My cat, Smudge, died overnight. She reached a decent age for
a feline – eighteen by my calculation. She arrived wide-eyed at twelve weeks with her brother, Sooty,
just after Princess Diana expired in a car wreck in Paris . Cars to humans and cats are a
violence: Sooty suffered death by automobile in 2003, Smudge narrowly avoided
the same fate a year later and spent much of her life with hind leg pinned -
when she sat, her hind leg stuck out like a furry black and white bookend! Nevertheless,
it didn’t render her an invalid and she had three litters of kittens, all
farmed out to friends and relatives, and went to cat heaven a happy, albeit slightly
wasted, snaggle-toothed old woman. At least the water-boatmen, painted ladies
and the dragon flies that regularly dive-bomb the garden pond are safe again this
summer. All there will be left behind is malted and matted animal hair on the
upholstery of every living room chair, pale wisps of undifferentiated
nothingness; the low-edged, cream coloured plastic bowl I used to feed from as a baby, that Smudge gobbled IAMs for two decades, will return, rinsed and
washed to the kitchen cupboard ready for grandkids (?). And life may come full circle once more.
