From cats to a cause.

Ksiusha was my first cat and patiently endured all my childhood declarations of love. I loved her with such enthusiasm that she often preferred the relative peace of my mother’s company. During her first year, an accident left her unable to use her back legs. A veterinarian suggested euthanasia, but I was not ready to give up. A few months later, she was walking again and went on to spend another fifteen years with us.

When I moved to Belgium, I found myself without a cat for the first time. Fortunately, this unacceptable situation lasted only a few weeks. In central Brussels, I spotted a thin young cat walking into every shop. When a shopkeeper came outside and asked whose cat he was, I immediately answered, “Mine.” Anton smelled terrible and was initially hungry enough to eat potatoes. Once restored to health, however, he quickly remembered that he was a cat and became very selective about the fish in his food.

Flint did not wait for me to choose him. I met him during my first months at the shelter, where he was scruffy, unwell and exceptionally affectionate. I promised to find him a home, but he had already selected one: mine. He recognised my footsteps, waited for me at the cattery door and eventually defeated every argument I had against adopting another cat. On his first night at home, he slept on my head and purred continuously. Fourteen years later, this had still not become a temporary habit. Saying goodbye to him was one of the hardest moments of my life.

After Flint died, the silence of a cat-free home became unbearable. Bornéo officially arrived as a cat, although his behaviour often suggests a confused squirrel or possibly a small octopus. He constantly invents new ways to endanger himself: lying on stairs, hiding behind feet, disappearing against dark carpets and showing a suspicious interest in bats. His sleeping positions defy anatomy, and the sounds he produces only approximately qualify as meowing. Bornéo is living proof that evolution has a sense of humour.