I’m distressed by the disappearance of our cat — it feels like some ghastly premonition

6 February 2010

Toby Young suffers from Status Anxiety

On a couple of occasions I’ve been sent on a wild goose chase. A man saw a black cat running across the road near Acton Police Station and offered to drive me there so he could show me the exact spot. Disappointingly, the cat in question turned out to belong to a local publican.

Several people have reported seeing a black cat in the ‘Poets Corner’ area of Acton and I’ve been going on nightly patrols, often accompanied by my one-year-old, Charlie, who seems to miss her more than the others. We did encounter one cat sitting on a fence who looked remarkably like Trixie — Charlie was convinced. But after scrutinising her for a good ten minutes, I concluded it wasn’t her. It was difficult to tell. I wonder how many distraught owners of lost cats have plucked other people’s cats off the street, mistaking them for their own? Come to think of it, perhaps that’s what happened to Trixie.

I’ve always prided myself on not being over-sentimental, particularly about animals, but losing Trixie has proved distressing. Has she been savaged by a fox? Wandered too far and lost her bearings? Or is she curled up in the lap of some kindly neighbour? It’s the not knowing that makes it so hard. When the temperature falls below freezing I worry that she may be out there somewhere, alone and disorientated, with no way of keeping warm.

Perhaps the reason it has affected me so deeply is because it’s a ghastly premonition of what it would be like to lose a child. That actually happened once — in Gap, of all places. I was with Freddie, my two-year-old, and I spent a little too long on my haunches, looking for a three-pack of boxer briefs in my size. When I stood up he had vanished. The surge of anxiety was so overwhelming I almost fainted. Thankfully, we were re-united a couple of minutes later by an assistant manager.

Trixie has been gone for ten days now and I’m beginning to lose heart. I’m fairly sure that all the ‘sightings’ have been of other black cats, not her, and she could be anywhere within a mile radius of my house. That’s assuming nothing has happened to her, which may be wishful thinking. Is there any point in continuing to comb the streets? Every morning I come downstairs, hoping against hope that she’s returned in the night, but her basket sits there empty and I feel a pang of guilt about not doing more. I daresay Charlie and I will be out there again this evening, calling out her name.

Toby Young is associate editor of The Spectator.