Grandad says he doesn’t like cats.
Which is interesting.
Because for a man who doesn’t like cats, he does spend a fair bit of time talking to them.
Watching them.
Trying to pat them.
Getting offended when they don’t want to be patted.
So no, Grandad is not a cat person.
Apparently.
Minnie arrived the way many things arrive in this family.
Not planned.
Not budgeted for.
Not part of the day’s schedule.
Michelle had gone out Ubering in Western Sydney and didn’t get very far.
Just around the corner, she saw what looked like a possum sitting in the middle of the road.
Wet day.
Busy road.
Tiny little shape where no tiny little shape should be.
So she stopped the car and got out to shoo it away.
Except it wasn’t a possum.
It was a kitten.
There she was.
A tiny tabby kitten, only about four weeks old.
No mother nearby.
No other cats in sight.
Riddled with fleas.
Sneezing.
Far too little to be out there on her own.
There are moments where you don’t really hold a family meeting.
You don’t make a spreadsheet.
You don’t ask whether this is convenient.
You just know what has to happen next.
So Minnie came home.
Minnie needed a vet.
Then she needed warmth, milk, patience, and the sort of feeding routine that doesn’t care whether humans need sleep.
That’s where Grandad came in.
Because once Michelle brings home an adventure, somehow Grandad ends up somewhere in the middle of it.
Helping.
Advising.
Holding things.
Questioning things.
Pretending not to be emotionally involved.
He might say, “What have you brought home now?”
But what he really means is, “Righto then, what new adventure are we doing today?”
And Minnie was exactly that.
A little rescue mission.
Something to figure out.
Something unexpected.
Something small that needed care, warmth, and a plan.
Basically, a project with whiskers.
Between Michelle and Grandad, Minnie was bottle fed through that fragile little stage where life can go either way.
Tiny kitten.
Tiny bottle.
Big responsibility.
At that age, Minnie didn’t know she had joined a family.
She didn’t know she had become one of Grandad’s grand-fur-babies.
She just knew warmth.
Milk.
Hands that came back.
Someone steady enough to keep showing up.
To Minnie, Grandad wasn’t Grandad yet.
He was survival with a bottle.
There is a certain type of man who says he doesn’t like cats.
Very confidently.
Often more than once.
Then, six months later, you walk into the house and find him sitting there stroking the cat.
Talking to the cat.
Giving the cat a special voice.
Possibly explaining world events to the cat.
And if you say, “I thought you didn’t like cats,” he will say something sensible like,
“I don’t. This one is different.”
Of course it is.
They are always different.
Grandad has a bit of that about him.
He may not admit to liking cats.
But he does seem oddly fascinated by every cat that crosses his path.
Unfortunately for Grandad, cats do not always return that fascination with the same enthusiasm.
These days, Minnie is not a fragile little road kitten.
She is safe.
Solid.
Settled.
And very aware of her position in the household.
She lives a privileged life now, as most rescued cats eventually decide they were owed all along.
She demands food.
She taps ankles if her humans appear to be walking away without feeding her.
She sits on the bedside table like a furry little supervisor.
She growls at noises near the door, not so much a guard dog, more a guard cat with unresolved complaints.
And she judges.
Good grief, does she judge.
Grandad may consider Minnie one of the grand-fur-babies.
Minnie, however, appears to consider Grandad a visiting staff member.
She tolerates him.
Sometimes.
On generous days.
She is not overly sentimental about the whole bottle-feeding arrangement.
She does not gaze lovingly at him and think, “There goes the man who helped keep me alive.”
She is more likely to look at him as if to say,
“Why are you still standing there, and does this involve food?”
Which does feel a little unfair.
Because somewhere in Grandad’s head is the quiet thought,
Mate, we helped keep you alive.
But Minnie doesn’t remember the bottle the way people do.
Maybe that is the thing about rescue.
When Minnie needed help, she needed survival.
Warmth.
Milk.
Safety.
Someone steady enough to come back again and again.
Now she doesn’t have to cling to anyone.
She doesn’t have to accept every hand.
She doesn’t have to perform gratitude just to make the humans feel better.
She can say no.
She can growl.
She can choose.
And strangely enough, that might be the proof that the rescue worked.
That growl isn’t rejection.
It’s confidence.
Minnie is still with Michelle.
Still queen of the house.
Still running things with the calm authority of someone who has never paid a bill but has very strong opinions about service standards.
She sleeps in the open now.
She doesn’t hide.
She doesn’t run from every sound.
She watches.
She patrols.
She taps ankles.
She supervises from the bedside table.
She growls at the door when she hears strange noises, just in case the household has forgotten she is head of security.
And yes, Grandad still visits.
He still tries.
He still talks to her.
He still hopes, somewhere deep down, that one day Minnie might decide he has been promoted from visiting staff member to trusted member of the royal court.
Minnie has not confirmed this promotion.
But she hasn’t completely ruled it out either.
Minnie may not be Grandad’s cuddliest grand-fur-baby.
She may not even be his safest.
But she is family.
Snarky, clawed, opinionated family.
And she remembers enough to know she is safe.
Maybe that’s the best ending we ever get.
A tiny kitten found in the middle of the road.
A Michelle adventure.
A Grandad project.
Now queen of the house.
Still judging.
Still growling.
Still one of Grandad’s.
A lifelong storyteller, shaped by sheds, stories, and making things by hand.
This is where the ideas, the tinkering, and the occasional terrible joke all end up.
Uncle Grandad acknowledges the Bundjalung People as the Traditional Custodians of the land on which these stories are written and shared. We pay our respects to Elders past and present, and honour the rich culture, storytelling traditions, and deep connection to Country that continue to inspire.
