Particularly Cats (1967) is the third book by Doris Lessing that I’ve read – but nothing in the dystopian Memoirs of a Survivor or the grim The Fifth Child would have led me to expect something like Particularly Cats. It is 108 pages of absolute joy for a cat lover.
In a way, it’s like Elizabeth von Arnim’s All the Dogs of My Life, in that it is a memoir that concentrates on cats that Lessing has owned, or who have owned Lessing. But though it mentions various cats from different stages of Lessing’s life, it’s really about two – known as grey cat and black cat.
Before we get to their lives, we do get a whistle-stop tour of Lessing’s experience of cats in her Zimbabwean childhood – there are many, living unbridled lives that interweave with those of wild cats. Sometimes domestic cats mate with wild cats; sometimes they become wild. They are at the mercy of hawks, and they are many miles from the nearest vet. It is a tumultuous environment to have pets.
Then Lessing fast forwards to cats in London, and particularly to the black cat and grey cat. At the time she is writing the book they are only two and four years old respectively, and so very much present concerns – and they cannot abide each other. Lessing’s descriptions of their ongoing feud, and the forms it takes, is more fascinating than any battle I have read about.
Writing about cats can be tricky. Lessing is beautifully successful – because she is loving without being sentimental, and observant without being fanciful. She clearly understands cats deeply, and never tries to credit them with any anthropomorphism that doesn’t fit. And, at the same time, she recognises the nuanced and varied behaviours that different cats have. Lessing describes them with an anthropologist’s fervour, and with an affection that knows they can never be fully understood by a non-cat.
To love Particularly Cats as much as I did, you probably have to love cats as much as I do – or at least find them as fascinating as I do. I would happily read about cats’ doings and habits for many more pages, but I’ll leave you with just one moment. If cats don’t interest you, this wouldn’t be for you – the book would be far less enjoyable for me if it were about dogs, for instance. But if you’re a felinophile, and can cope with the reality of nature red in tooth and claw, then I urge you to get hold of a copy.
As a kitten, this cat never slept on the outside of the bed. She waited until I was in it, then she walked all over me, considering possibilities. She would get right down into the bed, by my feet, or on to my shoulder, or crept under the pillow. If I moved too much, she huffily changed quarters, making her annoyance felt.
When I was the making the bed, she was happy to be made into it; and stayed, visible as a tiny lump, quite happily, sometimes for hours, between the blankets. If you stroked the lump, it purred and mewed. But she would not come out she had to.
