(Drinking from the paddling pool in happier times)
Our beloved Mister Puss is no more. He became ill and there wasn’t anything we could do for him, so he was put to sleep yesterday. We gave him a beautiful funeral: he was buried in a Cornish Hamper box (the most glamorous cardboard box we could find) decorated with pony stickers and surrounded by flowers we picked from the garden; songs were sung and a cross has been raised on his grave.
Not everyone will be sorry at his death; the local rats and birds are probably dancing with joy.
We miss him and his sweary, bossy ways a lot. Our other cat, Clara, seems slightly lost that she has no one to tease now, although Mister Puss disliked being teased on the whole. Not the friendliest of cats, when he was younger Mister Puss used to hunt my toddler daughter, and gardening was always a scary experience as at any moment a tiny ginger tiger might leap out from a shrub and lacerate my arms, squeaking fiercely. However, he mellowed a lot as he got older and occasionally permitted cuddles, although he remained a cat who was happier outside, having a rumble with the neighbouring cats and slaying and eating the local wildlife (he would eat every last whisker of a rat and even the claws and beak of a crow, though this did give him tummy ache afterwards). During the cold winter evenings he enjoyed coming inside to watch the football with K, sitting on his favourite pink blanket on the arm of the sofa.
We have lots of happy memories of Mister Puss, the first cat I have ever ‘owned’ in so far as one owns a cat, and I wish he could have been with us longer. However, with what may strike some as unseemly haste, we have already made an appointment with a nearby animal rescue centre to look for a new friend or friends for Clara. There are a lot of cats looking for homes and it seems silly to make any of them wait longer than they need.
Thanks for everything Mister Puss, and lots of love.
(A last photograph, taken in a favourite spot)