I liked all those imported American Western serials we saw in Africa in the 1960s. I don’t know which ones came to UK.
And so did our two large dogs.
The neighbours two big feisty cats had an agreement with our dogs: they simply didn’t go on each other’s property, ever, for very real risk of bloodshed.
However when we were feeding the cats for a fortnight while the neighbours were away on holiday, both cats appeared at our French doors for the first time ever, and tapped to be let in. Rawhide was about to come up on the TV.
I expected the dogs to react and shout the house down, but no. So I asked them “Do I let the cats in?”
Our youngest dog gave me a long suffering look, wearily got up, tapped the door and lay down again.
I let the cats in, who sat one on each arm of the sofa and we all watched Rowdy Yates (Clint Eastwood) in Rawhide. They waited patiently through the ads, and when its end-titles finished they asked to be let out again.
That was 8pm on a Tuesday. On Thursday the other Western serial appeared (I forget which. Virginian? Wagon Train? Bonanza? High Chaparral?), as did the cats, who simply looked at me; our dogs did not stir a muscle, eyes on the (back then) new black and white TV. I let the cats in.
Same next week.
Normal cat vs dog hostilities resumed when the neighbours returned. When I took back the left over cat food I asked the family’s mother if she knew why cats and dogs were so much interested in Westerns that they were prepared to compromise and share our TV.
She suggested. “These are city animals, but look at the Westerns, all those horses and cattle in open country, it’s the sort of thing they dream about!”
“And knowing the right day and time?”
“They have ears. It’s always the same programs before the westerns.”
“How did they agree on a truce?”
“Maybe they’re smarter than we think.”
I may have only been fourteen, but those cats and our dogs left a lasting impression on me.