The Story of Fester Cat
I always knew that the rest of my story is gonna be a good one. I don’t know how I knew that, but I always did. Ungow! I am Fester the cat. Welcome to my book, everyone!
From when he first ambled into Paul Magrs’s yard—skinny, covered in flea bites, and missing all but one and a half teeth—Fester knew he’d found his family. Paul and his partner, Jeremy, thought it was the ragged black-and-white stray, tired from a rough life on the streets, who was in desperate need of support. But clever Fester knew better. He understood that it was his newfound owners who needed the help.
Over the course of seven years, the feisty feline turned the quaint Manchester house into a loving home. Through his fierce spirit, strong will, and calming energy, Fester taught Paul and Jeremy how to listen and breathe, how to appreciate the joys of simply sitting and singing (what Fester’s purrs sounded like to his silly humans), and how to find joy and contentment in life, even when dealing with hardship.
This is the true story of an extraordinary little cat whose gentle charm and trusting soul turned two young men into a family.
fair clip. So, you know, people never really know my age. Anyhow, I know Mr. Joe’s not really the hairdresser. I know he’s a vet. In a little shop on the Stockport Road. These two I live with—this daft pair—they hark on that I’m going to the hairdresser’s when they have to take me for pills or to give blood or have a checkup, whatever. I don’t know how the hairdresser thing started. Oh, maybe because he shaves a patch of fur under my chin to take blood (right in my Special Spot, as it happens,
penis story. And he seems very pleased indeed to hear about the microchip. He tells me, “That means you can never lose us, Fester. If ever we’re separated they can take you in and read the chip. And it will give them our names and address. They’ll just look at their computers and know that you belong with us, and they’ll bring you straight back home. You’re with us now, Fester Cat. Forever now!” And to me that sounds a lot like, “Ungow! Ungow!” Sleeping It took some doing and a lot of
trying to write downstairs because Jeremy had started—actually started!—doing DIY in the little room at the front of the house. Pictures were down, paintbrushes were out, and Paul was downstairs with his laptop, doing his work. I sat on his lap between him and the laptop and then I sat beside him on a blanky for a while. Then I got up and had a snack and I walked back into the front room and he was still going, but the snow had stopped. I could see through the big front window that the snow was
the kitchen, “Don’t fret. Don’t get worked up. Just enjoy it.” The house is too cold. There’s something wrong with the boiler and the radiators need bleeding or something. He thought it was warm enough for them, but his whole family is keeping their coats on as they sit in the front room. “I’m always cold,” his mam says. The stepfather sits on one side, glowering, and his sister sits on the other, scowling. The sister is in her twenties now and Paul can hardly believe it. She’s so much younger
evening, he works late into the night. It’s like he’s running after something that he’ll never catch. There come bangs and crashes from that room. I flinch as I run across the landing. I hurry to sit with Paul at his desk and we look at each other. “This isn’t good, is it?” Paul asks. We both hate seeing Jeremy stressed. Paul tries to drag Jeremy away from his work. Let’s sit in the garden. Come on downstairs. Watch this film with us. Let’s go out for dinner. We could go away for the weekend?