Whispers spread in the world of cats that bring the strays to our doorstep
A cuddly Christmas gift done up with a bow was dumped in one of our bitterest winters, writes Miriam O'Callaghan
We should have called him Radium 226. This black kitten in the black night, crouched by the rickety iron gate with the red hollow heart, betrayed only by the luminous stripe between his eyes, a single snowy leg.
He arrived on the underground railroad of strays, orphans, abandonees. That lung-busting winter's night, the tiny ball of him seemed content. Neither his cats' eyes nor earlier travellers' tales had deceived him. There was, indeed, such a refuge and now he had found it: the sign on the gate read MUGS.
Since he looked so serious in his black and white, tending to avoid the world by day, we called him Marcel Proust.