Defining a Life by Lorna Gibb
There have always been cats , their presence for me is familial , inextricably linked to a sense of home . I cannot remember a time before cats , even in the brief space of years between birth and memory there are images of a cat , caught in grainy black and white photographs and Kodachrome slides , a cat whose escapades are as familiar to me as recollections . This is Snowy , the first cat , the work cat , the half stray ravaged thing with his scars and his battered ears and his permanently grubby fur .
Snowy was a legend to me . He was also the reason that I should hate cats . The thin thread like chin scar I have to this day , even if it ’ s only partially visible in the brightest of sun , was Snowy ’ s doing . He was a wild one , I was told , but it is apparent from those images . Battle scarred and grubby , pictured halfway up walls , balancing on drain pipes , rubbing against the chimney of the old tenement flat my parents lived in before there was me . This wasn ’ t a lap cat but a warrior , and my dad when he was living would speak with something close to pride about Snowy ’ s shady origins , his lack of loyalty , and above all those rare moments of grace bestowed when he decided to demonstrate a smidgeon of affection to my adoring parents .
We don ’ t know how he died , or when , or if he just found somewhere else to go for food , but he vanished as unexpectedly as he had arrived . My parents got a dog , had me , adopted several other cats without ever really trying to , and a couple of decades passed by .
When I left University I had cats of my own . It seemed a grown-up thing to do , a rite of passage marking my as-
225