19 August 2026

What are cats saying about their owners?

What are cats saying about their owners?

Imagine it is a brief interview with cats – black and ginger, mousers and readers, gifted and officially employed. What have they seen? How were they treated? Are they ready to tell it all about their more (or less) known owners? The only thing you can count on here is that the cats are not going to lie. At least, this time.

Bambino, black cat:

It was a small room where a young lady was taking care of me. We were often visited by other men and women. Some of them wore white clothes only, and maybe that was the reason they did not really like me and especially my velvet black fur. I once went to know other tenants of that weird cottage – they did not appreciate the visit either. Shouted. They were trying to show something with their fists, I did not care already. I only wanted to keep my tail safe and find my girl as soon as possible.

Each and every time she looked happy at seeing me. But then a new day came. She set me at an old man’s hands and …forgot to take me back. Had I done anything wrong? Nobody told me. On the good side, I had seen that white-haired man multiple times before – I could always feel a smell of other cats around him. That moment I thought it had to be a promising change in my life, cuddled up to him and fell asleep.

I found myself in a new house where there were less human beings and more felines. Not sure about what to expect, I decided to rely on my own. I activated the mouser instinct and went hunting. The man and his wife looked worried when I came back after the hunting session for the first time but accepted the approach later. Even better, we cats were often allowed a chair, a good talk, and even a billiards round! Sour Mach, Famine, Zoroaster, Apollinaris, Satan and Sin… Must be the best company I’ve ever had! Purr, I’ve only heard about some of them, but why should it matter?

Yet, we did not completely understand our humans. Imagine coming home after a busy day only to find out a queue of humans where literally each one holds a copy of yourself (I mean meow-self, Bambino). A look-alike contest? A flash mob? A new family member? Why has nobody let us, let me(!) know? Lost in guessing, I thought a night in a neighbour’s garden was the best available option. I remember giving a short meow when it was already dark – just checking – and immediately a woman from our house appeared next to me. How could she even see me, the blackest of the black cats in that darkness?

It came out that my white-haired old man was sick because of not having seen me for just a couple of days and let everyone know about the "trouble"! I must have done something wrong those days… But what? And even so, why have that crowd at the entrance?!

Ashes, two cats:

Sorry, we are not to take much of your time. We just want to let you know that we knew Mr Samuel very briefly, but it did not prevent him from ensuring we have something to eat for the rest of our days. Thank you, Mr Samuel Clemens!

Sackcloth:

I don’t know you, guys, but you are telling exactly my story. You have my cat’s meow to confirm the miracle.

Mark Twain was a huge cat-lover! They say he could have 19 cats at his home at the same time and as if that was not enough, rent one or two when on a trip.

Bambino was the cat Mark Twain's daughter found while being in a hospital. Of course, animals were not allowed there, so even though they initially found a way to sneak a cat in, she then had to give it to her father. No way he'd ever reject the offer!

Ashes and Sackclocth were three of the cats Mark Twain rented. Yes, he'd always consider such felines his cats and, sure, would give them a name. Sometimes, one for two. Additionally to the names, Mark Twain would also provide the owner with some financial means to ensure the cats would be well taken care of during their whole, whether short or long, cat's life.

Snow White, white cat:

My “Papa” was special. So was I, and he made me feel privileged, not just strange. I was the only one allowed to his room when he was working. He was a writer, you know, but a very modern one – so, in addition to a pen rustling over the paper, I also enjoyed a quickly clinking typing machine. You know this metallic creature with numerous buttons which can do nothing but tinkle and leave letter stripes on the paper, don’t you? What an invention! Imagine we had several of these!

The man who adopted me was known as strict and independent. Well, I had no real doubt about his nature – I remember he had a gun. But somehow, I also remember such a great spirit of liberty there with him! He loved us. He's one of those cat-owners who see their cats as autonomous while privileged family members. Going to try my bed? Have sweet dreams, dear! Coming to check on me? Well, make yourself comfortable and tell the news from the district. Wanna have some water from my glass? And the glass is still on the table? Dear, come up and enjoy, no stupid questions!

Oh, my children and grandchildren were so lucky to have this estate as their birthplace and home!

My life was not going to be this way, though. I was born on a shipboard and if not for the captain, I'd most likely spent my life catching mice there. For some reason, when still a kitten, I became a gift from the captain’s hand. The owner of the gift believed having such cat was a good sign, so not only he accepted me but soon let me start my own family in the garden.

Hairy Truman, tabby:

I am Snow White’s great-great-great-grandson. Almost 100 years afterwards, the same address, the same typing machines. I have rarely if ever heard them tinkling, though… Also, I have never met our human grandpa Ernest. Neverhteless, like my feline great-great-great-grandma, I feel privileged – even more privileged than the hundreds of people visiting my family and me monthly. You know, they can only walk in, observe and, well, cuddle us a bit, while we have absolutely all rooms for our feline family! Like our ancestors many years ago, we have a nap on great wooden tables – so warm under the sun rays! – and enjoy the greenery outside. The only catch is the price we now pay at our own home: almost every human entering the estate feels obliged to check our paws. Any guess on what’s wrong with them? Humans, not paws!

Snow White was Ernest Hemingway's first polydactyl[=EX1] cat. Seamen believed polydactyl cats were good luck. From the very practical point of view, they are simply better mousers and can adjust to the ship's movement easier.

Hemingway loved the peculiarity as well as the related belief, so no surprise, a colony of six-toed cats started right in his garden. The writer first shared a spare bedroom with the felines but when their number outreached several dozens, he only had to acknowledge: "No animal has more liberty than the cat."

Hairy Truman is one of the descendants of Snow White and one of the nearly 60 cats who live in the Ernest Hemingway's Home and Museum in Key West (Florida, USA) today.

Mrs Chippy, grey tiger cat:

First of all, I ask you not to be fooled by my name. I am a male cat! They were just too slow to get it. Like Snow White, I spent some of my life on board the ship but opposite to her, I was born a land stray cat. I don’t know whether I brought any luck to the seamen, nor am I certain about if I can call myself lucky.

I know my man loved me and never wished any bad to me. Even so, those of you felines who escaped ship life might actually have better luck.

They were going to explore the Antarctic continent when my man made me part of the crew. Had I only known the plan before the start! My responsibilities included control of the mice population onboard and emotional support to the rest of the crew. Could you imagine these strong men who are generally ready to appear Cat God knows where among glaciers still miss their homes and want somebody who’d listen to them without extra questions?

By the way, how many of you can swim? I know it is not usually considered a basic skill for a cat but I once had to spend about 10 minutes in the open sea! It happened in the very beginning of the journey, though I don’t remember what made me jump through a porthole. Curiosity? Lack of knowledge? Bad feeling? Whatever it was, I had to keep meowing loudly while trying not to gulp too much water. How cold and salty it was! Phrrrr! Thankfully, they finally heard me and caught me out from the water with a fish net. Adventurous but not really recommended!

Back onboard, I'd spent time with my rescuers and all members of the crew. If they had nothing for me to do, I’d come to my man – always busy building or repairing something, he would never send me away.

It all changed in about six weeks. The ship reached pack ice, trapped there and got damaged. The crew were nervous and the plan was to leave the ship and start ice camping. Nice plan, but their leader was apparently sure the animals from onboard (I was not the only one) were too weak to survive, especially given that they had to cut down food consumption and take only the very necessary stuff to make it through. Only some of the furry four-legged crew members did become part of that plan.

My man was arguing with his master – and literally owner at the moment – about other options for evacuation and further rescue operation, and all in vain. They were of the same age but took way too different approaches. Therefore, I only remember a flash and a very loud “bang!” which abrupted the chaos.

I know my man cried long after that day and could not forgive neither himself nor their leader Ernest Shackleton for the decision. On the bright side, they all did survive. And you all know the truth.

The expedition Mrs. Chippy talks about was the Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition led by Sir Ernest Shackleton. They aimed to cross the Antarctic continent (about 3000 km) for the first time. By 1914 when the Expedition started, Shackleton was already an experienced polar explorer, while Harry McNish, the owner of the cat, joined the crew as a ship carpenter after he had found a call in a newspaper.

Strictly speaking, it was McNish's work which allowed to keep the ship afloat for several weeks after the shipwreck: he built extra tools and false decks, repaired the ship as long as it was possible to prevent it from flooding, and then altered the sledges to make them suitable for the new conditions. McNish was very respected as a worker but they did not get along well with Shackleton even before the accident.

Since 2004, there is a life-size bronze statue of Mrs Chippy added to McNish's grave as a tribute (and maybe a little "thank you and sorry" note) to the carpenter and his beloved cat.

Jock, marmalade cat:

Greetings from just another cat gift. Many think I am a special one as Chartwell[=EX2] was my residence and a former Prime Minister was my owner. I agree, this's not what a regular cat usually gets, but nor is this what makes a cat happy. I happenned to be the last cat in the house who'd purrsonally know Sir Winston Churchill and you can be sure, was the most favourite and happy feline there.

They say my owner was a very important and renowned man – it very much could be, given his manners. I met Mr Churchill as a senior. He turned 88 on the day of our meeting and I spent just a couple of years following his every move in Chartwell. I believe those were neither his best nor his most active years, despite he was still working.

He would spend days in his study, muttering about history and politics. I would then sprawl across papers, tail twitching in time with his grumbles. No doubt, the servants adored me. Thankfully, they also respected the rules: my dinner was to be served promptly and my naps were not to be disturbed. Sure, my presence was a privilege for everyone there. From my honest first-paw experience, pets do take after their owners!

Sir Churchill was always surrounded by people (by the way, the man who once brought me[=EX3] as a present was a frequent guest in this house), but what he truly loved was time with animals. I once secretly saw a photo of my owner riding a horse – that was pretty unexpected! Although not more unexpected than a hand-written note in the window "Cat: Come home. All is forgiven. Winston." The message was not for me and I have never seen it but my friends claimed that's what had truly happened one day.

Actually, I did not witness much except for maybe black swans on the lake and the poodle’s graves in the garden but imagine, even being weak after a hip fracture, Sir Winston Churchill would always find a couple of kind words for me and some grain for the birds.

Surprisingly for a cat, I outlived my owner, but he predicted it and loved me too much to just let it be. If you are luckier than an average feline and can find yourself at Chartwell, look for a marmalade cat wearing white socks there. Winston promised there would always be one!

Winston Churchill was known to have one or two cats at almost any moment of his life. Including residential servants, Chief Mousers Nelson and Peter III at 10 Downing Street[=EX4]. He would greet his cats personally in the mornings and talk to them when meeting throughout the day. Jock was special to Churchill (though honestly, this must have been true for his every cat and just every animal), so knowing Jock would mostly likely be his last cat, Churchill asked to have a feline of this very colour in the house after his death. White socks and a white bib are a must. The National Trust has been taking care of the Chartwell estate and the special will since 1965 – now it is Jock VII who has inherited the legacy and preserves the secrets of the house.

Occasionally compared to a bulldog or a lion, Churchill did have his own dogs (just poodles Rufus and Rufus II) and, well, a lion. The latter, Rota the lion was a symbolic gift to Winston Churchill and became then a resident of the London Zoo.

[=EX1] with extra toes

[=EX2] a country house which was the home of Sir Winston Churchill from 1922 till his death in 1965

[=EX3] Jock Colville, Assistant Private Secretary to Winston Churchill and his close friend

[=EX4] the official residence and office of the prime minister of the United Kingdom