Cats - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
My cat, Flash, had a face the color of shadows in night water, so dark that even in the sunlight streaming through the window he looked more like a cut-out, a place where a cat should be. Only his purring gave away his warm presence.
Sitting at Prim's knee, guarding her, is the world's ugliest cat. Mashed in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash. Prim named him Buttercup, insisting that his muddy yellow coat matched the bright flower. He hates me. Or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when Prim brought him home. Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas...Mom got rid of the vermin and he's a born mouser, even chases the occasional rat.
The cat was a string-bean-scrapper. No-one would think he had a home or food, but he did. He lived his life as a feline-ninja, waging war on the birds, the rats and any cat that dared infringe his "property rights." His fur was a dull tabby and his ears looked like something had eaten them and spat them out. His limbs were long and his head a little larger than average. But come evening time he cuddled up with old Mrs Jenkins like a kitten and purred to be petted. He ate the finest cat food if he wasn't full of garden "fresh meat" and kept his claws sheathed.
The cat was a ginger, but not harsh like a red tabby, it was more like the kind of orange you'd see on a beloved old-shirt mixed with heavy cream. He had a soft look about him and he felt like a kitten to touch, but going by his size he was a young adult. I took out my camera for a few shots, in the gentle spring light he was enchanting, his eyes a soft teal blue. With the photos I will paint his portrait, handsome though he is I can't see him sitting still long enough for me to even get an outline. It's hard to get the shots when he keeps rubbing up against my legs, purring and flicking his cream-tipped tail. At times I have to run away an turn quickly to capture him trotting toward me.
The cat put on her midnight paws and prowled into the thickening night. In the stillness her ears could tell her things that were drown out in the daytime. Cars, how she hated them with their dirty smell. The cat raised her nose to the sky, a kiss of dampness hung ready to meet the tender earth. She switched her tail left to right as if to rid herself of the gathering tension that came with a hunt. Moving down the garden paths with the slink all true felines possess, claws still sheathed, her mind surged sending tingles right to her toes.
A she-cat padded through the dangerous streets with her head hung low. Her pelt was matted with dirt, dust, and mud. She can see her ribs jutting out of her pelt. Her belly rumbled loudly. She lifted her nose in the air, desperately trying to sniff food out. She flinched as a big fat raindrop splattered onto her nose. Soon, rain began pelting down, soaking her to the bone. She sighed, gazing around. The harsh orange light illuminated the streets. Deciding to enter an alleyway, she found a box. Perhaps the box can be used as a shelter, for now. She entered the box, curling up. She tucked her nose on her tail. She shivered, longing for a better life. She did not want to be a stray. She just wanted a human that can care for her.
What stood before me was an adorable creature that pounced on four legs and chased anything that moved. Its fur was light and colorful. It's pointy, triangular ears were alert for any unusual sound. It's scull was round with a small nose sticking out with her mouth directly underneath. Her tiny cheeks were completely covered with long white whiskers. It's eyes were symmetrical, shaped like a tiled round leaf. Inside were large colored eye balls with longitudinal pupils that would spark at some angles.
"This is a cat." mom told me when i saw the small animal for the first time. "And she'll be our pet."
Black and white preened fur, patrols the garden, chases a butterfly, pounces on a beetle, leaves muddy paw prints across the kitchen tiles, mews for food in her bowl, snoozes on the couch, sits on my desk while I'm trying to work, tail in my face, tail knocking my paper off the desk, jumps onto my lap, waits for fuss, purrs like a tractor, fur flies everywhere.
There is a flash of pink as the cat calls to us, a brief break in camouflage on an otherwise utterly black animal. In her renewed silence, only her eyes glow. They aren't yellow like a comic book illustration, but the softest of blue - like they soaked in the spring sky only hours ago and are now letting it radiate out gently into the twilight. She walks with the strength of an adult but not yet the surety, keeping to the outline of the compound rather than approaching.
The cat is as independent as the rising sun. Were we not to feed her she would catch her own I'm sure. On occasion she will deem us worthy of petting her, but mostly she simply turns her head, arches her back and finds a new place to sleep the day away. In that feline head of hers she doesn't consider herself a pet, but the master of the house, nothing less.
Under her cracked pads the summer rain was a blessed relief. The cat walked with the stiffness of age, but also with the fragility of one so withered. Her fur was dull and thin, unwashed and bare over the tips of her pronounced shoulder blades. At the curbside she hesitated, this cat that once scaled up mighty oaks and jumped from roof tops to outlying branches knew the tiny hop to the road could hurt.
"A feral cat like that will never trust you, Jan. Even if you bring her home, feed her grandly on best sardines, she'll be wild in her heart. You must know that." Dad tried to soften the blow with a gentle smile and a hand on her shoulder, Jan shrugged it off.
"But she's so young! I could train her, love her!" Dad shook his head and sat on the low wall, his work boots flattening the summer weeds.
"Jan, listen, I once did the exact same thing. I took in a feral and calmed her some, fed her. She had some kittens, got spooked, never saw her again. Something about motherhood triggered the wild in he all over. It's a heartbreak waiting to happen, love." But Jan wasn't done yet. With hands on hips she raised her head to the morning light.
"Then you do understand, I've got to try! And it's my heart to break." Dad wore the same look he did when his wife had one of her new 'great ideas.' With eyes sagging, face muscles slackened and shoulders drooped, he sighed. Perhaps it was time to let his little girl learn a few things the hard way, maybe that was just part of growing up.
In those days we had a cat, Cuddles, such a bad name for him the way he turned out. Cuddles had mangled ears and scars before he turned two years old. His approach to life was to try to be the king of the castle or die trying. His whole life from kitten-hood he stalked the surrounding neighbourhood, muscular, almost skinny. Not once did I ever see that feline flinch, no matter what noise was going on. The only time he ever earned his name was when he found Grace sitting in the garden and he would curl onto her lap - but only her. I can't tell you how special that made her feel, how happy. She would tell everyone he was her cat with a pride the eyes can't hide.
The cat is marginally more intelligent than a brick, but perhaps not a large one. His head has more of a squashed pumpkin shape than a proper feline skull. When Sasha puts down cream for him he licks it, then bites it, then licks again. He walks away, stomach swaying from side to side with that angry scowl he has perfected from all his moments of confusion. On nice days he follows us to the store for morning milk and bread and we have to be careful that he follows us home again. Once he passes the mail box with it's umpteen layers of scarlet paint he's lost. On these occasions he will sit, yowling like a kitten awaiting rescue. The only time he unsheathes his claws is when he plants himself on a lap in the early evenings, we watch television, he purrs like a dirty diesel engine to feel his fur repeatedly flattened.
There are cats and then there is Mr Tabs. The term "cat" implies an inborn sense of class and pride, of light-footedness and cunning. Mr Tabs is more of a vegetable with fur, more whiskers than a porcupine has quills, and walks like his paws are made of lead. He's about as stealthy as a wedding car with all it's tin cans tailing down the tarmac.
The cat padded without noise, barely disturbing the dew-laden carpet of grass under paw. An early morning car backfired, sending a crow into the sky and the cat startling sideways, tail aloft, into the cover of the blooming rhododendron. There, under it's protection and breathing the floral perfume from above, she turned her face into the gentle breeze. She could smell the promise of autumn to come before her human masters had any idea. Then, quite forgetting her intention to bring home a mouse, she sat to preen. When she was done her side was slick with the over-washing and the clink of china was radiating from the now open kitchen window... breakfast. In moments she was inside, weaving around legs with her small cat meow.
Jacob was a penny pincher. He would describe cats with all the love he always reserved for anything with the potential to cost him money. If it ate and could cost him medical fees, he didn't want it. "The only thing you need to know about cats," he would say, "is that if they were big enough they'd eat you." Then he would keep his gaze just as steady as his voice was sure and raise his eyebrows, lips slightly pursed.
As if made of the darkness itself, a cat appears, breaking the monotony of the stakeout. Theo sees Lisa flick her eyes toward it and gives her a barely perceptible shake of his head. No distractions. In the silence of the midnight world, a sudden yowl rents the air better than a gunshot. Five pounds of fur on lonely legs hurries forwards, amber eyes glowing lamp-like from a diminutive head. Lisa raises her eyebrows as if to say "Some attention for the cat would be better than it's noise." Theo nods with the enthusiasm he generally reserves for agreeing to clean the bathroom. The cat's claws pick at the fabric of Lisa's kevlar vest. Her eyes are down, her lips curled upward - the firefight begins. The "distraction" falls to the ground as she reaches for her holstered weapon.
The cat was a delicate shade of grey, so soft that even in broad daylight she looked like a shadow rather than a feline. Always preened, she had more of a strut than most of the neighbourhood cats, she held her head just a little higher. No-one dared tell her that she had more whiskers than was common, so much so that she sported them from just above her eyes as well as her cheeks. On any given day at dawn you could find her sitting on her garden wall, the queen of the neat lawn and shrubbery behind her.
Knocks the trash cans over, drops dead rodents on my carpet, claws at my antique furniture, pees on the carpet, sits on my face in the morning, not potty trained, breath reeks of fish and cat food, yowls when a fire truck passes by.
Observes with gentle feline eyes, switches her tail, brings me dead mice, intelligent, independent, loves to sit on my lap for strokes, purrs like a well oiled engine, purrs loud and strong, winds around my legs at meal times, gets fur all over my clothes, coughs up fur balls, eats grass, sleeps in front of the fire, stays home when it rains, scratches anyone that touches her belly, sharpens her claws on my favourite chair, lies across the kitchen door, meows piteously to be let in, runs with tail high when it's windy.
Rich ginger, huge head, flat square face, large paws on squat legs. Sleeps in fireside chair, meows for sardines.