The working cats of Britain: A brief guide

The evening of May 26, 1941, was probably a normal one for Oscar until the first torpedo hit. Bismarck, pride of the German navy, had been discovered by the Swordfish of HMS Ark Royal and, this time, she would not escape.

What Oscar would have made of torpedoes, or battleships, or the concept of war is unknown, but explosions and flooding were not conducive to his favourite activities, which were napping and catching mice, because he was a cat.

By the evening of May 27, Bismarck was at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, some 300 miles west of Brest, France, and Oscar had sensibly switched sides. He was now aboard the British destroyer HMS Cossack, having been rescued from a floating plank of wood, but, alas, the peaceful existence that he craved would not last long, as, on October 24, the front section of the ship was blown off by a torpedo.

Rescued again, and now nicknamed ‘Unsinkable Sam’, Oscar was transferred to HMS Ark Royal, which was then torpedoed on November 14 and sunk off the coast of Gibraltar. With three of his nine lives now used, it was decided that Oscar was probably best suited to a life on land away from torpedoes and he died peacefully in Belfast in 1955. Cats continued to serve on a variety of ships in the Navy until 1975, when they were banned as a result of hygiene regulations — an early casualty of the woke mob.

Professional cats are perhaps best known for their work at sea, yet Felis catus has been (and, indeed, remains) a working animal in many different fields. Consider, if you will, Tibs the Great, the ‘number one cat’ who ‘reigned at Post Office Headquarters’ from 1950–64. Such was his proficiency at catching rats that he swelled to an almighty 23lb in size and was said to have never ventured from the basement where he lived, ‘where no rat has been seen since Tibs sorted them out early in his career’.

It was noted in his obituary that he once caught a pigeon, which was released unhurt, although shaken. For his work, Tibs collected a weekly salary of 2s 6d.

Other working cats of history include the sublime Tiddles of Paddington Station, who kept a watchful eye on the women’s loos and was so beloved by visitors that overfeeding allowed him to reach a weight of 32lb and first place in 1982’s London Fat Cat Championships.

In 1995, for the first and only time in its history, The Stage carried a front-page obituary for Beerbohm, a 20-year-old tabby who trod the boards at the Gielgud Theatre, W1. Although technically employed to keep the theatre vermin free, he was a sucker for the limelight and would often wander across the stage during performances, as well as spending time in actors’ dressing rooms.

It is rare for a cat to be affiliated with a political party. Such is their disdain for everyone and everything that a career in the civil service, where such traits are often celebrated, seems more suitable. The nation’s favourite working cat (and arguably favourite feline in general) is surely Larry, Chief Mouser to the Cabinet Office at No 10 Downing Street.

A true icon of meritocracy, he was born as a stray sometime in about January 2007, before being taken into care by Battersea Dogs & Cats Home. From there, he was adopted by the Downing Street staff and has served under David Cameron, Theresa May, Boris Johnson, Liz Truss, Rishi Sunak and Sir Keir Starmer. In hindsight, it is fair to wonder if a life on the streets may have been better.

Although Larry has consistently polled above the aforementioned Prime Ministers in terms of popularity, he was not without a rival. In 2016, a black-and-white tuxedo cat named Palmerston moved into the Foreign Office, an all-too obvious assault on Larry’s domain that could not stand. The two cats were said to have fought on numerous occasions, with one particular scrap on August 1, 2016, leaving Palmerston with several scratches and a cut ear as a result of the mêlée in which Larry lost his collar.

Palmerston retired from the Foreign Office in 2020 and enjoyed five years in the British countryside, before moving to Bermuda to take up a role as ‘feline relations consultant’ to the new governor, Andrew Murdoch, in 2025. Palmerston sadly died on February 12, with articles appearing in both The Times of London and New York.

The latest cat to be making waves in Westminster — the bright young thing — is Attlee, the four-year-old Maine Coon belonging to The Speaker (see box).

What makes the cat so suited to the working world? They can scarcely be relied on to catch mice and rats. ‘It has proved impossible to organise any scheme for payment by results or output bonus,’ David Gammans, assistant postmaster general, told the House of Commons in 1953, when queried as to why Tibs the Great and the other working cats of the Post Office had not received a pay rise since 1873. ‘These servants of the State are, however, frequently unreliable, capricious in their duties and liable to prolonged absenteeism.’ We’ve all had colleagues like that.

Perhaps it is because the cat doesn’t take life too seriously that we adore them in the workplace. The cat does not consider the email. It does not have KPIs or Smart Goals. A cat has never been subject to an unexpected phone call or an overrunning meeting. The cat could not care less if it has accidentally muted itself on Zoom. As far as the cat is concerned, there is no schedule. They are timely reminders that perhaps we should not always take everything too seriously.

A cat is never overwhelmed by its surroundings. In the grandest places, among the grandest people, the cat does what it wants. I often think of an image of Mrs May and Donald Trump standing together outside No 10, Downing Street. Two leaders of the world’s most powerful nations, responsible for more than 5,000 combined nuclear warheads, and, to their right, Larry, asleep on a windowsill without a care in the world.

Yet perhaps the most important characteristic of the cat is that its affection and respect must be earned. In a world of instant gratification, they are a reminder that the best things in life are worth working for and that is the most important work there is.

Cats with top-class jobs

Name: Attlee
Profession: Diplomat
Employer: The Civil Service
Line manager: The Speaker of the House of Commons, Sir Lindsay Hoyle

It’s a Wednesday in early February and a particularly stressful day in the House of Commons. Prime Minister’s Questions is over-running as questions fly about the appointment of Lord Mandelson as HM Ambassador to the US. MPs huddle down corridors and there is a smell of blood in the air over the leadership of the Prime Minister. The halls of power echo with whispers.

None of this matters to Attlee, the four-year-old brown tabby Maine Coon, because he (and his owner, Sir Lindsay Hoyle) are above such petty grievances as party politics. ‘Attlee is here to give peace and calm and that’s what he brings, wherever he goes,’ Sir Lindsay attests. ‘He has the ability to change the mood of the moment.’

Attlee suits living in a palace. He’s a big cat, as Maine Coons tend to be, but he moves smoothly around the Crimson Drawing Room in Speaker’s House, eyeing up a soft cushion on which to sit. More than once, he has been found asleep in the State Bedroom, an honour traditionally reserved for the monarch on the night before their coronation at Westminster Abbey. ‘He’s inquisitive, he loves to get around, he likes jumping and climbing,’ notes Sir Lindsay.

At home in Chorley, Lancashire, where Sir Lindsay is the MP, he will climb the kitchen units and can be found on top of an oak tree in the garden. ‘Nothing stands in his way. Edmund Hillary may have had Everest, but Attlee’s got the kitchen tops.’ Attlee’s fame means he is in danger of leaving Sir Lindsay in his shadow. He has more than 54,000 followers on Instagram (@attlee_the_cat) and you can buy a plushy version of him in the Houses of Parliament gift shop, as well as tea towels, fridge magnets and a water bottle. You may also meet him on a Speaker’s House guided tour.

However, Sir Lindsay reassures me that Attlee doesn’t let fame get to his head. ‘He’s an integral part of the team at Speaker’s House. He turns up for team meetings, he’s there with them. When they go through trauma, he’s there for the trauma, when they want someone at front of house, he’s there. That’s his job, he has a role here.’

Perhaps what Attlee enjoys most about his job is meeting foreign dignitaries. ‘We’re a nation of animal lovers, but Attlee has worldwide fame,’ Sir Lindsay adds proudly. ‘Ambassadors come in here and it’s “can we meet Attlee”.’ Such is Attlee’s presence, you could be forgiven for forgetting that Sir Lindsay’s role is keeping a lid on the affairs of one of the world’s oldest democracies.

‘I’m in awe of him. He’s very special. I’m just in the shadows of what Attlee does

Name: Haven
Profession: Religious service and contemplation/vermin control
Employer: Chemin Neuf Community at the Sclerder Abbey, Cornwall
Line manager: Sister Amandine Cote

It was on the sixth day that God created all land animals, including the cat, arguably his most divine work. Outside of Christianity, cats have long been worshipped as deities (presumably at their own request), most famously in Ancient Egypt, where the gods Bastet (protection, pleasure, good health), Sekhmet (war) and Mafdet (judgement, justice and execution) assisted the sun god Ra in his day-to-day duties.

Down in Cornwall, Haven is a Christian cat, who graced the sisters of the Chemin Neuf Community with her presence in the autumn of 2024, on a divine mission to help control the number of rodents in the garden.

‘Haven was very wild at the start,’ explains Sister Amandine Cote. ‘We set up her bed, water bowl, food and other bits in an outside laundry of the abbey to help her get used to the place, but she would often escape and hide.’ Haven joined the community with the help of the charity Cats Protection, which produces the Homes Beyond Houses booklet to assist rehoming cats in ‘unusual settings’. These settings can include houseboats, farms, schools and, in Haven’s case, a convent.

Haven is relatively new to life in Cornwall and she likes to keep her distance. ‘I only joined the community recently and Haven took a while to warm to me,’ admits Sister Amandine. ‘Last week, after half an hour of watching her eat, she finally asked me for a cuddle and I heard her miaow for the first time.’

For the slow, thoughtful pace of life in this religious part of Cornwall, a cat was infinitely more suitable than a dog. ‘They have a more independent nature,’ points out Sister Amandine. ‘Haven isn’t bothered about someone watching over her. She seems happy going about her business around the garden. She likes to visit the chickens and runner ducks and has become a bit of a roommate for them.’

Her favourite napping spot? ‘The greenhouse,’ Sister Amandine confirms. Glorious.

Name: Ozymandias
Profession: Education
Employer: Oxford University
Line manager: Dinah Rose KC, president of Magdalen College

It should be no surprise that a cat can be found stalking the halls of the oldest university in the English-speaking world. What might be a surprise, however, is that such a cat would be a ‘ball of exploding grey fluff, like something you’d expect to find in the back of a tumble dryer’.

Ozymandias belongs to the president of Magdalen College, Dinah Rose KC, who found ‘Ozzy’ living with his brothers and mother in Northampton. ‘We were captivated,’ she recalls. ‘We named him Ozymandias, because there was an incongruous mismatch between his extreme fluffiness and his innate sense of self-importance. He still thinks he is the King of Kings.’

Ozzy takes his work at Magdalen very seriously, helping to shape the minds of the next generation at one of Britain’s most elite universities. He regularly attends college committee meetings and end of term Collections, where Mrs Rose hears reports of students’ progress, as well as a range of social events in the President’s Lodgings. His role involves putting people at ease and providing a distraction from important college business.

‘He came to the ceremony of admission of new Fellows, where he caused a mass outbreak of giggling by weaving through the legs of the assembled Fellows,’ Mrs Rose reveals. He’s also ‘a surprisingly good mouser’, but Mrs Rose says she has had little luck in convincing the bursar to pay him for his work. ‘Ozzy is currently learning to play the piano,’ she adds, ‘but it will be some time before he is ready to give a recital.’

A confident and friendly cat, it was hoped that Ozzy would be easier to look after than Scrumpy, Mrs Rose’s late spaniel. How wrong she was. ‘He requires a great deal of attention, and tends to jump on us at 5am, demanding breakfast,’ she notes. ‘He has also found an inexplicable way to get out at night even when the catflap is locked and has been found by the College Porters fraternising with a fox in St John’s Quad before dawn.’

However, Mrs Rose adds, ‘we are happy with this situation, because we are completely besotted with him, as is everyone else who meets him’.