The Cat’s Meat Man: London’s Forgotten Street Trader
In the bustling streets of Victorian London, amidst the cacophony of street vendors hawking everything from flowers to fresh fish, one distinctive cry stood out: “CA-DOE-MEE!” This was the unmistakable call of the cat’s meat man, an itinerant vendor pushing his barrow laden with skewered offal and horsemeat, an essential supplier for the city’s ever-growing population of feline companions. Though cats were traditionally seen as self-sufficient creatures, expected to keep the kitchen free of mice and rats, their human caretakers increasingly found a place in the household budget to supplement their diet. And so, the cat’s meat man became a fixture of the urban landscape, bringing with him not just meat, but a fascinating world of trade, companionship, and occasional acts of unexpected generosity.
A Pied Piper for Cats
No sooner had the cat’s meat man embarked on his daily round than he would find himself surrounded by an eager audience of hungry felines. Some had warm homes and doting owners, while others were strays, drawn by the possibility of a morsel falling from the barrow. The scene was both comical and heart-warming—cats winding around the vendor’s feet, their tails high with expectation, as their owners or housemaids stepped onto the pavement to purchase the day’s rations.
Despite the common jests about the toughness of the meat—many joked that it was fit only for the most determined of chewers—cat’s meat men were often known for their soft hearts. Many had a habit of slipping an extra scrap to a particularly desperate-looking stray, acting as unofficial guardians of the city’s homeless cats. Their kindness could even bring about fairy-tale endings: one London vendor famously rescued a stray that would go on to find a home in the grandest of households, adopted by none other than the Duchess of Bedford herself.
The Hard Life of a Cat’s Meat Man
For all the romance and quaintness that hindsight lends to their trade, cat’s meat men led tough, physically demanding lives. Henry Mayhew, the great chronicler of Victorian street life, captured their world in meticulous detail in London Labour and the London Poor (1851). He estimated that there were around 1,000 such traders in London, supplying meat to some 300,000 cats. Yet, far from being a lucrative venture, their work involved gruelling hours and endless miles on foot. One veteran of the trade reported that he rarely covered less than thirty miles a day, often stretching to forty, just to make his rounds.
The best business, he explained, was to be found in the working-class districts, particularly among the coachmen in the mews behind the grand squares. These men, often isolated from their families, were generous in ensuring their feline companions were well-fed. The same could not always be said for a certain breed of customer: “‘Old maids are bad, though very plentiful, customers. They cheapen the carriers down so, that they can scarcely live at the business. They will pay one halfpenny and owe another, and forget that after a day or two.’” Cat ladies, it seemed, had been imperilling capitalism long before the internet meme era.
An Industry with Rules and Rivalries
While most cat’s meat men were honest traders, they occupied a lower rung on the economic ladder. Some were born into the business, inheriting their rounds from fathers and uncles, but many turned to it after falling on hard times. Failed butchers, unable to keep their shops afloat, often became cat’s meat vendors. So too did former carriage painters, their health ruined by years of exposure to toxic paints. As the 19th century wore on, it became increasingly common to see women—widows in particular—selling cat’s meat from old prams, eking out a precarious livelihood in an unforgiving economy.
Though a humble trade, the business had its own code of conduct. Cat’s meat men were fiercely territorial, with clearly defined “walks” that were defended with an almost guild-like sense of ownership. If a vendor wanted to retire or move on, he might even sell his round via a small advertisement in the local paper. For those who stuck with the trade and resisted the temptations of the pub, there was a chance to build a stable, if modest, life. Some even took on respected community roles, such as Sunday School teaching.
Perils of the Trade
The job, however, was not without its risks. Hungry stray dogs were a constant menace, ready to ambush a careless vendor and make off with a mouthful of stock. And there was always the risk of a barrow overturning—a disaster that meant watching in helpless frustration as a swarm of delighted cats feasted on the sudden windfall, with not a single one offering to pay.
The Disappearance of the Cat’s Meat Man
By the turn of the 20th century, the cat’s meat trade was beginning to wane. Improvements in food storage and the rise of commercially produced pet food gradually rendered the itinerant vendors obsolete. Yet, for much of the 19th century, they had been a distinctive and indispensable part of urban life, threading through the city streets with their skewers of meat and their ever-faithful following of hopeful cats.
Today, the cat’s meat man is a vanished figure, preserved only in the pages of social history and the occasional wistful reference in literature. But his world, filled with hard graft, quiet kindness, and the ever-present soundtrack of meows and murmured transactions, offers a fascinating glimpse into a London long gone. Next time you open a tin of cat food, spare a thought for the men and women who once trudged through the city, calling “CA-DOE-MEE!” as they went, feeding a metropolis of whiskers and paws.
