All Cats Are Thieves

I read somewhere that all cats are thieves; it was in one of those woman’s magazines. You know the sort I’m talking about -chock full of advice on avoiding cellulite and purchasing the right kind of handbag? I have a vague memory of flicking through this magazine in the dentist’s waiting room, or it might well have been the doctors. I wouldn’t normally give this sort of magazine the time of day. Anyway, I was drawn in by a feature on two piece swimsuits and an article about holidaying in Jersey. I’ll be honest. I was mostly looking at the pictures: semi-clad models in miniscule bikinis, sunning themselves on the beach. The thing about the cats was towards the back of the magazine, stuck between cake recipes and the problem page. I was in search of further swimsuits, when it caught my eye. A woman had written in to ask how she might stop her cat from stealing food off the kitchen bench. The resident expert, (this being a section focused on household tips), had insisted that all cats were thieves. The woman had two choices. She could either get rid of her cat, (reading between the lines, it was impossible not to notice the resident expert’s bias towards getting rid of the cat), or she could stop leaving uncovered dishes on her kitchen bench.

For some reason, this article stuck with me. In the autumn of that year, when I found myself in a spot of bother at work and in dire need of a little ready cash, it came back to me. If all cats were thieves, perhaps a cat could help me lay my hands on the two grand I needed to plug the hole in the company’s accounts. I did not consider myself a thief. There was a big difference between making a few reckless investments with someone else’s money and physically taking something which did not belong to me. By this stage I desperately needed to lift something that did not belong to me -it was only a matter of time before the boss discovered my numbers no longer added up- and yet I could not lower myself to rifle through another person’s wallet or slip my own hand into the cash register. I much preferred the idea of having a cat steal for me.

I bought my cat from a man on the outskirts of town who sold cats and garden sheds. I asked him if it was a normal cat and he said, in his thirty years in the business, he’d never come across a more cat-like cat than this. I was pleased to hear my cat was absolutely average. I did not want to be lumbered with some sort of freak cat, incapable of stealing. I took my cat home in a laundry basket and fed it tuna from a tin. I didn’t give the cat a name or anything. I wasn’t intending on keeping it long enough to make a name worthwhile.

As soon as it grew dark, I took my cat to the part of town where the rich people live. I found a house with an open window and pushed my cat head first through the gap. The cat paused on the other side of the window and glared at me as if to say, what do you want me to do now? I shooshed at it with my hands. “Get in,” I hissed, “go and be a cat. Steal nice things. Bring them back to me.” The cat gave me a knowing look, then took off across the room, picking its way carefully around the furniture like it knew exactly what to do. I wondered if my cat had previous form for burglary. Then, I remembered the magazine article. My cat knew the ropes because all cats were thieves. Most likely it had something to do with evolution. When it comes to the survival of the fittest, a creature’s moral compass will go to pot. At some point in the last million years, casual theft might well have been the only thing standing between the domestic cat and complete extinction.

I waited quietly beneath the window. I’d like to have had a cigarette, but I didn’t dare. I did not mind what the cat stole. Hard cash would be most convenient, but jewellery could always be pawned and credit cards were certainly not to be sniffed at. I’d make do with whatever the cat lifted. When it reappeared at the window, I was lost in my thoughts; congratulating myself on my own ingenuity. Acquiring a cat had been a masterful move. The police would never think to suspect a cat. There’d be no fingerprints and the cat could hardly demand a cut of our heist. In reality the cat did not need to ask for a cut of the heist> By the time I spotted it, the cat was already consuming its entire haul of cooked ham slices; twenty or so of them, wafer thin cut. All cats may well be thieves, but I soon learnt that they are not the most discerning thieves. If you really want to rob a house blind, you need to get yourself a magpie. There’s nothing like a magpie when it comes to nicking stuff you can actually shift.  

Inspired by a line from Agatha Christie’s 1938 novel Hercule Poirot’s Christmas