I've lived with cats all my life, and can only remember one who actually liked the smell of tobacco: his name was Big Ted, a huge black shaggy brute you could mistake for a guardsman's bearskin helmet until he opened his eyes to stare at you. I met Big Ted at a cats' rescue shelter where Mrs. B. and I were visiting with a view to homing a couple of new refugee kits - and Big Ted, himself a rescue cat and adopted by the folks who ran the cat shelter - ran up to me and greeted me like a long-lost friend. He couldn't get enough of me. This puzzled the proprietors, until one of them remembered that they had homed him, a year or so back, from an old chap (deceased) who lived on his own with Big Ted, and who smoked a particular kind of dark shag Virginia - the same brand I habitually smoked at the time. But Big Ted wasn't available for adoption, so we came away with a couple of others.
Here are Messire Pierrequin de Warbecq, and Warrior Princess Cassisurata Amberfire Ravenfur Snowclaws. Sadly we lost Perk to illness a couple of years ago, and Cassie followed him after a severe stroke, this April. We are currently a catless house for the first time in 15 years, and it feels terribly empty and wrong (but we shall be adopting again later this autumn when work at the farm slackens). Meanwhile, in the stables doorway, staring out at the farmyard whilst sheltering with me from the rain, is the last survivor of a litter of orphans dumped anonymously in a basket at the farm 20 years ago, a typical semi-feral farm mouser who rejoices in the appellation of Miss Euphemia Beguildy. She's companionable, in her stiff, maiden-aunty, stand-offish way, but merely tolerates me smoking in her presence.
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