In the bustling streets of Victorian London, amid the clatter of carriages and the shouts of street vendors, you might have spotted one of the city’s most curious tradespeople: the cat’s meat man. No, this wasn’t some Dickensian character with a sinister twist; he was a legitimate vendor, a friend to the city’s four-legged residents, and perhaps one of the more peculiar services London had to offer. In an era long before pet stores and convenient tins of Fancy Feast, the cat’s meat man was the go-to supplier for any respectable cat who demanded the finest—and only—horse meat money could buy.

The cat’s meat trade arose out of pure necessity. Cats in Victorian London were considered essential workers, enlisted for one critical purpose: pest control. Rats and mice plagued every nook of the city, from stately homes to crumbling tenements, and cats were in high demand as the city’s most natural exterminators. But, as every cat lover knows, even the hardest-working feline needs proper sustenance. Thus, the cat’s meat man became a common figure across London’s neighborhoods, bringing his horse-meat skewers to the hungry moggies of the metropolis.
These cat’s meat men could be found all over the city, making their rounds with wooden carts or baskets filled with skewers of meat, usually horse flesh or offal, a cheap byproduct from the city’s knackers (slaughterhouses for animals no longer fit for work). Not only did the cat’s meat men bring protein to the cats of London, but they also brought a bit of daily excitement. Much like the ice cream truck or the milkman, the cat’s meat man was a part of the local routine, his arrival heralded by a call that Londoners grew accustomed to hearing.
So where could you find these “heroes of the alley cats”? The truth is, they were practically everywhere, as widespread as the cats they fed. From bustling markets like Covent Garden to quiet lanes in Marylebone and the winding streets of Whitechapel, they roamed with their skewers held high. Many cat’s meat men had well-worn routes, building up a loyal clientele among London’s residents—and their cats. According to some accounts, a single cat’s meat man could serve over a hundred cats in a day. They even knew their feline customers by name! That’s right, a London cat could have its own meat man, showing up on the regular like some Victorian UberEats for cats.
Henry Mayhew, the famous chronicler of London’s poor, interviewed one of these cat’s meat men for his book London Labour and the London Poor. This cat’s meat vendor reported having dozens of regulars in his “round” and spoke about his unusual profession as though it was a calling. He was paid in pennies by the cats’ human owners, although many transactions ran on “credit.” Cat owners were often poor, and much like the baker or the coal man, the cat’s meat man operated on trust, with the promise that they’d be paid in full by the end of the week or month.
The typical “meat stick” sold by these men was just that—a skewer with a couple of chunks of meat, cut into small pieces for the cats to nibble on. Sometimes, there would be enough for a few nibbles each day, but other times it was more of a one-off treat. Despite its simplicity, for many cats, this meat on a stick was the highlight of their day. Victorian cats didn’t just eat their “ration” as a meal—they enjoyed it with the enthusiasm we might reserve for a Friday-night pizza delivery. There are accounts of cats following the cat’s meat men from street to street, nipping at their heels until they received their portion.
The cat’s meat men knew their market well. Not only did they deliver to households with beloved pets, but they also frequented the alleyways and market districts where working-class residents kept cats almost exclusively for rodent control. In these places, the cats weren’t pampered pets; they were part of the household workforce, expected to keep the rat population down in exchange for the occasional scrap.
By the turn of the 20th century, the cat’s meat trade was already beginning to fade. New laws regulating the slaughter and sale of horse meat, combined with the rise of commercial pet food, meant that the cat’s meat men were becoming relics of a different time. The introduction of “prepared” cat food in cans during the 1930s sounded the final death knell for the profession. Though the cats may not have had complaints, one can imagine a few of those grizzled old meat men weren’t too thrilled to see their work fade away.
Today, the cat’s meat men are all but forgotten, their once-important place in London life relegated to the annals of quirky history. But next time you’re wandering the streets of Islington or Whitechapel, look down some of the alleyways and picture a jolly man with a basket of horse meat skewers, calling out to the neighborhood felines. He was the ice-cream man of his day, bringing a touch of excitement, and, above all, nourishment to the city’s hardworking mousers.