Not The Cat’s Mother

Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t need so much as a sniff of cocaine to see it, and Poirot’s grey cells would feel quite underexercised. Jane Marple probably wouldn’t deem it worth noting, and Jane Tennison would see it as fluffiness beneath interest. If you read my blog you know I like animals. It’s in the genes. Both sides of my family are stuffed with animal lovers. I can’t think of a single relative who doesn’t smile when they meet a dog. Any non animal-lover in the clan would be regarded as a changeling.
But there are some things I baulk at. I was less than impressed when the vet referred to me as MasterB’s mum. I am not his mum. He’s a cat. I am a human. He is a companion animal, my responsibility, and I love him to bits, but there are no ties of blood. Cat drew my blood frequently, but that still didn’t make us related. When I was growing up, to be called the cat’s mother was not a compliment.
‘Who’s She?’ demanded Nurse. ‘She’s the cat’s mother’ (from Compton Mackenzie’s novel Sinister Street, 1913). Continue reading