Fatty was a cat of character. She started life in a colony of strays who inhabited the basement of a derelict tenement midway between Curry Row and student central in the West End of Glasgow. She was weaned on the leftovers from takeaway containers thrown drunkenly into the basement area late at night. I know this because I was familiar with the colony of Jellicle cats and walked past it on my way home from work. That was where she picked me up. She was obviously one of them, not least because of her penchant for curry.
One winter evening, as I passed the cat tenement, I sensed I was being followed. I looked around, saw no one and continued on my way. When I opened the door to my tenement close, a black and white streak shot past me. I assumed she lived in one of the other flats, so I didn’t pay much attention. I climbed to my second-floor home and let myself in. As the evening wore on, the yowling of a cat became more and more insistent. Eventually, I opened my front door to find a rather beautiful, large black-and-white cat on the doormat. She walked straight past me, tail erect, and headed for the kitchen. I had no choice in the matter; I had been adopted.
