They are permanent members of the Karachi Press Club, yet, technically, they are not. They have become so accustomed to the ins and outs of the stone-made building that they don’t even need to ask anyone where to enter, or pace out of, its premises when a group has gathered outside the club, chanting slogans to press for its demands. And unlike many of the club’s members, they don’t have to bother when to rush out to cover an event or where to lie down to take a nap. Meet the cats of the Karachi Press Club.

It is difficult to undertake research on the history of these cats, as to when they first took a shine to the building and decided to make it their permanent habitat or which of their ancestors found the environs cosy enough to settle its clowder in. All you can claim with a great deal of certitude, only if you are a member of the club that is, that these cats, or the current lot and their progenitors, have been there, sorry here, for as long as you remember. So they are as much part of the journalistic environment, if not community, as we journalists are.

Is it a problem? No, not at all. On the contrary, they break the visual, and occasionally auditory, monotony that the club has been suffering from for the past several years. They are good to look at and sometimes pleasing to lend an ear to. However, there are occasions when they can get on your nerves, especially when you’re having lunch, dinner or an evening snack. But can you blame them? I mean, the moderately meaty chicken legs that you can have for lunch buried under a mound of the biryani rice and the thin, not-so-succulent chapli kebab may not be the most enticing food ever, but for the cats they promise a world of culinary delight.

Now spare a thought for these poor souls. Some journalists (not all of them mind you, I’m referring to a discernible minority) treat these cats like they treat their reports and subbing assignments: with callousness. Take for example an incident that took place a few days back.

At around 3pm a young journalist, who was in the club’s dining hall accompanied by a writer of indisputable repute, ordered biryani. Two cats, one grayish and the other whitish, were moving about the hall to eavesdrop on the latest political goings-on. One of them, apart from being news-thirsty, hadn’t had a hearty breakfast (it was pretty chilly in the morning and she’s one lazy feline). When she heard the journalist order biryani, she nudged her friend and winked. This meant she craved the reasonably meaty chicken leg bone.

When the waiter delivered food, the cat jumped on to the vacant chair next to the one that the journalist was sitting in. Her audaciousness infuriated the young man. He first tried to have a dialogue with the cat, to no avail. But when she made a cute little face he moved the biryani plate further away from her, close to his chest, as it were. The cat didn’t budge and kept looking at the rice with wistful eyes. After the third spoonful, the young pen-pusher lost his patience and threw half a glass of water at the cat. The poor creature jumped off the chair and went under another table, sulking like a writer whose stories no one wants to publish.

This is unjust and uncalled for. Only because these cats are not official members of the Press Club that they have to put up with this step-motherly behaviour? What about the journalists who eat off other journalists’ plates without seeking permission to do so? The moochers, as we call them.

It’s time the Press Club’s office-bearers and members of the governing body looked into the issue. If they can’t award membership to these cats (or any other animal for that matter — dogs, elephants, otters, etc) at least they can instruct their colleagues to be good to them.

Published in Dawn, January 27th, 2015

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