The Cat Who brought a Community Together

Everything changed with a voicemail. I was used to my cat getting into trouble—Bootsy always had a tough time respecting other people’s boundaries. When a concerned neighbour called the number on his collar, I assumed that he had done something like sneak in and eat their roast dinner.

Actually, it was a courtesy call. Bootsy was sleeping on a chair on her back verandah, the woman on the line said, and was more than welcome to stay as long as he liked.

I ventured down the street to the caller’s house. It was a fortress, with large steel panels over the windows blocking out the world. It was a jarring contrast to Enid Morrison, the gentle woman who opened the door.

This would be the start of a friendship that helped transform our street in Rozelle, an inner-west suburb of Sydney, Australia, into a community. Bootsy would create a sense of home that expanded well beyond my house. “I think it’s quite an honour, really, to be accepted like this,” Enid told me later.

I had lived for six years in nearby Newtown, a trendy, cultural hub that pulses like a beacon for the youth of Sydney. But my life there had fallen into a rut. A baffling and cruel medical diagnosis—late-onset type 1 diabetes—was the final straw.

At 28, I packed up and moved to Rozelle, a sleepy haven for well-to-do young families and retirees. I planned to build a life of solitude. Since leaving the house required some medical preparation, I decided it was easier simply to not leave at all.

Enid, at 87, was in a routine of her own. Aside from regular trips to the grocery store or a solitary glass of Prosecco at the pub, she had lost interest in socializing. She had moved to the neighbourhood in her 20s, after a stint in London, to look after her ailing mother, who had bought the house in the 1950s. She has lived there ever since.

Before she retired, Enid had a busy career working in magazines. She did not have time for community. “I just went to work,” she recalls. “That’s all I did.” Before Bootsy, she says, she didn’t know anyone in the neighbourhood. “The cat has changed my life.”

It’s been five years since Enid’s voicemail. Bootsy wanders off to her place most mornings when I leave for work, returning in the afternoon before being locked in overnight. His comings and goings have become a part of Enid’s day. “I’ve come to depend on him,” she says. “It’s funny, isn’t it?”

With warnings that letting felines outside is a danger to both themselves and native wildlife, cats have become a rare sight in neighbourhoods. We mitigate the risk Bootsy poses to potential prey with a bell on his collar and a GPS tracker that lets me know when he ventures where he shouldn’t.

My quick visits to pick up Bootsy from Enid’s house eventually turned into long chats. I learnt that she is sharp and insightful, with a wicked sense of humour. We became friends.My master plan to live a solitary life was failing—but I discovered something much better. You see, Enid isn’t the only one to have fallen for Bootsy’s charms, nor the only person he has brought into my life. And I am not the only one he has brought into hers.

When Enid went outside, Bootsy would patiently walk beside her down the street, prompting neighbours and onlookers to stop and say a quick hello. Bit by bit, Enid has become more open with others. “I’ve become available to be liked,” she says. “I couldn’t receive it before.”

Sara Horn, Enid’s next-door neighbour, remembers Bootsy’s arrival in the area. “I would go outside and there’d be this beautiful tabby, flopping over wanting a pat.” Sara also recalls a hooded, tattooed man—me—coming and going from her octogenarian neighbour’s house. “I thought, How great is that? You were complete opposites.”

Bootsy was also busy laying the groundwork for me to meet the Clarences. Vicky Clarence had seen me walking up the street and had noticed Bootsy wandering around. But she didn’t connect us until Enid helped join the dots. Vicky, who moved to the area in 1979, has seen the mood shift in the street. “Bootsy does make a difference,” she says.

Now it is a rare, and frankly grim, day when I don’t get stopped for a conversation. The once ideal notion of solitude is so removed from my life that I’d have to drive several streets away to feel it now.

Enid has also noticed the change in me. “You now are out there and you are ready for anybody to be, not necessarily a friend, but to be known,” she says.

She’s right. Between her house and mine are a dozen homes, full of neighbours more than willing to help each other. In the short term, interacting with them pulls me out of my negative thought loops. In the long term, these encounters have rewired my brain not just to understand but to crave the joy of connecting with others. I now volunteer at the local neighbourhood centre to get my fix.

And what does Enid think Bootsy would make of all the fuss around him? “I’m only a human,” she says. “I can’t grasp the universe in his head.”

Bootsy isn’t a young cat anymore. But for these humans, his work is done. He has shown us the way toward ­community—and there’s no going back for any of us.

Mike Hohnen, The Guardian. Copyright Guardian News & Media Ltd 2025.