I never wanted a pet, except a couple of times. When I was at primary school, I forced my parents to buy me a white mouse. The only one in the shop was a mother nursing a baby so we bought both. I called one Mousey Tung and the other one Ho Cheese Min. I can’t remember which was which. I was a politically enlightened schoolboy, mainly thanks to Mad magazine, which satirised all things American, including Vietnam and the Red threat from China.
I can’t remember what became of the mice.
When I was very young we had a rabbit called Skarloey, after the Thomas the Tank Engine tribute to the Talyllyn Railway (I am still a member of the Talyllyn Railway Preservation Society and recently had a piece published in the Society magazine) and when I was even younger there was a hamster called Victoria who used to hide in the piano. Back then, that was pretty much all the use the piano got.
There have been numerous cats, including Hedges, Blossom, Mojo, the mad Elvis and Ruby’s beloved Tara, as well as Rosie the cavalier King Charles spaniel. And of course the mighty labrador Dylan, RIP.
But quietly, ruthlessly, neurotically outliving them all is Archie.
Archie is Elvis’s brother. We learned too late that it’s not a good idea to have two male cats together, because one always goes. No one was surprised that Elvis went though, he was an utter lunatic. He may have rehomed himself, or he may have picked a fight with a badger, or a fox, or an alsatian, or a BMW. Or he may have got stuck in some tangle or hole somewhere he had no business to be. While he was still around, he succeeded once in getting his head stuck in the elaborate decoration in the back of a dining chair and we had to manoeuvre him free as he howled. He scuttled under a nearby armchair and Archie – at that point still a generous-hearted brother – hurtled after him and kept him company until he had calmed down.
That’s Archie. Wise, savvy, tough, ruthless and, until recently, disdainful of all except daughter Ruby, whose cat he was till she left home. Apparently, in human years, he’s seventy-six now. Not bad. Ruby now has Rocket and Persephone at her house in Walthamstow. Oh and Phil, her husband.
We worried about Archie when Dylan came. Under direction from the Blue Cross, we brought an Archie-scented blanket for Dylan to sniff for a bit before he arrived, and we tried to give Archie a whiff of Dylan.
We should not have fretted. When Dylan moved in, we placed a toddler’s stair gate across the entrance to one of Archie’s favourite rooms so he always had a refuge until they were used to each other. On day one, Dylan poked his nose through the bars of the gate, trying to get a sniff of Archie. No malice, just a friendly enquiry. Archie watched for a moment, then extended a clawed paw and swiped Dylan’s muzzle. The new boy yelped and withdrew and the hierarchy was established. Dylan never, ever took on Archie again and they would even occasionally snuggle down on our bed for an afternoon snooze together. Not actually touching, but in the same space.
This is not to say that Archie never took on Dylan. Throughout Dylan’s tenure, there were moments when Archie tormented him without remorse. Of an evening, when whoever was home was settling down in front of the telly, Dylan would happily curl up on any spare seat that happened to be going. After he’d had time to settle and get snug, Archie would saunter down the stairs, pausing halfway to survey the scene with his usual disinterest. Spying the dozing dog, he would continue his saunter and then go and sit in Dylan’s eyeline, just far enough away to be as annoying as it was possible to be. He would then stare at Dylan.
Dylan would at first not notice at all, and then would notice and try to ignore it, and then would try to stare back. He lacked conviction, however. Archie would then begin to make occasional feints, like Ali teasing Foreman, and then move slightly closer. And then slightly further away.
By this time, whatever was on the telly would have long ceased to hold our interest as this potted real-life soap opera unfolded before us. The tension would be palpable, Dylan shifting uncomfortably, knowing he shouldn’t, fighting his instinct, certain he was no more than a stooge, a doomed Wile E. Coyote to Archie’s Roadrunner.
In vain. Archie would make one more mocking movement and Dylan would crack, leaping off the sofa to pursue the speeding cat up the stairs, losing ground with every bound. You could hear Archie’s demoniacal cackling as he streaked up the stairs with the effortless stride pattern of a feline Michael Johnson, before taking refuge somewhere Dylan could not go and mocking his pursuer all over again. Dylan would slink back downstairs and flop disconsolately onto his seat again.
When Dylan died, we wondered if Archie would care. He did, we think, because since the passing of his feckless playmate he has become more affectionate and sociable. It may also be a function of his age, of course. This closer engagement has allowed us to learn more about his life around the countryside in which we live, because we have discovered that he has a number of battle scars at various points around his body. This may be from the hawthorns that he leaps into when he his seeking to deprive the hedgerow opposite our house of another of its denizens, or it may be from seeing off a succession of interloping cats from up the road.
But perhaps his finest hour – certainly the event that won my heart once and for all – was his purge of the glis-glis.
It all came to a head when Rachel and I were reclaiming the upstairs bedroom. This is a long story, connected with itinerant children, and need not be discussed in depth here. The point is, the room was empty and waiting to be painted and we were clearing out what we laughably called the ‘access cupboards’, which serve as little attics in our converted bungalow. We discovered droppings and activity that told of invaders of greater substance than the common or garden (well, kitchen, actually, the buggers won’t stay in the garden) mouse. We knew that the Chilterns are cursed with foreign invaders known as glis-glis, charming, fluffy little creatures that will eat your house to ribbons given half a chance. They were imported in the 19th Century by Lord Rothschild, an inveterate and, apparently, incompetent naturalist who opened the Tring branch of the Natural History Museum. This is a great place to take the kids, but its benefit to the local community is more than offset by the fact that Rothschild brought specimens of glis-glis into the country (possibly from Egypt? I neither know nor care) and then dropped them, or left the cage unlocked, or failed to notice that they were eating their way out, thereby unleashing a plague upon the region from which it has yet to recover.
We feared the worst, but felt we had the makings of a solution. Archie had proved himself to be an effective hunter, even though he was in the habit, like many cats, of occasionally letting mice go in the house. He had also once caused a minor ruckus in the small hours by bringing a live baby rabbit into Lucy’s room, which cost everybody a good half hour’s slumber before order was restored. Our infestation seemed the ideal opportunity to turn a blight into a blessing.
We left the doors to the access cupboards open and let nature take its course. Sure enough, we returned from a Saturday shopping trip to discover a charming headless creature lying like the victim of a Baltimore hit on the boards of the upstairs bedroom. It was bigger than a mouse, smaller than a rat, and its tail was spatulate and fluffy. Our worst fears were confirmed, but our brightest hopes were emboldened.
Over the next couple of days, two more bodies appeared in various states of destruction. We waited, but no more droppings materialised and the massacre appeared to be complete. We shall never know what slaughter occurred in the darkest recesses of the access cupboards and, frankly, we don’t want to know. We know only that we are graced with the companionship of a noble and valiant beast, defender of all that he surveys and undefeated in goodness knows how many bouts.
Archie’s problem is that he has been around too long. We take him for granted. But then perhaps that is his greatest strength. To quote Sir Humphrey Appleby, power comes from permanence and Archie has seen off all comers to be the last pet standing at our house. For now; Rachel, Max and Lucy are all engaged in a campaign for a new dog, which I am resisting successfully by not resisting at all. But even if they do finally get round to it, I for one will have no qualms about Archie’s wellbeing. I look forward to seeing another pretender being subdued with the customary contempt and efficiency of our peerless, artful and, let’s face it, faithful companion. He is the undisputed and deserving ruler of our domain and I salute him.