Wild Ginger Boys of Marlborough

“I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul.”

- Jean Cocteau

  

By Ayesha Joy Clifford ©

OUR FARMS are shared with an assortment of cats whose antics are working up to being worthy of a book of their own.

Take Harley, the huge ginger farm cat with a love of hats seen here snuggled up to Brode's work hat.

It's tradition for writers to enjoy the company of cats. It's probably an even longer tradition for farms to have cats licking the cream and chasing away rats.

Writing from home, I have shared my lap with a selection of snobbly little cats to help ease deadline pressure and tap inspiration. Harley the farm cat though was proving a different animal altogether.

Sourced from an Alton Downs family who specialised in breeding large, hardy cats for cattle properties, Harley and my beloved became dubbed "my wild ginger boys". Both exhibited the colourful temperament to complement their ginger-hued hair.

I determined both were a bit wild living up there alone in the hills of Marlborough and could benefit from some home comforts.

Settling into the early stages of our relationship, dreamily drifting off to sleep one night, I was rudely awoken by vigorous movement not of an amorous nature, on the other side of the bed. The sight of my beloved aiming a rifle through the bedhead and out the louvres of the small shed home brought me rudely and suddenly fully awake.

Bolting upright, I screeched just as the shot was fired.

"What the @#$#%^ are you doing! Are you a crazy person?"

"I think I got the feral cat."

"It's the middle of the night! You don't shoot things from our bed! What the ... And what do you mean you think? How do you know it's not Harley."

"It was the best place to take the shot," he replied sounding a bit deflated. "I've been waiting for weeks. Besides it's not Harley..."

A quick inspection confirmed a freshly-departed, large ginger feral who would have carted our house dog Gizmo, off for breakfast.

Feral puss had been sneaking into the shed, devouring food left at the "Harley Cafe".

Harley was wisely nowhere to be seen the rest of the week. I was fast learning it would be no simple task to "tame" either the cat, nor the man.