This is probably my favourite poem.

When Belvedere is in the mood, we recite together, with actions, He’s always the Owl, because he has a guitar.

It was written in 1867 by Edward Lear, author, illustrator, musician and poet, champion of the limerick and acknowledged Laureate of Nonsense. It’s his birthday this month: he was born 12 May 1812 in London, the penultimate or maybe last of 21 or possibly 17 children. No-one has ever produced definitive proof, and Lear always described himself as the 20th child of 21, and that his parents were of Danish descent. Fantasy and nonsense were strong in him. 

Money was extremely tight. At 15, Lear was working full time as an illustrator. He was unlucky in health, suffering from epileptic episodes, Things were not much better in affairs the heart,. He proposed twice to the same woman, and was rejected both times.   

On the upside, he became successful in his lifetime, known for nonsense poems, songs, short stories, his illustrated recipes and alphabets and his no-nonsensical botanical drawings. He is still celebrated today, his irreverent absurdist take being a good fit for today’s absurdist irreverent world, as Belvedere so succinctly puts it.   

Yes, but what about the cat?

Lear was a champion cat butler. The feline love of his life was Foss, described with great affection as ‘an unattractive tabby.’ Foss was short for Aderphos, a variant on Adelphos, the Greek word for brother. Lear acquired Foss as a kitten in 187, probably, and he is one of the most documented non-fictional cats in history. Lear celebrated him in words and pictures. He is featured in verse, and was drawn relentlessly. Lear made many comic sketches of Foss: Foss alone,  Foss and himself, Foss in heraldic poses. When writing to his friends, Lear filled his letters with the activities of Foss; visitors found that the household revolved around Foss. When Lear moved to San Remo and commissioned the building of his new home, Villa Tennyson, he instructed his architect to make the floor plan exactly the same as his house in England so that Foss would not be discombobulated. In return Foss kindly sat on Lear’s manuscripts, helping to dry the ink.

When Foss died in November 1887, at a ripe old, if disputed, age–Lear claimed that he was 31–his funeral was a thing of dignity and beauty. Lear buried him with great ceremony under a fig tree in his garden, providing a handsome headstone.  By all accounts, It was a much grander affair than Lear’s own funeral, only a few months later. 

'The Owl and the Pussycat' was written in 1867 well before Foss came into Lear’s life; but it reads like a love song written in advance. The timing may not fit, but I like to think of Lear and Foss on a dark strand, forever dancing hand in hand  by the light of the moon. 

For more about cats with literary connections, take a look at Literary Cats from the Creative Cats series.