Sorry, mum, this one’s about cats again.
I say cats, but I actually mean cat. One cat. Singular. Individual.
And, although it might be difficult for all you Ailurophobics out there, my own sainted mother included, this week there isn’t much choice in it, either.
You see, last Friday, at just before 11pm, we said goodbye to Maggie for the last time.
That’s longer than Tina and I have been married. It’s not all that far off the time we’ve known each other. So, you see, she’s been with us right from the start. A part of our family and a Rankin through and through.
How It Started
I remember the day that we got her, a tiny little kitten, who, most probably, shouldn’t have been separated from her mum just yet. I remember handing over the nominal fee, (a tenner?) and taking her back to the house Tina had at South Street at the time.
I remember the way this tiny little bundle of fur would curl up on my lap and fall asleep, the way she’d scratch at my trouser leg to make herself comfortable. I remember the liquid kitten food she’d lick off your finger, the way I’d wake up with her on the pillow next to my face, the time she managed to climb the wooden railings at the top of the stairs and the racket she made when she found she couldn’t get down.
A little later, I remember Tina bringing her to the flat I had at the time in a cat carrier and the reports of what a good traveler she was. I remember the way she would skid across the wooden floors I had at the flat, chasing her toys with flat out speed and a total inability to stop.
She grew up to be a small, but undoubtedly feisty little madam, the matriarch of our other two cats (her daughter and grandson) and more than a match for Bonnie, our Springador. In one encounter Maggie actually caught an over-curious Bonnie a swipe across the nose, and ever since then Bonnie remained respectfully petrified of the cat she dwarfed.
But she was always ready for a cuddle, and a head boop (something she did with me especially.) If you stopped stroking her before she wanted you to, you’d feel a tip-tap on your hand. A gentle but persistent reminder of your role in the arrangement. You might even get a maa-ow (not a miaow, something a little longer sounding and definitely punctuated in the middle). It was always on her terms, because with cats it is, but she was an affectionate little madam who, even if I had the laptop on my lap wasn’t shy of lying on my ankles.
But time, as it does with all of us, caught up.
It was a reasonably subtle decline. A matter of months really. But Maggie started to lose weight and to slow down. She still liked her cuddles, but more and more preferred to go out and settle down in next door’s greenhouse. Her patience with her playful grandson grew short. She found it hard to eat. Never the biggest of cats, she started to dwindle.
The Last Day
It really was a creeping thing, and there’s no one point I can put my finger on where things started or accelerated. All I know is, when she came back in, on Friday evening she was hardly there. She sat on the couch, between me and Tina, not making eye contact with either of us, and showing no sign of wanting or giving affection. There was no purr, no resistance to being picked up, her nose was dry, and when put back down she shuffled away and sat with her back to us again.
Something was clearly wrong.
We contacted the emergency vets, got an appointment and drove her down there, getting more and more fearful as Maggie was triaged. When we were let in to see her, she was laid on the table, wrapped in the shawl Tina had brought for the purpose, not mewing, not making any fuss, just laid there, with her head down. The vet had managed to put a line in, and apparently it wasn’t a challenge.
I can’t remember the details of the conversation with the vet, although I do know Maggie hadn’t been for any invasive tests. I think the working diagnosis was simply one of old age with no real reason to put her through any further dstress. The only real question was whether to take her home or let her go peacefully and painlessly. One option was clearly kinder and less selfish, so that’s what we did.
It was upsetting. It still is. Even writing this is hard. Time is a great healer though, or so they say, so while we’ll always miss our first little fur-baby, it’s important to remember the good times. Remember everything that little black cat gave us, including the two cats that still live with us, and to hold on to those memories as we move forward.
R.I.P. Maggie. You will be missed.
Until next time.
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Hey, there! If you enjoyed reading any of the above, why not take a look at some of my published work? Below you’ll find links to a number of short stories I’m lucky enough to have included in anthologies. I’d love to know what you think.
New Tales Of Old
Death Ship
Pestilence: Drabbles 1
Reaperman: Drabbles 3
The Musketeers Vs Cthulhu
Eldritch Investigations
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