The Story Of Orangey, Audrey Hepburn’s Cat In Breakfast At Tiffany’s, Plus: Why Do People Steal Cats?

Orangey the Cat enjoyed a suspiciously prolific career as Hollywood’s top feline actor for almost two decades. What’s the story behind the iconic moggie?

Orangey, the cat who famously belonged to Audrey Hepburn’s character in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, had an impressive and improbable film career beginning with 1951’s Rhubarb and ending with roles in TV series like Green Acres and The Flying Nun almost two decades later.

A new story in The Guardian charts Orangey’s film career and attempts to reconcile conflicting information about the famed feline. At least two cats played Orangey in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, while potentially dozens were used for Rhubarb, a comedy about a cat who inherits his wealthy late owner’s fortune and assets, including a baseball team.

“Watching the cat performances both within the movies and across the different titles certainly lends credence to the idea that Orangey was more a cat type, provided by trainer Frank Inn, than a specific animal,” The Guardian’s Jesse Hassenger writes.

Orangey had a prolific career in film and TV, one that would have been very difficult for a single cat to manage due to the number of appearances and the unlikely length of his tenure as Hollywood’s top cat.

In fact, color mattered less than resemblance because most of Orangey’s appearances were in black and white, so it’s possible Orangey wasn’t always Orange. (Later performances were filmed in color and some films were subsequently colorized.)

Using more than one cat for a role is pretty standard in Hollywood films that feature felines. Keanu, the 2016 Key and Peele comedy about an eponymous kitten who is stolen by drug dealers, cycled through several kittens as the pace of production was simply too slow compared to the rapid growth of real life kittens. In 2024’s A Quiet Place: Day One, two very similar-looking cats, Nico and Schnitzel, shared the role of Frodo, the cancer-stricken protagonist’s emotional support animal.


Why do people steal cats?

In early 2023, more than 50 cats in and around Kent, England, were abducted and returned with patches of fur shaved off.

At first people suspected the perpetrators were engaged in some bizarre form of animal cruelty — and some later copycats, for lack of a better word, across the UK may have been motivated to cause distress — but authorities later said they believe the catnappers were checking to see if the felines were spayed or neutered.

If they weren’t, those cats were kept for breeding, while the others were dropped off where they were found.

A cat shaved during spay/neuter surgery. Credit: jp_the_man/reddit

That rash of disappearances and other cases of car abductions factored into a staggering report from the Royal Kennel Club’s lost pets database: of the 25,000 pets reported missing in the UK between January 2023 and June 2024, more than 20,000 were cats.

Those cases and others are highlighted in a report from The Telegraph published on Thursday detailing the increase in reports of stolen felines. While the actual number of police reports are unknown due to discrepancies in the way such cases are classified by police, data from the Kennel Club and microchip companies, as well as anecdotes, indicate a concerning spike in cat theft even as the UK has mandated microchips for every pet cat.

Some, like the recent case involving an Amazon delivery driver, are crimes of opportunity. They’re spur-of-the-moment decisions by people who encounter cats they might want for themselves or people close to them.

Others, like the mass pet thefts in Kent, could have ties to larger organized crime operations.

And some are attempts to make a quick quid by petty thieves who count on the emotional bond between plpeople and their animals to demand ransom for the four legged family members, like one couple who abducted a woman’s cat and ransomed her for the equivalent of a few hundred dollars.

That woman, who was identified only by the pseudonym Helen in the story, said she was torn between getting her cat back and encouraging the people who took him.

“I was worried the same thing would just keep happening,” she told the newspaper. “It’s not something you want to encourage – paying to get your cat back – in case they do it again.”

Critics Rave About ‘Alien’ Reboot Starring Buddy The Cat!

A reboot of the iconic scifi-horror film upends the balance of power, placing the feline at the very top where he should be.

The long-anticipated Alien reboot starring Buddy the Cat hit theaters this weekend with audiences flocking to see the modernized classic after effusive praise from critics.

Featuring the new tag line “In space no one can hear you scream — unless you’ve got Buddy on your side,” the reboot reimagines the science fiction-horror classic as a cautionary tale about messing with cats.

“While the original built tension over almost two hours and inspired an overwhelming feeling of dread in viewers, the new Alien clocks in at just 28 minutes and ends right after the iconic chestburster scene,” critic Ferdinand Lyle wrote. “Instead of screeching into the shadows of the ship to commence its turbocharged metabolic processes, only to emerge later as a fully formed creature who terrorizes the crew, this alien is immediately caught by Buddy, who delivers a swift kill bite and deposits it in front of the humans. They reward him with a chorus of ‘Good boy!’ and rub his head while plying him with snacks, and the credits roll. Now that’s efficient storytelling!”

The Alien 👽 was no match for Buddy, who woke from a nap to dispatch the creature with brutal efficiency.

The new version is “the ultimate FAFO flick,” raved the AP’s Misty Lemire.

“The central message here is ‘Don’t tangle with Buddy.’ The apex predator of the cosmos is no match for the apex predator of Earth.”

Other critics were enamored with a post-credits dance scene featuring Buddy, the crew of the Nostromo and dozens of face-huggers who fly through the air, forcing the cast to bust impressive dance moves to avoid the dangerous creatures. At one point Buddy launches into a breakdance routine. The actress who plays Ripley wags a finger at a xenomorph and declares “You just got served!”

“It’s clever, light and wildly entertaining,” one critic wrote. “Buddy’s got some magnificent dance moves!”

Others praised Buddy for his impressive physique. In an interview with Entertainment Weekly, Buddy said he’d been training non-stop for eight months for the role, eating a high-protein diet and spending five hours a day napping in the gym to accentuate his meowsculature.

“The effort paid off big time,” a review from Calico Critics noted. “Buddy looks more ripped and impressive than he ever has, and he was already competing against a high bar he set during his previous films.”

In the post-credits dance scene, Buddy and the Nostromo crew perform a synchronized routine while dodging facehuggers.

However, not everyone was impressed. Reached this weekend at his New Zealand bunker, where he’s fled “until America isn’t annoying anymore,” director James Cameron called the Alien reboot “derivative, low-calorie cinema junk.”

“Remember when I had characters saying ‘Hasta la vista’ and ‘Adios, muchachos’? That was really cool. I was one bad hombre,” Cameron said. “Audiences might think this is a good film, but that’s because they haven’t seen the wonders of Avatar XVII yet. Just wait, it’s gonna be awesome. And there are no cats.”

Detective Buddy And The Case Of The Vanishing Yums

In the seedy underbelly of Paw City, where niplords run kitty crack empires and feral gangs fight eternal turf wars, one unshakable detective brings the bad cats to justice.

The call came in after midnight.

Shots fired near Burmese Boulevard, with witnesses reporting one party fleeing the scene in a car while another took off on foot.

Normally I’d tend to other biz and let one of the kids in the detective bureau have their shot, but the commissioner’s on my ass and the mayor is worried about what the headlines will do to the tourism economy.

Leave it to the leaders of a dump like Paw City to care more about the scratch in their pockets than the felines they’re supposed to protect.

But I’m a grizzled detective. I know where the real power naps, and it ain’t city hall.

It’s Scratcher Tower, home of the international consortium that runs Big Yums, controlling the flow of every last morsel of kibble into this forsaken city. The Fat Cats on the top floor, they call the shots, control the mayor and have their paws in every pie. If it’s biz, the Fat Cats get their cut.

The feds? They talked a big game last year when they popped Angelo Felinzino and nailed him on a racketeering charge that earned him 15 to 20 in the slammer. But the Fat Cats are a hydra, and even though Felinzino was rumored to be the consortium’s top earner, the fellas in Scratcher Tower’s penthouse didn’t miss a beat.

It was pouring by the time I pulled up near the corner of Tortoiseshell Street and Burmese Boulevard. I padded out of the warm comfort of my ride, the Budmobile, and told it to watch my back. The Budmobile’s AI chimed in acknowledgement and miniature silos opened on each rear quarter panel, ejecting a pair of drones. One drone circled above me in a defensive posture while the other zoomed ahead, scouting my path.

I tasted wet rain and something else. My nose wrinkled, pulling me toward a funky scent. I crouched, sniffing the sidewalk, and that’s when I saw them: crumbs made soggy by the downpour, their addictive chemicals turning a shade of toxic lime as they interacted with the acid rain.

A Temphead had been here not long ago.

Tempheads are dangerous. They’ll do anything to get their fix, even if it means stealing from littermates or breaking into homes to raid the treat cupboards.

No Temphead was going to catch me off guard, I thought as I placed a paw on my holster and felt the reassuring grip of Thunderclaw. The old revolver was reliable and had legitimate stopping power. The sight of it alone was often enough to get bad guys to back down.

Lightning cracked the sky as I followed the crumbs down Burmese Boulevard, under the old wrought iron bridge and into a back alley.

I paused and sniffed. The Temphead had lingered here at the door to a shady-looking ripperdoc clinic, probably trying to get them to buzz him in. The ripperdoc was smart, didn’t want anyone bringing heat down on his clinic, so he turned the Temphead away.

My keen sense of smell and my detective’s intuition told me the Temphead quickly moved on, and sure enough, there were more crumbs ahead, where the alley made a sharp right turn toward a cross street.

I padded ahead, nose leading the way, and looked up.

The Bradbury Building.

Once a symbol of commerce in the city’s gilded age, now a dilapidated microcosm of Paw City, its former glory obscured beneath decades of grime and decay.

Patting Thunderclaw again for reassurance, I pushed against the heavy bronze doors and into the gloom inside.

My ears prickled in the funereal silence, and my whiskers felt movement in the air currents. There!

A shadowy figure was heading for one of the exits.

Justice is my job, and what kind of cat would I be if I didn’t have the swiftness of a cheetah and the bravery of a tiger?

I leaped the railing, landing gracefully on my feet as I always do, and followed the shadow through the door. The rain was coming down hard, battering my trenchcoat and cap.

Where’d that cat go?

He was clever, I’ll give him that. Lightning lit the alley, and he used the crackle of thunder to mask the sound of his feet splashing through the puddles before he leaped.

I never even saw it coming. It’s been a long time since anyone’s gotten the jump on me. Maybe I was too confident. The attacker barreled into me, knocking me off my feet, and was already propelling himself up a nearby fire escape as I landed in a puddle of rain water.

Thunderclaw was torn from my grip with the impact and went skidding across the concrete.

The Budmobile’s follow drone chose that moment to reappear, making a lazy loop around the alley before stopping to hover in front of me, its ventral nozzles firing whispers of propellant to keep it stabilized.

“Oh dear,” the drone said, “you seem to have fallen, sir. Shall I bring the car around?”

“This,” I told myself, “is undignified.”

The drone chimed.

“Is that a yes, sir?”

I resisted the urge to paw smack the useless machine.

“Yes! Call the Budmobile to the end of the alley.”

I might have been Paw City’s greatest detective, but I wasn’t going to catch criminals with my clothes and fur all wet, smelling like a dirty mutt.

I retrieved Thunderclaw from the ground, slipping the trusty revolver back into its holster.

That’s when I saw it — a scrap of torn clothing on the end of the fire escape, black as night. Black like the absence of light.

I ran a paw pad over the material, feeling its familiar weave and texture. There was only one shop in this section of Paw City that sold zero albedo clothing. Could the Shadow Void be back to stalk the seedy underbelly of Paw City once again? I put him in the slammer once. Now I may have to do it again.

I climbed back into the Budmobile, grateful for the blast of heat from its dash. It was time to pay Tommy the Tailor a visit…

Check back for the next episode of Detective Buddy: Feline Noir!

We’re Snowed In, And Buddy Doesn’t Like It!

“Turn the snow off, human! What do you mean you don’t control the weather? I want the warm!”

It’s a frigid nine degrees out right now — down to one degree with wind chill — the storm arrived earlier than expected, and we’re already getting buried.

The exact numbers change depending on the forecaster, but the National Weather Service predicts eight to 14 inches for the New York City area.

That’s actually not bad compared to some places that will be in the heart of the storm when it passes, and it’s actually warmer than yesterday, if you can believe it.

Buddy, however, is having none of it.

He’s alternating between sitting on the radiator to soak up heat and staring at the accumulating snow through the sliding glass doors, occasionally turning to meow at me in protest as if I control the weather.

“I don’t like this, human!” he seems to be telling me. “Fix it! I want lots of warm, sunshine, leaves on the trees, and crickets!”

Meanwhile, my brother and his cat, Twix, are kickin’ it in 80 degree weather in Italy.

We hope our fellow ‘Mericans are safe at home with plenty of supplies for the next two days, that your feline masters are inside and warm, and that you avoid power outages. This storm is supposed to touch 40 states, which is remarkable, and it’s expected to dump snow on places that rarely see it.

If you’re looking for something to read, here’s a story about the recent string of movies that have featured cats as protagonists or significant characters. It notes that while CGI makes it easier to digitally include felines — and the surprise hit Flow famously featured a digitally animated cat — directors like Michael Sarnoski (A Quiet Place: Day One) have opted for real kitties, favoring their expressiveness and cuteness.

It mentions Bring Her Back, which was an exceptional and disturbing horror film in its own right. It’s also the only one on the list in which the cat doesn’t survive, so heads up on that. (Horror fans will note Bring Her Back was made by the same writer/director team that debuted with the exceptional Talk To Me. Those guys know horror.)

If you ever wondered what happened to Ser Pounce from Game of Thrones, the story also details how the showrunners cut the kitty’s role for being a “diva” on set. Poor King Tommen.

While you’re snowed in and bored, check out this short video of a “red Burmese,” which is a ginger cat without stripes except for faint lines on the back of his front legs. Maybe cats like this aren’t as rare as they seem, but I can’t recall seeing an orange cat who wasn’t a tabby:

@chestertthecat

Replying to @flavor I love his colouring but I never knew it was rare! #catsoftiktok #fyp #crosseyedcat #catmom #cute

♬ Little Sparrow – Paul Alan Morris

And finally, Ursula K. Le Guin is best known as a prolific science fiction writer who published for more than half a century, winning Hugos, Nebulas and every other award in the genre, but you don’t need to be a science fiction fan to appreciate Ursula K. Le Guin’s Book of Cats.

The posthumous collection includes Le Guin’s observations about our feline friends, meditations on what human society can learn from them, and lots of stories about the cats in her life.

You can check out a review here if you’d like to know more, and read community reviews on Goodreads here.

That’s all for now. I may blog intermittently throughout the storm if we really get buried here. We’re prepared to hunker down, with a full cupboard of yums for Bud and the excellent Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 beckoning me with its strange adventures. Bud is also more attached to me than usual as he tries to soak up as much heat as he can.

In the meantime, stay safe and stay warm!

‘I Tread Where I Please’ Said Cat Who Left Paw Prints On Manuscript 500 Years Ago

It turns out cats have been adding their special sauce to our communications for as long as written language has been a thing.

Illuminated manuscripts date back long before the printing press, and their manufacture was arduous.

Literacy itself was rare in the Dark Ages and usually only the province of educated nobility and the professionally religious. Most people had no hope of learning to read, so the monks charged with copying religious texts were already practitioners of a rare skill for their time.

They weren’t just writing either. They carefully illustrated each page with drawings, cartouches and other decorative touches, and the text itself was a form of art in its calligraphic symmetry, designed to be beautiful as well as legible.

It took thousands of hours to complete a manuscript. There was no whiteout and no do-overs: a mistake meant the page had to be scrapped even if it represented a week’s worth of work.

So when a Flemish scribe finished a page of his manuscript and set it aside, he thought he was in the clear — until a cat came along and left its own signature in the form of paw prints.

Three of them, in fact, representing one and a half kitty strides. Two of the feline’s little feet found white space, but another landed right on top of the meticulously rendered text.

The feline-marked parchment in all its glory.

It kind of puts keyboard cats in context, doesn’t it? Our four legged friends may occasionally ruin our drafts or emails — or in my case wreck a music recording session with a discordant keyboard solo by walking across a synthesizer at an inopportune time — but at least they don’t cost us dozens of hours of work.

The 500-year-old, kitty-marked manuscript is now the centerpiece of “Paws On Parchment,” a new exhibit at Baltimore’s Walters Art Museum.

Click here for more details from the museum, which is open Tuesday through Saturday, with late hours on Thursday evenings. Admission is free.

And if you ever take up calligraphy as a hobby, keep your work hidden from your feline overlords!