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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 can’t 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 Cats’ 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 vet’s bill between us of over £400) I
suppose I could be called cat- friendly, cos as long as they leave me
alone, they don’t bother me. If they run away, I’ll chase them, of
course – who wouldn’t? - 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 didn’t 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 door’s 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 I’d 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 he’d 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
didn’t notice that he was lying at the bottom of the stairs, as though
he’d fallen down them (but cats don’t fall down stairs do they, and if
they do, don’t 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 – 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 can’t
find his grave – 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 wouldn’t 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 – RIP.
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