In the gentle hush that settles over London’s famous Downing Street at midday, there is often a quiet footfall that belongs to no politician and yet belongs to the corridors of power just as much as any prime minister. For fifteen years, a tabby cat named Larry has traced those silent steps across polished floors and garden paths, a steady presence amid the swirl of statecraft and shifting leadership. Now an elder statesman of the No. 10 household, he marks a milestone that feels less like political theatre and more like the slow turning of the seasons.
Larry arrived there in February 2011, adopted from a London animal shelter and entrusted with the curious title of Chief Mouser to the Cabinet Office — a job that began with the practical purpose of deterring rodents and grew into something altogether more symbolic. Over the years he has greeted guests and inspected visitors, lounged on warm windowsills, and ingratiated himself into the national consciousness with a reserve characteristic of feline charm. Despite the comings and goings of prime ministers — from David Cameron through to Keir Starmer — his steady gaze has remained a reassuring constant at number 10.
Through the ups and downs of British political life, Larry’s whiskered face has appeared in countless photographs: a dignified silhouette at the foot of treaties, a quiet bystander to handshake diplomacy, and an unexpected interloper in moments meant to be more solemn than feline. He has lived through Brexit debates, leadership upheavals, and global summits, often with a nap or a slow blink as his only commentary. To some, he is more than a mouser; he is a symbol of continuity in times of disruption, a gentle reminder that amid policy and pomp there are still simple, living rhythms at play.
Larry’s tenure has not been without its own cast of characters. Across Whitehall, other animal stewards have held honorary roles — like Palmerston, the Foreign Office’s mouser‑turned‑retiree, who only recently passed away in Bermuda, drawing fond tributes from those who remember his rivalry and camaraderie with Larry. The corridor of pet history at the heart of British governance is a tapestry as rich and eccentric as the traditions that surround it.
In these long fifteen years, Larry’s duties have expanded in the public imagination beyond simple pest control. He lounges on freshly laundered rugs during official photo‑ops and patrols thresholds with a calm dignity that often steals the scene. He has wandered among global leaders who momentarily pause to admire his soft gaze, and his gait has threaded its way into narratives that transcend politics to touch the everyday heart.
As the afternoon light pools on the cobbled street outside No. 10, Larry’s milestone feels less like a footnote and more like a quiet celebration of constancy. In a world where leadership and policy shift with the tides of public will, an 18‑ or 19‑year‑old cat carving out his daily rounds among ministers and state visitors is a reminder of life’s quieter, enduring rhythms — the small and unassuming presence that so often anchors the larger story.
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