is nothing to complain about, she’ll complain about that. You can genuinely hold a conversation with her, provided all questions require a yes or no: yes is a short meow; no is a long, dramatic monologue about some terrible injustice that has occurred.

She definitely has memory issues or sleeps too much to the point her one brain cell takes a long time to realise what is happening. She often forgets where she is, what she was doing—possibly who she is—then shakes her head, finds something to complain about, which, bizarrely, makes her happy.

When I shower, I place a large bowl over the drain so it fills (I can soak my feet—don’t judge me). Lyra has decided this is her private water bowl. She’s furious because Ivan has declared that such exclusivity is befitting his status and now joins in.

Lyra also hates me leaving, even to go to bed, and she’ll position herself to keep me in sight. She panics if she thinks I’m going out in the rain. She also hates that she is last on this list.

When I went to Vietnam for a couple of weeks, all five of them lost their minds—Lyra and Sharon especially—to the point they stopped eating. They often need reassurance that I am home; they aren’t allowed in the bedroom, so they call out or tap on the door until they’ve confirmed I’m asleep. It’s cute, but rather odd, considering I’ve said cats don’t care about us.

Animals have always liked me. I don’t know why. Some people are simply marked as “this one is a good one”, even by creatures that despise humans. It might take a day or two with the more defensive ones, but they come around. I don’t do anything special—in fact, with cats especially, I ignore them—but whatever it is they sense, they like it. Either that, or they’re annoyed and want to know why this one isn’t worshipping them.

So, yes, I now have five cats. Don’t get me wrong—I am still very much a dog person. But these five? These five don’t count.