Add articles to your saved list and come back to them any time.Before I was old enough to cover my walls with Wham! posters and sing along with Madonna, I discovered Garfield. Aside from a simmering crush on a boy in long shorts and a school blazer who I studied from the other end of the mobile library, the overweight orange tabby was my first love., about cartoonist Jon Arbuckle and his pet cat .
When the first anthology was published in 1980, my parents gave me the book for Christmas. Living on the outskirts of the suburban bush belt, they were adamant that if we wanted a pet, we had to play with the transient lizards and echidnas in our front yard. I’d never lived with a cat, and Garfield was my entree into feline humour. There was something about the sarcasm, the lasagne obsession, and the orange and black stripes that I fell for.
Some of my friends loved Snoopy and Charlie Brown but for me, it was Garfield all the way. It always felt like he was speaking directly to me, and soon, I was saving up my weekly pocket money to collect anything I could get my hands on: plush toys for my bed, coffee mugs for my overly sweet tea, and plastic figurines that muscled Papa Smurf off my desk.As a child of the ’80s, I watched as fad dieting become all the rage. Mum was an early adopter.
Instead of seeing the new film, I’ve decided to remember Garfield as he was. And me along with it: that 10-year-old kid giggling in her room as she dived into her Christmas present, wishing she too could have a cat like Garfield to share some lasagne with.
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