Charlie and George are 5

Nicola Griffith

May 13

That's it, really. They are five, and fighting fit, and fine. Emphasis on the fighting.

Three or four months ago George acquired an elegant scar—very thin, very tasteful, drawn delicately along his nose; his duelling scar. We have some new cats in the neighbourhood so there are now occasional territory squabbles in the cul-de-sac. We have our two Yakima Crew; just up the street three lovely gingers brothers called Chris, Kurt, and Dave—the Nirvana Boys; and a mystery tabby—the Tabby Pimpernel—whose size is somewhere between George and Charlie. What this means is that every now and again there'll be a terrible yowling outside and I'll shoot outside to find either Charlie or George (usually George) sitting fluffed to twice his usual size on the fence or standing sideways on the deck, with that "Yeah, you better run!" look to them but no sign of an antagonist and no evidence of blood of chunks of fur.

George, left and Charlie, right. Definitely brothers. February 2024.

Every now and again we won't hear a thing until one or both of them come suddenly blamming through the cat door with tails like bottle brushes. And that's when I think there's a raccoon close by.

We are currently in that unfortunate phase of summer when George doesn't like to come home at night when called. Charlie always comes bouncing and chirruping when he hears his name. George just tunes us out. He always does come home, but sometimes not until two in the morning, and I'm getting very tired of the whole thing. This is a two-week phase he goes through every summer during which I age about a year imagining the coyotes and raccoons and barred owls... The problem is, it's not quite summer yet, so I dread how the next few months are going to go.

Both he and Charlie have each spent one entire night outside—Charlie about three years ago, George a month ago. We never, ever want that to happen again. (I lie awake all night imagining my social media rage as I tear a new one for the fool who says primly that the death of one or other of our beloved beasts is my own fault for letting them outdoor in the first place.) But I have a bad feeling it might. We'll just have to trust they know what they're doing. So far, the've come home unscathed: Charlie had a bite above his dew claw a couple of years ago, but judging by the size I think it was a prey animal—a feisty vole or rat—rather than a predator; George came home just last week with a sprained knee, which may or may not have resulted from fleeing a predator but could just as easily be the result of a misjudgement. Who can say? They're five now; parts of their lives are hidden to us. We're just glad they choose to share as much of their lives with us as they do: Charlie is almost always close to one or both of us on and off during the day, and asleep on the deck chair the rest of the time; and George always sleeps with us at night. Sometimes (rarely) George will sleep nearby me on the sofa in the afternoon and sometimes Charlie will sleep on the bed all night—though more often he sleeps in one of my wheelchairs just outside the bedroom, guarding it, and will only come in and settle on the bed with the rest of us after dawn.

They are mysterious creatures, but they are part of what make our house feel like a home. And we want them woven into our lives for another twenty years.