WHERE do your cats sleep? I suppose the true answer is anywhere they want, or it is with mine up to a point. The truer answer would probably be anywhere I don't want them to sleep. I am always envious of people who have cats who sleep where their owner wants them to, in a neat little cat basket in the hall or the bedroom. I've never had a cat which would even look at its basket after a first cursory glance. I remember a friend a few years ago who was going to trust her cat to a cattery while away on holiday. She had gone through the guilt phase in a big way, not really wanting to leave her precious pet in the hands of strangers while she and her family lay on a beach in Tenerife. The alternative was asking someone to come in and feed him on a daily basis (me), letting someone else look after him in their own home (me) or the cattery. She had reluctantly dismissed the former two on the grounds that I might not spend enough time with her pet, somewhere in the region of two or three hours a day, or that my cats might take it upon themselves to terrorise the poor creature. Which they almost certainly would have, and not just on the grounds that he was fluffy, very timid and wore a diamante collar. So she spent weeks visiting catteries to check if they had the ideal facilities to take care of a delicate and highly emotional pet and vetting the owners. She drew up a list, a sort of good hotel guide, ticking off pluses and minuses. One was a definite no, because they took dogs as well. She ignored me when I said that it was hardly likely they would lock the cats and dogs into the same cage, sorry room, but she was adamant. Her precious pet would hear them and worry that they might get him. One place was too near the road, he was frightened of traffic. Others failed on minor points, probably the decorations in the accommodation block. She finally chose a country cattery, with wide open views (hopefully he wasn't an acrophobic) and centrally heated rooms. On the day he was due to be incarcerated (her view) or have two weeks in the lap of luxury in a pussy hotel (my view), she gathered up his 'things'. A fully lined cat basket with his own duvet, various toys including a fluffy toy dog (I didn't point out the incongruity of giving him a doggie toy when he apparently was pretty phobic about dogs) and a pair of her socks so he would feel she was close to him. The basket in question was usually in the sitting room or, later on, in her bedroom. And he really did sleep in it, snuggled happily in it amongst the toys. At night, she would pick up the basket and carry it upstairs and he and she would spend a happy night going bye byes together. I think she let her husband in the bedroom as well, although I'm sure if he had objected to the cat there wouldn't have been much of a contest as to who went. So taking his basket to the cattery was of utmost importance, and one of the reasons she had chosen this particular place was because the owner had said that she must bring as many of his things she felt would make him comfortable. As I saw her off I thought that if I was to do the same I would have to transport the whole of my airing cupboard, the laundry basket and lots of miles of beautifully ironed clothes to the cattery to make any of my cats feel at home. None of my cats has ever had a cat basket as such. They have on occasions taken over a cardboard box for a few days, but as soon as they realise you think it's rather charming that they have claimed it as their own, and move it into a more convenient position which isn't right in the middle of the hallway, they ignore it completely ever after. The nearest I've ever come to owning a cat basket was when my dear late Genghis Fluffy went to stay with my daughter because I was in between moves. She had offered to give him a home for a few weeks. Well, if I'm honest, she was strong armed into giving him a home for a few weeks by me who laid on the charm and the begging in equal quantities. Nobody in their right mind would have taken Genghis Fluffy without a little emotional blackmail and an awful lot of lies. Because she likes to do things properly, and having capitulated late one night, no doubt fed up with my sad stories of abandoned cats, she set about making him feel at home. She bought a handsome cat basket lined with gingham, a feeding bowl in the shape of a cat's face and numerous toys and a cat comb and brush. And a soft red flea collar. When I delivered him to her house and set him down in the sitting room she asked if she should butter his paws to stop him going outside. It was difficult to keep a straight face as I explained that I didn't think Genghis would enjoy having his feet doused in Kerrygold and unless she had a pair of thick leather gloves I wouldn't bother. In fact I knew that the only remedy I could think of to keep him from going outside was to dip his paws in concrete and let it set. Even so I would have had my doubts of success. As I left she was introducing him to his cat basket and I knew by the look on his face, which quite plainly said 'I'm not a gingham person', or words to that effect, that it wasn't going to work. And it didn't. Genghis avoided the cat basket as if it was mined. Wherever she put it he walked round it and settled onto the sofa, or the chairs, or the beds or even the bathroom where he felt he looked charming snoozing on the pale lilac bathmat. I've always noticed that cats have a good fashion sense. They like to sleep on something contrasting and when you're a fluffy black cat the most contrasting thing is a nice pile of clean white laundry. For the next few weeks I was overwhelmed with complaining telephone calls (I tended to avoid too many visits) about the antics of Genghis. Genghis preferred to go in and out of the house by way of the small upper window in the sitting room, even if the door was open, and had on two occasions become entangled in the net curtains and brought them down. Genghis wouldn't eat out of his lovely, and expensive, cat bowl but did knock the cat food tin off the counter and eat the contents by way of his paws, sprinkling bits of it all over the kitchen. Genghis hated being brushed (I knew this, you had to hold him in a Half Nelson to get a brush within six inches of his fur). Conversely, Genghis seemed to drip his hair over every surface of the house, by rights he should have been completely bald but there never seemed to be any less of it. Genghis hated his flea collar, which came as no surprise to me. In fact the only surprise was that they had managed to get it on in the first place. He had his revenge by constantly trying to get it off, hooking one paw under it and then lurching round the room like Long John Silver, so that someone had to unhook him while he made valiant, and usually successful, efforts, to scourge their arms with his back paws. I'll have to draw a veil over Genghis's other transgressions, I don't have the room. Suffice to say he was in a very short time persona non gratis in the household, except with the children. Like many cats, he was very forgiving of children even if they picked him up upside down or tried to dress him in bonnets. If an adult had tried to dress him in a bonnet it would very quickly have led to a trip to the emergency department of the local hospital. But with children he was patient and affectionate. So by the time he was returned to the bosom of his rightful owner his departure was not mourned by anyone over seven. I picked him up in the car, and my daughter thrust his cat bowl, an unused brush and comb, a slightly mangled flea collar and his basket into the boot. The basket was pristine, except it was suspiciously wet around the centre of the gingham. As I removed it when we arrived I caught a whiff of something I definitely recognised. Genghis Fluffy had finally found a use for a cat basket.
