Meet the gang. Lil Brownie aka Disney, Lil (Missy) Princess Queenie, and of course, Tommasino Maggiore, or Tom as he’s more commonly called. Names worthy of any hip hop or mafiosi artists in my humble opinion.
Brownie is the snuggliest ragdoll of a cat you could ever meet, until you meet his sister, Miss Queenie. They are little purring machines. Brownie is the colour of a chocolate brownie, and can be just as sweet. Queenie is the first female cat we’ve had in ages, and I am only sad that she won’t ever have kittens. She’s a natural mammy and covers me in precious licks and has a special purring chirrup that I’ve never heard before. She is also a true tuxedo cat with absolutely stunning colours and patterns to her coat.
Tom is definitely the Godfather of all of them. He ran my previous cat Gandalf ragged. Poor Gandalf spent more time hiding and running and meowing frantically to get in the closed window than he ever did snuggling and purring. Tom seems more accepting of these two new adorable ones. In fairness they were hard to resist, arriving as kittens determined to play and make friends. Tom has a very fine pinstriped grey and black fur suit and little white spats. He is the epitome of murderous cool.
Sad to say, Brownie and Queenie don’t seem too keen on snuggling up with each other anymore, which means I am forced to choose with whom I share my snuggle time. I caught Queenie hissing at Brownie the other morning and then stalking out the window in a huff. He stared at her until she left. I dread to think what that stare implied.
I don’t like hissing in my apartment. But there you go. We had a puppy staying with us for a while, and boy did Tom show his dominance. With barely a muscle move, he put that poor puppy through her paces. Hissing was all he had to do.
Brownie played dead as the puppy clambered all over him, I was terrified she would bite him, and Queenie would play chasing with her. My Mum said she loved it, but I had to rescue her a time or two.
They are all well able to hunt. Brownie brought me a beautiful thrush yesterday morning, which broke my heart. Later my Mum, who lives next door, saw a volley of nearly grown thrushes up on the roof, looking frantic, but their poor mother was dead. I had to let Brownie do the deed, as I could not bring myself to finish her off, even though I tried to rescue the poor songbird. I could see that she was going to die sooner or later.
Queenie brought me the gift of a moth the other night too. You can see the poor thing over on Instagram. I missed a great photo of her standing proudly over it, having killed it properly after it nearly escaped and played dead for quite a while.
As we speak, all three cats are outside taking it in turns sharing in the chase of some small creature or other which does not stand a chance. We have a huge garden. They are in cat paradise.
And earlier Brownie and Tom together caused the disturbance of my sofa reading reverie, when I heard a raging roar from a magpie – and Brownie sauntered in as if nothing had happened. They don’t stand much of a chance against a magpie, even two of them, but it doesn’t stop them trying.
So there you go, the furry trio, last shadow of all small rodents around the property and well able to announce their imminent hunger or demand for snuggles.