BASIL, THE BEAUTIFUL

Basil was all ginger fluff and cuteness when he arrived at our house in a cardboard box on the back seat of my car. 

I’d picked him up from a young family, who were coy but firm about finding him a new home. 

Words like “babies”, “allergies” and “busy” were thrown about and I naively caught them as intended, a family with little kids who could no longer cope with the demands of a pet.

Look how cute he looks hiding behind the scratched-up couch! I figured it was the kids who had destroyed the furniture. As he sat, peeping from behind the tatty three-seater, Basil already had me pegged as a fool.

“Here puddy-puddy Basil,” I cooed, waiting to gently scoop him up into my loving arms and carry him carefully to my car. His old owner looked at me and asked if I’d brought along a cage.

“No,” I replied.

Wouldn’t he sit, like a good boy, on the back seat for the short trip back to my place? 

We had a large home and a decent-sized property, along with two teenage girls bursting to lavish attention on a sweet, little pussycat.

“Well,” said the old owner with a slight pause, a red flag I chose to ignore, “Let me find you a cardboard box.” 

She came back with the box, and a pair of gardening gloves, which she put on.

And so began a long hour of coaxing Basil from out behind and under furniture. My loving arms came away with scratches, the first of many from this cantankerous yet gorgeous ginger tom, a Lion King in his own head, terrifying and glorious, loving and moody, a cat I learned to loathe and love in equal measures.

Basil was not happy with my travel arrangements and from inside his box on the back seat, let me know. The level of howling and protest was at a decibel our whole neighbourhood was soon familiar with, as he took to bullying local cats and dogs, deep night hours his favourite gig.

He would not be tamed. From the start he made it clear that we were entering his world, not the other way round.

He flouted every rule I tried to install, and despite his ornery nature, had both girls wrapped around his tiny paw, so on the occasions when I yelled “Enough, he’s got to go!”, he garnered support from the two most influential people in our home, and stayed to live out another of his many, many lives.

He left bits of himself everywhere he went, from choked-up hairballs of fur, to hideous stains of spray along walls and new carpet.

He refused to eat with manners, taking great mouthfuls of whatever delicacy he demanded that week from his bowl, carrying it deliberately off the specially provided cat mat, and on to the shiny new kitchen tiles. And for a lover of food, he was awfully picky.

He adored rubbish day. He got no end of joy from tearing open black plastic rubbish bags lining the street, spreading contents along verges, nibbling here, playing there, then leaving it all for someone else to clean up.

He had a thing for bare feet. Anyone polite or silly enough to take their shoes off at our door found themselves the target of surprise attacks from Basil. He liked toes.

He was never fond of babies and toddlers, probably a hangover from his early days with a family of boisterous young children. When new mums visited me, I took to locking Basil outside, or rather us safely inside.

Basil slept where and when he wanted, which was everywhere and most of the time. His fluffiness earned him praise from many who met him, and my ire as I sneezed  and itched my way around the house.

The Christmas tree was his own personal play ground and the space in front of a roaring fire was also only his.

His insistent tapping and meowing at closed internal doors meant all four of us became his slave, opening and closing doors for his highness, sometimes several times within minutes. 

The hallway leading to the bedrooms became the scene of a great game for Basil, as the girls tried first stealth, then speed to get past his swiping claws. 

There was the time when neighbours wanted to discuss the disappearance of their own cat’s food. It would have been half acceptable if the food had been left outside, within easy reach. But the cat bowl was well inside their house. Basil the bold, entered through cat door, sauntered across an entry way, down the hall and to the kitchen, ate the food then made his way back out again.

There was the time when a tradesman’s dog had to be put back in the van because Basil was terrorising him.

He could be incredibly affectionate, his deep purring rivalling the television volume. He was, however, also incredibly picky about where he liked to be patted, a nightmare when newcomers saw only a bundle of fluff they wanted to pet.

Basil had one major weakness. Food, particularly straight off a dinner plate, was a magic wand that could be used to distract, lead and coerce, if only for as long as the chicken wing lasted.

Now in his twilight years, Basil is still aristocratic in his demands and fickle in his likes. He is on his umpteenth life with little sign of mellowing.