By the time he died recently, aged about 100, our old cat had become part of the living room furniture. This is not just a metaphor. During the latter half of his life, the only form of exercise he got was shedding fur, which he did in such amounts that we’ll be picking it out of things for years.
Journey
Then there were the other DNA samples he had taken to depositing about the place of late, either because had forgotten where the litter tray was, or he couldn’t face the journey involved in getting there and back.
Not that bathroom accidents were a habit exclusive to his old age. I never completely forgave him for an atrocity committed much earlier in his life, which all the worse because he wasn’t even ours then. He had devolved into community ownership, but was spending more and more time in our house and already blending in.
Interiors
So well did he blend that, one afternoon, my wife and I went out for the day, not realising we had left him behind. This happened to coincide with a brief period during which we still thought we could have a home like the ones you see in magazines (in the event, instead, we had children, which as any interior designer knows, don’t really go with anything).
A cornerstone of our attempt at elegant living was a wicker couch, from Habitat, whose straw base was accessorised tastefully by a full-length, cream-coloured cushion. Very nice it was too. Alas, on the day in question, by a double misfortune, the imprisoned cat must also have been suffering from a bad dose of the skitters.
Not officially having a pet then, of course, we didn’t have a litter tray. So ignoring the many wipeable surfaces available, the desperate cat sought out something he thought had a similar absorption capacity to the back garden. And in fairness, the couch did look a lot more like a garden when he was finished.
The cushion was beyond saving. And it was my strong belief at the time that we should have thrown the cat out with it. Instead, somehow, he stayed, having only made himself more at home.
Disclaimer
He caught a mouse once – literally, once – around the same time: depositing it at our back door. A cat lawyer would have advised us to return this gift immediately, with a disclaimer. But not only did the donor take up permanent residence with us soon afterwards, he gave up mousing in the process.
During his subsequent, epic retirement, he was seemingly quite happy to share a house with the critters. It wasn’t until a few years ago, when we accidentally acquired a second cat (a bog-rescue orphan named Pete Briquette) that the place became a no-go area for rodents again.
For a while, it also threatened to become a no-go area for superannuated felines of the pacifist kind. A prolific killer of mice, rats, and low-flying birds, Pete still had enough energy left over to persecute the old cat as well, attacking him several times a day. We had to segregate them eventually.
Habits
Fear of ambush may have been a factor in the increasingly erratic bathroom habits. Rather than undertake dangerous journeys – especially the one between the back of the couch and the piano, where Pete might lurk somewhere above, like an Afghan tribesman on the Khyber Pass – the old cat would just pee under the coffee table and hope no-one noticed.
In retrospect, it was even more ominous for him when, about two months ago, Pete launched a ceasefire. Overnight, the ambushes stopped. Maybe he just grew out of it. Or maybe he sensed his victim’s vulnerability and discovered an unsuspected streak of mercy.
Veteran
In any case, the veteran was by now officially on his ninth and final set of legs. Mind you, as long ago as 2012, he had been given only weeks to live. Then, after extracting an emotional goodbye from me, he rallied miraculously. And even in recent weeks, although ever more beleaguered, he also survived a couple of trips to the vet that had been billed as potentially one-way.
So when my wife and daughter brought him for what really was to be his last visit there, I kept it business-like, shaking his paw – gently – man to cat, and wishing him well. I half-expected yet another reprieve. But on this occasion, he failed to return. Not for the first time, our soft furnishings are looking a bit bereft.