Just for Biddy - Dylan Tales

Seeing as I’ve been threatened with extreme retribution if I don’t mention Biddy’s Boy – here is the story of another of my cats.

Dylan. Dylan the small grey tabby with one eye. Dylan the Villain or, affectionately, Dyl the Vyl. The second youngest, after Sid. The loner, the hunter. The cat who walks by himself.

The very first cat I ever had in my life (I can’t say owned because you don’t own a cat- they own you) was Misty. A small female cat with soft grey fur and white ‘bib’ and paws. She was a convent cat – the nuns who taught at my school had a cat who had had kittens and they asked if anyone wanted one. I was seven and the kitten, which I named Misty was my birthday present. Sadly, Misty only lived for a few year. She caught cat flu and died.

And I have always, always wanted another grey cat.

Enter Dylan.

A friend had been to the RSPCA to adopt a cat. She told me of all the ones she’d had to leave behind – including a little grey cat. Grey? It took some pleading and persuading but the BM gave in and said yes we could adopt a grey cat. So Dylan came home to us. He was about five months old, small and neat, a soft grey with darker grey tabby markings and a white chest and paws. He once got ideas above his station when the vet put ‘silver tabby’ on his record card. But he isn’t a silver – they’re quite different. He’s grey and white.

He also had cat flu. We didn’t know it when we brought him home, but after a couple of days he became obviously ill. He shivered and sneezed and his nose and eyes ran. He was a very sick little creature. The vet prescribed antibiotics and I had to fight to get them down his stubborn little throat. My fingers were nearly torn to shreds. He curled up in the space just under the radiator for warmth and sneezed and coughed and shivered more. I thought I was going to lose another little grey cat to cat flu but Dylan is a survivor and slowly, slowly he got better. The lasting scar of his illness is the way it affected one eye – it sealed up completely and when it opened again, the inner eyelid was damaged so now it's blurred and it waters in cold weather and we don’t think he can see very well out of it. It’s never held him back.

Dylan is the hunter. The cat who prowls the undergrowth and tackles anything he can find – even birds like wood pigeons that are twice his size – the other lasting result of his illness is that he never grew much. He is still small and narrow and his tail is – well, whisper it - but his tail is like a grey piece of string. But in his heart Dylan is big and brave and fierce. He is the one who sees off stray cats , he fought off a hawk that swooped near when he was climbing the big pine tree at the bottom of the garden – and he is the cat who likes to roam.

If I leave the house I have to make sure that Dylan is inside because if he isn’t he will follow me. Not just a little way, but as far as he can before I give in and take him home. If I’m just going to the postbox, then I’ll let him stay – that’s just four streets away and then we walk home together. But if I’m going any further, I have to turn round and take him home or Dylan will follow all the way. We learned this by experience when the BM was teaching an evening class in the local sixth form college. From our gate, Dylan trotted behind him. Believing he would soon get tired, the BM carried on. So did Dylan. The main road that needed crossing to the college would deter him, the BM thought - it didn’t. By this time they were both at the college gates and there wasn’t time before the class to take him home. So Dylan went to the poetry class. He greeted everyone. Sat in a corner and washed. Then he jumped up onto the teacher’s desk and sat there, taking an intelligent interest in everything until it was time to go home. As a result, he’s the most educated of all my cats. The one who has studied poetry. Perhaps it goes with his name – Dylan – Dylan Thomas, or Bob Dylan, both poets in their own way.

Which rather clashes with his other, earthier side. You see, Dylan loves workmen. He has a special thing about electricians, but plumbers will do – or builders, or the man who comes to service the boiler. If a workman comes to the house he will soon find himself greeted by a small grey cat with a rusty purr who comes trotting in, stringy tail high, demanding attention by rubbing his head against their trouser legs. I think it’s because they had big hands. When they stroke him, which they inevitably do, their palms cover just about all of his little body. They can stroke almost every inch of him in one wide sweep and he just purrs and purrs and stays for as long as they will let him. So far, no workman has ever managed to leave again without giving Dylan the strokes he demands.

He also likes their vans. If a plumber or an electrician leaves their van open in the driveway, Dylan will be in there and investigating everything. He likes to check things over, makes sure all is in order. And then, if he’s satisfied, he’ll settle down and go to sleep, curled up on the toolbox or next to the coils of wire. Which is how he almost ended up in Preston with one electrician. His day finished, van locked, the man was heading for Lancashire for the weekend when he looked up and saw a small grey, furry face looking back at him in his rear-view mirror. Dylan, who had been snoozing in the back of the van and had been woken by the sound of the engine and was now perched on the back seat, demanding to be taken back home.

So that’s Dylan – Dyl the Vyl. The buccaneer cat. The poet. The loner. He likes to eat by himself, sleep by himself in the same spot, next to the radiator as he did when he was sick. Formerly the baby of the family, he has never accepted Sid’s arrival in the house and they usually just avoid each other but if they come face to face then there’s a hissing, snarling spat, and then they move on again.

And of course Dylan is Biddy’s Boy. She visited once and they set up a mutual love relationship that’s never been broken, even though he only sees her once every six months or more. What is it, do you think Biddy? Is it that he senses you’re an engineer?

Or do you have very big hands?


I don't actually have a picture of Dylan on his own - not one that's ready to use, so until I find one, this will have to do - it's Dylan and Redford (affectionately know as Bob). So I suppose the picture at the top of this page could be labelled - Bob Dylan.