Tippy: The Cat, The Myth, The Menace
Meet Tippy, one of our three rescue cats. He was found living in a barn, half feral and fully suspicious of humans — a tiny outlaw with serious trust issues. When he arrived at the rescue centre, he mostly just glared at anyone who got too close. Naturally, we brought him home.
These days, Tippy has more or less settled into domestic life, but make no mistake: the street (or barn) instincts run deep. He struts around like he owns the place, gives hard stares to anyone who questions his authority, and generally behaves like he’s running a feline protection racket. The other two cats give him a wide berth. I understand why.
A few years ago, in a moment of questionable judgment, he launched himself off our second-floor balcony. It was about a 20-foot drop, and he landed badly — breaking a leg. That little stunt cost us around €800 in vet bills, and earned him a titanium plate in his left leg. It also earned us a terrace fence, as seen in the photo. Safety first — especially when your cat thinks he’s Spider-Man.
Tippy now walks with a slightly wonky gait, sets off airport security (probably), and eyes the birds from behind the barrier with quiet resentment. He's still dreaming of freedom... or vengeance.
He absolutely adores Jane, my partner. She’s clearly the chosen one. Me? I’m tolerated. At best. I get the occasional half-hearted headbutt, usually near mealtimes, and the rest of the time I’m just the bloke who fills the food bowl and knows his place.
Occasionally, Tippy lets his guard down. He rolls over, flashing his nips to the world like a 1970s sunbather, and — if I’m lucky — allows me to rub the side of his head with the back of my hand. In these rare moments, he even lets out a rumble that, in thug land, passes for a purr.
We love him. Obviously. Even if we are merely his staff.