By Ray Wilson
Nobody quite remembered who first started it. They stared out of their windows at an unblemished sky of July 2020, pure blue and untainted by patchwork white lines or space hardware vaporised on re-entry. Some sat writing journals on balconies and penning stories of the cats that wandered their neighbourhoods at night.
Some, with some justification, blamed the television for their digital imprisonment, while others found solace in the escape it provided. Others blamed Facebook, or ‘FBI Book’, as Henry liked to call it. Cecilia blamed The Daily Telegraph, which she considered of late a loathsome rag, primarily because of the cartoons by some upstart called Bob Moran trying to make light of the Covid situation. “How to Make Your Own Face Mask, I ask you,” Cecilia said with a tone of disdain.
Henry blamed everybody in equal measure.
Whatever the cause, by late July the neighbourhood of Willow Crescent had become distinctly suspicious of cats.
Not dogs. No canines had escaped the scrutiny of the all-seeing eye thus far. Dogs were considered straightforward creatures. They barked at the postman, stole sausages from neighbours’ barbecues and occasionally embarrassed their owners by barking at them.
Cats, however, had become epidemiological. The newspapers seemed unable to leave them alone. One headline declared cats could catch the virus. Another assured everyone not to panic. A third explained that infected owners should keep away from their pets.
The Guardian published an article the headline of which read, “Cats can catch coronavirus but are unlikely to spread it to humans”. On the other side of the pond, The New York Times also published, coincidentally on the same day, a headline that read, “Cats can catch coronavirus, studies suggest, but pet owners shouldn’t panic.” “By the 27th of July, BBC News, not to be left out, covered in detail the UK government’s announcement and veterinary advice for infected owners, their headline reading, “Coronavirus pet cat infected in first UK case”.
Nobody was entirely sure whether the cats were catching Covid from people, people from cats, or newspapers from one another.
The cats themselves remained remarkably unconcerned. Nemo held the emergency meeting beneath Henry’s camellias. Nobody knew where Nemo had come from. Cats without owners often acquired names from whoever fed them first. Nemo had received his because, according to Henry, “he turned up out of nowhere.” The explanation satisfied everyone except Basil, who insisted that “nemo” was Latin for “nobody”.
“Exactly,” Henry had replied.
“That’s rather clever.”
“I know.”
Charlie arrived several minutes late. Charlie possessed many names. His official household name was Charlie. After an unfortunate misunderstanding involving an abandoned chicken carcass, an emergency dash to the veterinary surgery and several anxious hours waiting while a bone was removed from his throat, he became Charlie Chicken. Depending upon circumstance, he also answered to Charlie Chickens, Charles, Charlie Charles, and, when he’d done something particularly idiotic, “What the Dickens?”
The cats accepted this without complaint.
Humans, they had long observed, rarely settled on one name for anything. Connie, a magnificent ginger with an opinion of herself that nobody seriously disputed, slipped quietly through the hedge.
She had grown up somewhere beyond the last farms, on a distant causeway where rabbits outnumbered people and nobody objected if a cat crossed a vegetable patch. Henry and Agatha found an advert on social media: ginger kittens available. At eight weeks old she went to live with them. Life in Willow Crescent promptly became considerably more complicated.
“Mrs Peterson hissed at me today, madly waving a water pistol at me,” Connie reported.
“You’ve never met Mrs Peterson.”
“I know.”
“What did she say?”
“‘Shoo! Get out, out of here, you filthy animal. You might have Covid!'”
Charlie blinked.
“Do I look like Covid?” Connie drew herself up. “Do I resemble a microscopic sphere floating inside a droplet, decorated with spikes and named after a crown?”
“No.”
“I look magnificent.”
Charlie rolled his eyes. “You always think you do. Act like royalty, I mean, like a queen.”
“I usually do, because I am.”
Nemo waited until everyone had settled. “As Chaircat,” he announced gravely, “I have received intelligence.”
“You made that title up,” Charlie observed.
“Leadership requires initiative.”
“What intelligence?”
“The humans have begun discussing quarantine.”
The three cats looked at one another.
Connie frowned. “What is quarantine?”
Charlie shrugged. “I believe it’s where humans voluntarily remain indoors.”
“They’ve been doing that for months.”
“Exactly.”
“It seems a peculiar hobby.”
Nemo lowered his voice. “There is also talk of isolation.”
Connie gasped. “But cats invented isolation.”
Charlie nodded solemnly. “It is one of our oldest traditions.”
“You cannot isolate a creature that disappears for eighteen hours every day and refuses to explain itself.”
Charlie looked thoughtful. “I was once locked in Basil’s garage.”
The others looked at him.
“It was summer. I could hear Henry calling me, delirious and with no water, but I couldn’t get out. Eventually Henry heard me. Basil opened the garage late that night.”
Charlie shuddered. “I had nearly exhausted my complaints.”
“What worries me”, Nemo continued, ignoring Charlie’s ordeal, “is vaccination.”
Charlie looked alarmed. “What’s that?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“It sounds veterinary.”
Without another word, all three instinctively took one step backwards before bunching together into an indignant, unassailable huddle of fur. The League of Practical Cats was formed immediately. Its constitution occupied exactly one sentence: Avoid unnecessary humans. Charlie objected.
“What about Henry and Agatha?”
“Oh, they count as furniture.”
“Fair enough.”
“What about Basil?”
“Basil carries chicken sandwiches.”
“He may remain.”
“What about children?”
“Children are unpredictable.”
“Agreed.”
Within days rumours spread faster than sparrows at sunset. The League of Practical Cats had already gained a reputation. Some whispered that they possessed powers beyond human comprehension. Mrs Jenkins declared she had seen Nemo deliberately avoiding contact tracing.
Doug insisted Charlie was trespassing across property boundaries without authorisation. Charlie maintained he was merely conducting rodent surveillance. The distinction mattered greatly to Charlie and not at all to Doug.
One afternoon Basil found Henry laughing alone beside the front gate.
“What now?” Henry pointed.
Charlie was sitting precisely two metres from Nemo. Connie occupied a flowerpot exactly two metres from Charlie. The three cats had arranged themselves in a perfect socially distanced triangle.
“They’ve worked it out.”
“They’ve misunderstood it.”
“Perhaps.”
Charlie stood, walked carefully around the edge of the lawn, then sat down again exactly two metres away. Basil scratched his head.
“I’ve seen humans manage it less successfully.”
The greatest scandal arrived when Charlie was discovered sharing the same birdbath as next door’s Persian. For forty-eight hours the Crescent buzzed with alarmist rumours. Were cats allowed household bubbles? Could neighbourhood cats mix? Should birdbaths be sanitised? Was there official guidance? The cats ignored the debate entirely. They were discussing blackbirds. Only Nemo seemed troubled.
One evening he sat upon Henry’s fence watching the empty road.
“It isn’t really about us,” he murmured.
“What isn’t?”
“The fear.”
Charlie stopped washing his paw. “No.”
“They’re frightened of something they cannot see.”
Connie looked towards the silent houses. “So they see it everywhere.”
Nemo nodded. “In hedges.”
“In parcels.”
“In neighbours.”
“In cats.”
Charlie thought for a long time. “That seems exhausting.”
“It probably is.”
By autumn the League quietly dissolved. Humans slowly ventured back into one another’s gardens. The newspaper headlines found newer alarms. Charlie resumed hunting mice with exaggerated professionalism. Connie reclaimed the sunny wall outside Number 9 Willow Crescent. Nemo remained exactly as he had always been—appearing from nowhere, belonging everywhere, and answering to a name that meant nobody. Yet if anyone had asked the cats what had happened in the summer of 2020, they would probably have said only this: Humans temporarily forgot how to recognise one another. Cats, fortunately, never did.
Connie, our ginger bear of cats died peacefully in the sunshine, at home, on the morning of March 12th, 2026.
It’s Not Funny – Memories of Lockdown Lunacy A horribly amusing book filled with hilarious stories and cartoons that not only make you chuckle but also think. Top-quality hardback with ribbon bookmark. Full colour, 142 pages.