Daphne Ledward, Garden Planner, Gardener, Author and Broadcaster

Muffin's Blog

Gordon - an obituary     by Mr Muffin

March 2012

Gordon was here when I came to live with John and Daff.   He was called Gordon, apparently, because the lady Daff got him from (who was FAMOUS, so canít be named) had a predilection for gin.   Before I arrived, he was one of three siblings; Syrah and Shiraz (she also had a predilection for red wine) had departed for that great Catsí Home in the sky early in their lives and I never met them.

Now, I can take cats or I can leave them.   If I were to be rehomed (a fate that is often threatened, like when PC Plod and I had a humdinger of a fight over a biscuit a week or two ago, which resulted in a vetís bill between us of over £400) I suppose I could be called cat- friendly, cos as long as they leave me alone, they donít bother me.   If they run away, Iíll chase them, of course Ė who wouldnít? - and if the others are with me, we do consider dismantling any moggy that dares to trespass onto our hallowed ground, but Gordon was what I would call a sensible cat.   He liked anyone who didnít fuss him, hated being picked up, never came in the house, had his own residence (the garage and room above it), and had his own agenda a hundred per cent of the time.  

In summer he had a den under some shrubs in next doorís garden, only returning home to eat, and in winter he spent most of his time in bed (how wise!).   He was, in fact, the sort of cat Iíd choose if I were to get one (which I have no intention of doing).

I usually only saw Gordon once a day, in the morning, when Daff or John unlocked the garage.   I would go in with them, check Gordon in his bed to see if he was OK, inspect his biscuit bowl to see if heíd saved me any, give him a little nuzzle if he was already up and about, then leave him to his own devices for the rest of the day.    It was a ritual, just like breakfast and supper.

The other morning, I went to see him as usual; his bed was empty so I came out again.   I didnít notice that he was lying at the bottom of the stairs, as though heíd fallen down them (but cats donít fall down stairs do they, and if they do, donít they land on their feet?).   John found him and told Daff he was dead.   Daff never believes anything John tells her, so she went to have a look and confirmed his demise.   There was much speculation about the cause Ė Daff thought he might have been hit by a car, but his poor, fat, tabby body was perfect, so that was unlikely.   Apart from the fact that his eyes were wide open, he could have been asleep.   He was eleven, which is no age for a cat, I reckon, but then, Bluebell was only five, which is no age for a greyhound either.   It might have been a heart attack, as bro Shiraz died of a dicky ticker.

John and Daff buried him beside the rhubarb in the Patch.   They suggested rather unkindly that one of us might try digging him up, but why would we want to do that?   Anyway, rhubarb grows quickly at this time of year and we canít find his grave Ė not even Tom, who always enjoys a good interment and watched him being laid to rest, much like he did with Bluebell, so must know exactly where he is.

The funny thing is, I really miss him.   At first I went into the garage every morning with Daff as usual, and sometimes I would even check his bed before I remembered he wouldnít be there.   I stopped doing that when his bed was removed, but I still have a good look round where he used to eat his biscuits, just in case John or Daff put some down absent-mindedly.   Gordon Ė RIP.

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