Claudia Schiffer’s cat was a pitiful captive on the red carpet – that face says it all

Is anyone else getting Laika-the-Soviet-space-dog vibes from the troubling sight of Claudia Schiffer’s cat spookily staring out from a porthole in his bespoke pet-carrier?

Laika was one of the poor mutts shot into space on Sputnik 2 to orbit the Earth in 1957. As the technology to de-orbit hadn’t yet been invented, it was always going to be a one-way ticket.

Still, there’s a small monument to her outside the military research facility in Moscow. Even if it fails to mention she died of overheating just hours into the mission, the poor pup.

Anyway, forgive me, but when I clapped eyes on Chip, incarcerated behind the Perspex window of his mini-submersible, my first thought was “The Russians have invaded! Call up the home guard, we’re doomed! Doomed!”

My subsequent thoughts mostly revolved around bafflement and indignation. I get that it was a film premiere for Argylle, the new comic spy thriller made by Schiffer’s movie mogul husband, Matthew Vaughn.

I also get that Chip has a leading role in it, hence the social media tag “nepo-kitty”, as there’s surely nothing more nepotistic than ditching the jobbing showbiz moggy who was originally cast, in order to sign up your own cat.

I even get that movie stars are contractually obliged to do publicity shoots, chat shows (presumably cat shows) and so forth. I’m also certain that no harm came to Chip, not least because there’s a sequel in the pipeline.

This is about us, not him; for the love of TS Eliot, spare us the sight of a reproachful prisoner in captivity on a night out. Yes, Chip is now an A-lister. Chip probably had his own Winnebago on location and Chip may be very happy. But Chip (with all respect) has a resting cat face that very much implies the opposite.

‘Resting cat face’: Claudia Schiffer’s cat Chip – WireImage

Now, I’m not going to deny it; every pet owner loves the opportunity to show off their totally absorbing one-of-the-family, be they a Manchester terrier (mea culpa), a chameleon (mea also culpa), a tricolour guinea pig (ah, you’re ahead of me) or a miniature donkey (I wish).

But that is on the clear understanding they are sentient beings not accessories, who can nip back into their safe space as and when they’re done being the centre of attention – and let’s face it, being cooed over by the neighbours’ children is very different from being paraded around London’s West End in a backpack.

Some cats are loners. Others are needy and kneady, and will insist on wrapping themselves around their favourite people and falling asleep on their shoulders. I’ve owned (been owned) by both sorts: Beryl would have leapt at the opportunity to steal the show. Solenoid would have taken your face off.

There’s no disputing that red carpets are magical. They are not real life. If the wee donkey doesn’t mind, bring her along. A team of huskies? As long as it’s bitterly cold and they get to pull something. A cat? Him too – but under his own steam, maybe languorously draped over his human visibly unconcerned by the applause or jauntily padding along in an argyle-patterned harness. Just so we know he’s unfazed by the fuss, by us. If not, leave him at home.

Claudia, queen of every fashion week going, should know the cardinal rule of public appearances; if it’s a catwalk, the cat should walk…

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