Devon Rex

The Devon rex looks as if nature designed it after hours, for pure pleasure: a triangular, elfish face, enormous ears set like two satellite dishes listening in on the cosmos, great mischievous eyes — and fur no one else has: short, soft, and arranged in gentle waves, as if the cat had just come from the hairdresser with a perm. It looks like a creature from a fairy tale. And it behaves like a creature from a fairy tale — the kind in which the main character is a charming mischief-maker and no one has ever managed to be truly angry at it.

This fairy tale began, moreover, quite recently and very concretely: in 1960 in the English county of Devon. Near an old mine there roamed at the time a wild, curly tomcat that no one could catch — but one of the local cats evidently knew him more closely, because in her litter appeared a kitten curly like his father. It was named Kirlee, and it is from him, from one little curl from Devon, that the whole breed descends. There is something perversely beautiful in this: the son of an elusive vagabond from below the mine became the progenitor of cats that today cannot bear five minutes without a human.

Because the Devon rex is a mischief-maker that chose people as its accomplices. Its favorite place in the world is your shoulder — it sits on it like a parrot on a pirate's shoulder and from that height supervises everything you do. And it does everything with you: it helps you write (across the keyboard), helps you read (lying on the book), helps you cook (in the capacity of an inspector). At the table, meanwhile, it reveals its greatest talent: the Devon does not steal food quietly, like an ordinary cat. The Devon requisitions — openly, from the plate, before everyone's eyes, with the expression of an official conducting a routine inspection. Experienced Devon caretakers eat dinner with one hand; with the other they shield the plate. And they laugh while doing it, because at that little face it really is impossible to be angry.

And all this mischief is lined with an affection that can surprise. The Devon rex is an extremely human cat: it needs contact, touch, and company more than many a dog. That sparse fur warms more weakly, so the Devon delightedly warms itself up beside you — under a sweater, under the duvet, in the crook of your elbow — and its small, warm body then vibrates with a purr disproportionately great for its size. Solitude it bears dreadfully: this is a cat that must have its herd, human or at least feline. In return it gives something hard to describe and easy to love: the unceasing, faithful, slightly crazy presence of a little elf that has decided you are the most interesting phenomenon in the universe.

Because the Devon rex is nature's joke told with tenderness: an elf with great ears that could have become a wild vagabond like its father from below the mine — and instead became the most clingy mischief-maker of the feline world.

It is enough that you once let it sit on your shoulder. From that moment you will settle all matters together — you and your little, curly accomplice, who looks at the world from your height and does not intend ever to come down from it.