Words by Freya Bennett // photo by Yerlin Matu
I named my first cat Amy Tiger.
She was tortoiseshell, middle aged and allergic to cat food. I loved her fiercely, but she didn’t love me back. To be fair, during our first week together, I tied a string around her neck because my seven-year-old self believed that’s all a lead was. I thought pet owners simply snipped off a piece of wool, tied it around their pets neck and took their animals for a walk. Mum found her later, tangled and miserable, after I’d grown bored of the game and left poor Amy tied to the clothes horse.
I named my second cat Martin.
We got him while Amy Tiger was still alive, and I think it was because mum knew Amy didn’t have much time left and she wanted me to have a healthy cat to bond with. For all of Amy’s intolerance of and grumpiness at me (justified), Martin was friendly and overflowing with affection. He would purr the minute I picked him up, happily sleeping with me every night and filling my young heart with joy. After Amy Tiger was put down when she became too sick, we moved to Sydney for a brief stint with Martin in tow. He escaped the day we arrived and after a few days of absence, mum told me he was probably gone forever. A week later, he appeared, nonchalant and fat as ever.
As an only child being raised by a single mum, Martin was like a brother to me. I thought Martin was so cool, I used to draw him in a red convertible and imagine him picking me up from school. Tragic? Maybe. But is there any love greater than a lonely girl and her ginger cat? I think not.
I was 15 when Martin died, taken much too soon via snake bite. I’d been living with my dad to go to high school in the city and was Martin still with mum in the country. My guilt at not being there for my boy was overwhelming. I vowed to get a cat in my adulthood and be the best cat mum I could possibly be.
I named my third cat Phoenix.
He was 600 grams of ginger goodness and his little squeaky meow brought tears to my partners eyes. Phoenix spent his kitten days sleeping on our laps, sleeping in our draws and watching the city lights from our third story apartment in Fitzroy North.
I was a piano teacher at the time and many of my students would traipse their way up two flights of stairs to tinkle the keys with me. Phoenix became a great motivator with many enjoying sleepy kitten cuddles while they played. Phoenix also became very used to kids which would prove wonderful when my partner and I had kids of our own.
Phoenix has been a great big brother to our daughters, and I am forever impressed with his patience. Toddler hands have pulled his tail, whacked him on the head (despite being told to pat “gently”), and whole toddler bodies have sprawled across him, using him as a pillow or cuddling him like a toy. As of today, I’ve only seen him give my girls one warning each with a little claw out action and some very grumpy eyes. His tolerance so much higher for young kids than older kids or adults.
I’ve always been a proud cat person, their calming presence perfect for my anxious heart. While I love how much adoration you get from dogs, I don’t think my over-stimulated self can handle that kind of energy right now. I need the quiet companionship of a cat. Knowing they’re around, seeing them basking in the sun but not having them all over me, I get enough of that with two children.
I know calling yourself a cat mum might be a bit passé, but I was one before anything else—and I hope to be one when my girls are off exploring the world and making their own beautiful, messy lives. Cats are my constant and in a world that’s full of messy, awful things, I find such comfort in their unbothered grace.
I have many names up my sleeve for my fourth cat.
