Cats. That’s my regret. I wish I could have warmed to them earlier – but better late than never.
I grew up in a household where greyhounds ruled the back garden; and greyhounds and furry wee creatures are not a match made in heaven. So my father took pains to convince his children that cats were the bearers of misfortune.
Or in the Ulster vernacular: “Them’s wile unlucky beings, it wud never do to bring a cat into the house.” He did it for their protection rather than from any aversion, I suspect.
Anyhow, two years ago, I was given a kitten by neighbours. And so Chekhov – a quirky, feisty, occasionally affectionate, inherently independent tabby with a taste for tomato sauce and shampoo (when he can get it, which is just about never) – entered my life. And I can’t imagine being without him.
By night, he slinks round the neighbourhood looking for scrapes. He ought to take lessons from TS Eliot's Macavity on having an alibi at the ready before trouble rears its head. Instead, Chekhov is always the one caught red-handed amid broken glass or fish bones when the other cats have scarpered.
After his adventures, he snoozes the day away, sometimes kipping in the laptop case in my study, or burrowing into the laundry basket, provided there are damp towels inside. Anywhere but his cat basket.
Last Christmas, he tried to take a nap in a bag of holly – one hidey-hole he exited at a lively lick.
Chekhov earns his keep by inspiring me: for example, he gave me an entry point into my short story about Alice Milligan for The Glass Shore anthology. When I discovered from her diary that WB Yeats visited Alice, and lifted her two cats onto his knee to stroke them while he and Alice discussed poetry, it helped me to imagine myself into her life.
Naturally, I gave her a cat for company. Just like mine. But not quite as handsome.
The Glass Shore : Short Stories by Women Writers from the North of Ireland includes work by Martina Devlin, is edited by Sinéad Gleeson and published by New Island