Wendyl Nissen: Cat's pyjamas slinks in

Photo / Herald on Sunday

I don't much like my cats, which is why I never write about them. I also think a lady columnist of a certain age who writes about her cats is getting perilously close to milking that vein, scraping that barrel and in need of reconsidering her options as a writer.

That was until our house was visited by a new cat. A cat so charming and so engaging that our entire household spent an afternoon captivated by him. This cat winked as he meowed. He nudged against us, he cuddled sensuously and his name was Sebastian, according to the tag attached rather fetchingly to his bright red collar.

We don't often get visited by strange cats. First they have to negotiate the three hens who love nothing more than an excuse to scare the hell out of a suburban cat who has never seen a chicken before by charging at it full tilt until it is forced to jump for cover in a nearby tree. But Sebastian simply strolled past our three hens who came over all coy and continued their dust bath while emitting strange, comforting cooing sounds.

Next was the big, black dog who barks so ferociously whenever anything comes to the front door that people have been known to run right back out on to the street. She saw Sebastian, lay down and sniffed the air delicately as he stepped over her big black paw and through the front door.

By this stage our 11-year-old was overjoyed with the prospect of a longed-for new cat finding its way, through the forces of destiny and fate, into her heart.

"He's so gorgeous," she trilled. "Can we keep him?"

Sebastian trilled back encouragingly before making himself at home on the outdoor table in the backyard. He stretched luxuriously. He yawned deliciously. He smiled at us in that way cats do when they're having an exceptionally good time.

Which is when we noticed the three cats who actually live in the house. Kitty, the aged, fat, fluffy one is such an obnoxious, vicious bitch that she will not be seen in the same room as any of the other cats and therefore spends most of her time stalking, striking and cuffing them about the ears. She is so territorial that the merest flick of a tail from a strange cat will see her senior self transformed into the Willie Apiata of combat cats, determined to keep her little corner of Afghanistan safe.

But not today. She presented herself in all her finery at the opposite end of the table like a cougar fresh from surgery. Smug, over-confident and desperate.

And then we noticed the other two cats. They were staring at Sebastian as if he was the Second Coming. Even Lucy, the bipolar cat, who has never recovered from having her throat cut and being abandoned at the side of the road as a stray kitten, took a break from throwing herself around like Sylvia Plath and got perilously close to establishing eye contact.

Sebastian preened, cooed and simpered. Rather embarrassingly, Sassy, our third cat, attempted to jump up on a chair, possibly in an effort to draw attention to herself - and missed. As she desperately clawed her way back up she assumed a look which said: "I meant to do that. It's called comic timing."

Before long we had a scene which resembled Animal Farm with our entire domestic animal stock gazing up in awe at Snowball the head pig.

And then I realised what was happening.

"He's the cat equivalent of Brad Pitt," I announced to the family. "The animals are all sitting there saying, 'I can't believe he just turned up in our house. Brad Pitt. In our house. I just can't believe it.' They're all sitting there soaking up the delicious scent of celebrity. Making mental notes so that they can tell their friends exactly how green his eyes were and just how delicious his nose was.

"You should be ashamed," I told the doting three hens, one dog and three cats. "He's just a cat."

And with that Sebastian deigned to leave us with a last look over his shoulder, a sexy trill and a seductive swish of his tail. Lucy resumed her search for an oven to put her head in, Sassy tried the chair leap again and old Kitty still isn't talking to me.

- HERALD ON SUNDAY