It began late one night. I was checking all the doors that should be locked were and all unnecessary lights in the hotel I managed were switched off. It was a job I didn't have to do, we had night staff, but I liked to be sure, after all I was there for the night too! As I approached the double doors to the car park I noticed two bright amber glows completely and invisibly suspended in the pitch black of the night. It was a startling, slightly unearthly sight. I stood still for a second and then turned the outside light on, and there he was, the most beautiful black cat anyone has ever seen. I looked at him, he looked at me, and then I turned and went to the kitchens. I found a piece of chicken, cut it into bite size pieces and returned to the door. He was still there, the picture of patience, waiting. I opened the door. He didnt even step back as I carefully placed the food at a respectful distance and, without a backward glance went inside and locked the door. The next morning he was still there, the morning staff fed him, and who would not? I left him to his own devices, watching from a distance as he made himself at home in the large leafy car park and garden area.
We did not let him move in, we were being strong. It was clear to us he was much loved by someone. We all thought such a cat must have a home, someone must be missing him. I checked, left a note with the all the local pet stores, with all the local vets, I even checked with the police! After they got over the rolling eyes and sarcastic sniggers they assured me that although they did not keep records for lost cats they were sure they would have remembered it if anyone had attempted to report one missing. I was impressed at the way they maintained the serious facade as they told me: if anyone did come looking for a cat, they would certainly remember me...
We discovered he had very definite likes and dislikes about food! I think it was the way he would push the plate away with a huge paw and then go through the symbolic motion of burying it that gave us a clue. It became routine for people to hear my despairing: "But Bertie you like that!" I took him to the vet for a check up and apart from a minor operation he got a clean bill of health. We talked about it and thought perhaps an elderly person had owned him and there had been a tragedy.
By now we were all used to him, we argued about what name he might have. We tried to call him using various traditional 'cat' names. He ignored them all and for the record no one did 'ignore' better than this stunningly handsome, and as we now knew, aristocratic chocolate Persian cat. Its an art all cats seem to have mastered. One day a few weeks after he arrived one of the housekeepers said we should call him Bertie because of the old song and because he was obviously an aristocat. We tried it out on him and he seemed to like it. He now had a name but we were being firm he was still not allowed in.
Late one night, I was working again. I walked through the building checking lights and locks. It was a wild night the wind howled, the rain pounded the walls and windows and then the thunder started. My Bertie was outside the door in all that! It was not a thought it was instinct. I opened the door and in he rushed. He didn't even look at me. He ran straight into my office, into the bathroom and jumped into the sink. I watched bemused as he settled there and, quick as a flash I decided to use the public bathroom outside to brush my teeth. He stayed in the sink all night, just curled up asleep in the sink! The next morning one of the waitresses and I looked in on him. He opened his eyes stretched and was clearly ready for breakfast. My Bertie was home.
He ruled the hotel but there had to be rules. We put notices on the doors (all of them) saying: Please do not let the cat in the rooms. It didn't work. Guests would sneak him in, and then find themselves letting him out in the early hours because whilst he liked them sure enough, they were not his home and he was going to his home. He would arrive at my door and a huge paw would 'knock' at it until I stopped whatever I was doing and let him in.
He had a dodgy tummy. We discovered this when guests gave him their food. He loved Pitza, regrettably it always made him sick. We put notes up everywhere saying: Please do not feed the cat. It didn't work. No one did half starved like Bertie. Little did the guests know that the first thing the breakfast cooks did was feed him, personally cutting the chicken he loved into bite sized pieces, before giving even a thought to the guests.
He was very democratic, firmly believing every lap was his and mixing easily with all the guests, from the smart executive to the casual tourist. But there were sometimes problems when people found out he was a stray, some seemed to think we had not done enough to find his owners, surely there was something more we should do?some were less than convinced he was a stray, 'borrowed' more like!
Nationality made no difference to him either. One of his 'best friends' was a young Indian girl staying at the hotel for several weeks while on a college course. If he was missing, as long as she was there I knew where he would be. One Russian lady got very upset when we refused to give him to her. She stormed off saying she would never stay at the hotel again. On another occasion an American couple sent us a card saying the hotel had the worst bed and the best cat in the world...
The hotel was sold and I took Bertie home. He settled in very quickly making it his home too. An uncle came to stay and Bertie got into his room. I said: "I'll just get him out for you." My Uncle said. "No! He can stay." You see Bertie liked to sleep right beside you with his head on the pillow and one of your hands held gently in his front paws. Occasionally a huge paw would drift across your face, but it meant nothing more than an affectionate pat.
I sat in the garden one Sunday afternoon and the neighbours called over the wall how much they liked my cat. I said "give him some meat". Smiling I sipped my wine waiting for the inevitable, minutes later the oohs and ahs began. You see Bertie would hold your hand in his two huge front paws and very carefully take the food from your hand. It was a good trick and it never failed to gain yet another dewy eyed fan.
Ah my Bertie, so loved, so many stories to tell. He grew older, and he was not young when he found me. The years took their toll. All those sneaked pitzas added to the cost and one day it became too much for my much loved 'old gentleman'. The vet said he was very old and very ill...I miss him still, I always will. My Bertie.
