The Typewriter Cat is getting fat.

He overflows the ultraportables he used to sleep upon. Now he prefers standard typewriters against which to nap. It appears this cat was a scavenger in his pre-shelter days and the habit is thoroughly ingrained.

He came to us from Virginia, from a kill shelter that exported its excess moggies to the soppy non-kill north. We adopted him from the Northeast Animal Shelter in Salem, Massachusetts, two days after he’d arrived from Virginia, and mere hours after he was cleared for adoption. Or I should say, he adopted us but that is another story.

After a day of getting used to us, we let him out of the bedroom where he’d first emerged from the cat carrier. He stood at the top of our wooden stairs, stared down their expanse, looked at us, and set off. Suddenly and inexplicably the Typewriter Cat found himself on the ground floor. Gravity not fancy footwork had done its thing. Of course, he soon grew savvy with the stairs. But it made us wonder about the life he’d lived before. A wild street cat? Or at the least, a single-storey existence.

Printers and other noisome electronic devices whigged him out completely. Had he not met them either? He sat on the printer, drawn by its startup whirs and hums. A page emerged; he watched, gripped. Then waited for another, sometimes up to half an hour, as though at a mouse hole. I have been known to print an extra sheet just to entertain him. But that only prolongs his wait.

The hair dryer he still feels he needs to protect me from, sitting nearby on the bed, his haunches hunched, awaiting developments. The shredder, with its intermittent roaring, nearly does him in.

He’s a brave cat and always goes towards the hubbub. But no wonder he likes the ‘silent type’ of the manual typewriter at rest. Their cases provide a napping place, each new arrival is a fascinating world of aromatic news, and the fact that I hang about them daily draws him in. When I write, he is invariably nearby.

Sometimes, meandering over my desk, he steps on a key of whatever daily typewriter I have out. A type slug swings! He stops, paw raised. Taps the key again. But this time is ready—pounces!—and is usually not quite fast enough to catch the prey.

Could he type if taught? I’ve no doubt. But if the text was ever sentient, it would likely be about his first love, food.

When he arrived, the Typewriter Cat was underweight, always concerned he must continue to scrounge for his existence. Now that he’s provided for he has not yet ceased to hunt for stray morsels. A graze across the dining table at night, a dropped pasta piece under a chair; the butter dish—oh, the butter dish! Even lidded, delicious daubles of butter dot its rim.

We measure out a scant third of a cup of quality dried food daily and he has one small can of wet food. But still, he is getting larger. The vet warned us at the last two annual checkups that the Typewriter Cat needs to slim down. Another physical is coming up next month. I’m dreading it.

My latest daily typer is a hefty Royal KMM, recently restored. A behemoth. Far too bulky for a cat to nap atop.

Perhaps my journey through collecting typewriters reflects the size and weight of the friendly cat who is never far from my writing side.

As I scavenge machines that are larger and larger, I do wonder.