Russian Blue

The Russian blue looks as if it had walked through the morning frost and carried a little of it on itself: its short, dense coat in the color of blue ash has silvery tips that shimmer with every movement. Added to this are eyes the color of a juicy emerald and gently raised corners of the mouth, through which it seems to wear an eternal, subtle Mona Lisa smile — no one quite knows what it means, and that, it seems, is exactly the point. There is, however, a certain catch: all this beauty only you will see. For guests the Russian blue can be a Schrödinger's cat — theoretically it exists, practically no one has ever seen it, because at the sound of the doorbell it dissolves into thin air faster than anyone can take off their shoes.

Its history begins where frost is an everyday matter: in Arkhangelsk, a port on the White Sea in the far north of Russia. It was from there that in the 19th century British sailors took these silver cats onto ships — and so the “Archangel cats” reached England, where they enchanted everyone from the first glance. In Russia itself an even more beautiful legend surrounded them: they were said to live at the tsar's court and keep watch by the cradles of the tsar's children, driving away evil spirits. And in modern times? Fans of the breed stubbornly point out that a certain famous cartoon cat — the one that for eighty years has been unsuccessfully chasing a certain mouse — wears fur in exactly the color of Russian blue. From the tsar's cradles to cinema chases: quite a decent career for a cat that cannot stand publicity.

Because at home the Russian blue is a precise and discreet being. It has an internal clock more accurate than your phone: dinner time is dinner time, and every delay is noted with a look that says more than many a report. It is a pedant of cleanliness — the litter box must gleam, or you will hear about it as a matter of urgency (though quietly, because it lodges even its complaints in a voice soft as silk). It adores playing fetch and can for hours analyze the flight of a feather with the seriousness of a chess player — as long as there is no audience. And when it sits on the windowsill in the sun, the silver on the tips of its fur turns it into a sculpture beside which it is hard to pass indifferently.

And here is the whole truth about this breed, which strangers take for shyness: the Russian blue is not shy. It is private. It keeps its feelings like family silver — not for show, not for everyone, exclusively for the household. To the world it remains a legend no one has seen; to you it is a cat that waits at the window every evening, greets you at the door with a quiet purr, and falls asleep at your side with that mysterious smile of its. All its affection, carefully hidden from the rest of the world, belongs in full to you. And that is a privilege you really do feel.

Because the Russian blue is a rare luxury in times when everything is on display: a being that reserved all its beauty and all its heart exclusively for those closest to it.

And that famous smile of its? The world has spent a hundred and fifty years puzzling over what it actually means. You will know from the first evening: it means you have just come home.