The cat in the image on the left (created from a photo taken by my Father) is Tink, our family cat from when I was a child to my early 20s.

My father's young cousin Olive with a family pet Photo taken in the early1930s by my Great Uncle Oliver

My mother had her devoted pet, 'Puss' (a traditional English name for a pet cat), who returned home one day with a sheepish look on his face and apparently sitting on his tail. It turned out that what he sat on was just part of that appendage, the remainder having been removed by what or whom she never discovered. This all happened before she married, when she lived with her widowered father.

Cat illustration from a picture postcard which my Mother sent my Grandad during WWII

I only knew the last three black cats my paternal grandparents 'owned'. Timmy was a somewhat rotund shorthaired tomcat (neutered) with a skinny tail. He was not what you would call handsome! He must have lived to a ripe old age as I was in my teens when my parents were called upon to find them another black cat. This next animal was of a completely different shape, having long powerful back legs and was of a more independent nature. I learnt about cat-handling from watching my Grandpa's skill in keeping this particular creature on his lap when he did not want to stay there and eventually getting him to settle and purr. I cannot remember his actual name, but he was often called a 'kangaroo cat'. Unfortunately, he did not last as long as his predecessor, succumbing to kidney failure, if I remember correctly. It was then time for my parents to find them yet another black cat.

As my grandparents were by then getting on a bit, they did not feel up to taking on a kitten, so eventually a lovely long-haired rescue cat was obtained from the local CPL lady. They called her Sukie and she became devoted to them. Sadly, this devotion was her undoing, for when Grandpa died, followed a few weeks later by Grandma, (they had celebrated their diamond wedding a few months previously and could not survive without each other), the poor little cat was so distraut that it was thought, with reluctance, that the kindest thing would be to have her 'put to sleep'. We could not take her on, as our family cat would not have appreciated it and by then Sukie was of an age that would have made her difficult to rehome. This was in the early 1970's when cat sanctuaries were few and far between.

Tink, the cat I grew up with, was, as you must have guessed, also a black cat - what else!

Tink with my sister Photo taken by my Father

One day during the summer after my sixth birthday, a ring came at the door and on opening it, there were two children from around the corner with two small black kittens, the last of the litter, one male and one female. So we took the little boy as my parents thought my sister and I would benefit from having a pet of our own. The only cats we knew, other than Timmy, were Ginger and Tommy (a tabby and white) from next door, who were not terribly sociable on account of living with a fairly large family of children and teenagers.

We had a very dog-eared copy of one of the 'Orlando the Marmalade Cat' books, so we named our new friend after the naughty 'Little Black Tinkle' character. At first, he fitted very nicely into our rather small dolls' house but had to give that up when he could no longer squeeze through the door! Before he was fully grown the little mite caught cat flu and was very poorly, but he pulled through and turned into a fine sleek creature.

Tink grew into a fine sleek cat

My mother always reckoned that the antibiotics he had really gave him a kick start in the survival stakes. When Tink was six or seven my sister had a puppy for her birthday. This was not a considered decision. My father took us both to see what Petticoat Lane market was like (pretty tacky as I remember) and we ended up in Club Row, buying this 'appealing' little pup, who was supposed to be a fox terrier. I think that on this occasion, unusually, my father's heart won over his head as he was always a very practical person. When we arrived home, my mother's arms went up in horror as she could see that this was a younger animal than we had been told and that it would therefore grow larger than we expected, which, of course happened. Tink took this all in his stride, letting Pongo (my sister was obsessed with 101 Dalmations at the time and she had - when he was tiny - a little dog with big spots!) know who was boss. If the dog ever tried to get onto the cat's chair, Tink would gently grasp his muzzle between his front paws and close his teeth round his nose, which usually did the trick!

The cute puppy (above) grew into a much larger dog than expected but Tink took it all in his stride (right)

At his finest, Tink weighed in at over a stone, so when he started to lose weight and condition it was with trepidation that we took him to the vet. We need not have worried. All he needed was some dental treatment including a few extractions and he soon regained his vigour. He was a dedicated lap cat. My father would always put his feet up after a meal and Tink would lie along the length of his legs. When we all sat down to watch some television, he would settle on one lap and then move onto another later.

Tink was still a fine cat in his teens Photo taken by my father

Over the years there was a succession of cats in the houses either side of us but Tink was only really friendly with Fluffy who arrived, from a farm in the Scilly Isles, the year after Tink. (His owner had been born in the Scillies and used to visit her relatives there). With all the other cats he was the boss, even into his old age.

Tink in his late teens

He got to be rather deaf towards the end and eventually died of kidney failure, a few years after Fluff, at the grand old age of seventeen and a half. One of Fluffy's successors, Sooty, was also black, but I did not get to know him well as I got married while he was still fairly young. (Actually, he started off living with the latest in the line of families on one side of us and moved over to Fluff's people along with his tabby and white companion, who eventually ended up with my parents, but that is another story!)

When I was working near to Canonbury station, I would sometimes get off the bus a few stops early and cut through a wide leafy residential street. Towards the end, in a corner house, was a doctor's surgery. On the wall outside there usually sat a large black cat - but not for long. This creature quickly got to recognise me from a long distance off and by the time I reached him he would be rolling about on the ground, drooling in anticipation of me tickling his broad tummy, so I had to make sure I reached him with enough time not to make myself late for work! However, this situation did not last as long as we both would have liked as the surgery closed down and my little friend was seen no more.

Then we come on to my own cats. There is much that can be written about Fattypuss but it would take up too much space just here! Our beloved Toby brought him home as a playmate because Tigger and Topsy would not co-operate. He was apparently a rusty black cat but may well have been part Burmese on account of his general behaviour, his 'conversation' and above all, his superior intelligence.

Fattypuss looking inscrutable

If he finished his food before the others, he tried to push his way in to get at their food. If this did not work, he would put his paw into Toby's bowl and slide it from under his nose. His favourite treat was a bowl of milk, (in fact, the first that we knew of his arrival was that the milk we put out for the others was being consumed more quickly than usual). He soon learnt that sitting by the fridge, slowly blinking his eyes at me while making a noise that sounded like ''Milk'' would produce the desired result. The other word he mimicked was ''Hello'' when we arrived home. The only thing that stumped him was when we first had the conservatory built. After dark you could see a reflection of our living room in the glass roof, which really puzzled him, though the others did not even seem to notice it. He went outside and could not see anything on the roof. He came back in and this strange upside-down room was back there again.

Fattypuss's other feats were not so commendable. He was a great hunter. Breakfast went like this: at least half a bowl of Whiskas or whatever, followed by a quick foray to the hedgerow and 'crunchy vole' outside the back door (unless it was raining!), followed by more cat food and maybe some milk and 'biscuits'. The morning after the great storm of 1987 he attempted to eat one of the biggest rats I have ever seen but gave up after one back leg - presumably it was a bit tough! On one occasion, he had a good hunting session and could not eat the last mouse or vole, so he insisted that Toby had it (or perhaps he was just feeling generous!). Poor Toby was not too keen but forced it down only for it to re-emerge a few moments later onto the carpet.

The other unpleasant habit was fighting. When he arrived, he was a full tom but not at all smelly. However, he came home battered so often that we decided he should have the 'snip'. This made not a jot of difference! I once had to rescue one of Toby's other friends that Fattypuss had by the throat. The poor creature was trembling with fear and took a while to regain composure.

His arch-enemy was a grey and white cat who lived twenty doors away, whether there was a longstanding dispute between them from way back we will never know. We called this cat Adolf. (He was always most unpleasant to me if I saw him in the street or his own front garden). Many a time I emptied buckets of water over them or broke them apart with the aid of a garden cane. Sometimes, on hearing caterwauling, I would rush down the garden only to see a large black, grey and white ball rolling down the back footpath emitting screeches and chunks of fur. It was not a pretty sight! One evening, just as we were about to go out, Fattypuss came in absolutely caked with mud (which made his coat all spiky - a punk cat) and in a very triumphant mood.

Fattypuss after his big fight

By the time we returned he was not much improved in looks so I made him endure a shower (which he did not enjoy). After that we did not see Adolf again for several months and when we did, it was in his front garden and he seemed a somewhat better tempered cat than he had been previously. I rather think that our cat had finally triumphed that night and given his enemy a really thorough going over, so much so that he had needed treatment and his owners advised to have him neutered to prevent it happening again.

Eventually Fattypuss lost weight and went off his food. The diagnosis was an inoperable tumour but he kept going right to the end, just like some people he did not give up. We found him curled up in the carrying basket when we got home late one evening the Christmas after my mother died.

Our last black cat was Whizzie, abandoned at the vet's by his previous owners who were not prepared to pay the bill for the treatment of a cut foot. Poor little thing - only he grew into a fine creature.

Whizzie soon after he joined us

He was very playful, amusing himself with anything he found that made a good toy. I have never before seen a cat hurtle upstairs at quite such a speed as he did, despite having a damaged toe that did not 'work'. He had such an innocent expression that I would say he would not have hurt a fly, but that's all he would hurt along with spiders, woodlice etc and, at our old place, the mice in the gardens. But at least, he learnt to stand up for himself if either Stanley or Felix had a go at him for any reason. When we lived at our previous house, he would wait outside for our return. If we could not park in front (one of several reasons for our move), he followed the car till we had found somewhere and ran excitedly between us as we walked home, so it was fortunate that we lived in a quiet cul-de-sac! For the latter part of his life, along with Tigger, Felix and Toby and with his last companion Pugwash, Whizzie was an indoor cat to which status he took well. As he had the run of the house, Whizzie waited for us outside the bathroom, sometimes scratching at the door and greeting our emergence with enthusiastic trilling. He became very attached to Barry, often preferring to delay his breakfast till Barry came down for his! You can read more about Whizzie in 'Wistful Whizzie' and in some of the old introduction pages.

Rudi and Jinsky joined us at the end of October 2006, as four month old kittens. They travelled down from NE Essex where they lived with a dozen other cats, children and dogs. Their coats are very short and glossy and of similar colouring to Fattypuss, not being a dense black but almost very dark brown. We named them after 20th century Russian ballet dancers on account of them dancing around on their hind legs in anticipation of their meals. So far, I have only written about them in on the intro pages of this site but will be adding more as they grow up.

One last thought on black cats, having had several who are black or black and white. There is a saying ''at night all cats are grey''. Well, it is not just at night if our carpets are anything to go by!