An Irishman’s Diary in which two cats disappear and another appears

Among my Dublin neighbours are two young Asian women about whom I know little. They may be Chinese, but even that is a guess, because they’re separated from us by a high hedge and a cultural gulf. We pass with a nod occasionally; otherwise I rarely see them. They probably work long hours somewhere, as Chinese people will.

But one night this week, a large package arrived for them, delivered by a courier with a wheelbarrow. They were out, as usual.

So after he tried a few other doors without success, the courier got me to sign instead and I took delivery of a rectangular cardboard box, the size of a pirate’s chest, if not as heavy.

Naturally, I made inquiries as to its contents. This wasn’t just nosiness. When you’re harbouring a mysterious package for unknown neighbours, you wouldn’t want it to be, say, a smuggled artwork.

Not a whole lotta quakin’ goin’ on – An Irishman’s Diary about the Oxford word of the year that nobody anywhere used

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Guests of the nation – An Irishman’s Diary about two German visitors who had contrasting experiences of Ireland: Ludwig Hopf and Heinrich Böll

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Blasket cases – An Irishman’s Diary on the national talent for stoicism in the face of misfortune

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Four legs good: An Irishman’s Diary about horses, heaven, and Field Marshal Frederick Roberts

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But I needn’t have worried. It turned out to be nothing more sinister than pet food.

This made sense. One of the few things we know about the Asian women is that they have an enormous cat, possibly the largest I have seen.

In recent months, it has been visiting our back garden on a regular basis, mooching, and stayed long enough once that his owners came searching, resulting in the nearest thing we’ve had to conversation.

I have mixed feelings about the cat’s visits.

For one thing, we know from experience that he could be scoping the place out as a possible new home. A communally-owned half-stray did just this some years ago, choosing us to look after him exclusively in his old age, which went on for an eternity until we paid for the last of his many visits to the vet, a one-way journey, 18 months ago.

Having the monster cat move in, along with his catering bills, would be an alarming prospect.

But oddly enough, in all the times he has come mooching, he never seemed to want food, at least of the kind offered. Indeed since, like most cats, he has only one facial expression – in his case blank – we had no idea what he did want, until one day, suddenly, he rolled over onto his back, demanding to be tickled.

Rolls around

Since then, this is a near-daily occurrence.

He rolls around our stone patio for several minutes, scratching his back like a small horse, while we take turns to tickle his front.

So vigorous is his rolling that it gradually propels himself backwards along the patio, causing us to have to walk after him while tickling.

Then he walks off again, with the same blank expression.

Still, businesslike as this relationship is, it serves a mutual purpose, because our household has been suffering the effects of feline bereavement of late. As readers may recall, the aforementioned old cat’s retirement was shared (and tormented) by Pete Briquette, a Tipperary bog orphan who, as a kitten, narrowly escaped my car-wheels one day in 2012 and instead came to live with us for four years.

Charmed

Despite an aversion to human contact that he never quite overcame, Pete charmed his way into our affections. Then one August morning in 2016, he vanished, never to be seen since, although we’re still haunted by the sight of black cats everywhere, none of which turns out to be him.

In the meantime, last Christmas, another stray kitten arrived from Tipperary, named Milo. He was mostly white, and in every other respect Pete’s opposite.

He craved human company, never sleeping on an empty chair if there was a lap be could crawl onto instead.

The other thing he loved was being surrounded.

You would often find him peeping out from under blankets or other womb-substitutes: I think he had post-natal stress disorder.

But he was very charming in his own way until, in July, he too went missing.

So we’ve been suffering from a yawning pet deficit lately: a void the neighbours’ furry behemoth has more than the capacity to fill.

And yet, as I say, we have also struggled to warm to his visits: in part, no doubt, because they coincided with the loss of Pete and Milo.

That’s not his fault, of course, although recently, during a quiet moment with him, I voiced a dark suspicion. “Have you been eating our cats?” I asked, pausing mid-tickle.

It was an absurd charge, I know.

The worst he could be accused of is having intimidated them into moving neighbourhood.

But as always, he just stared back blankly, refusing to confirm or deny anything.