Farewell Lola, Scourge of the Cotswold Steppe!
We said goodbye to our cat today. The poor fella had developed a lymphoma and this had got progressively worse. When he had received the original diagnosis he had been given days to live by the vet but in the end he carried on for six weeks, surprising us all.
He was called Lola not because we have an obsession with the Kinks but because kittens are apparently difficult to sex. He'd come to live with us as a little girl but, as he one day indulged in a clearly very lovely kitten dream, it became apparent that he was indeed a boy. By this stage he was Lola and Lola he remained.
He stayed with us for 12 eventful years and became part of the family, building all his quirks into our lives just as any human family member does. From leaping out of the first floor window in the middle of the night to assaulting any feet left outside the duvet, our lives intermingled with his over time.
As he got a bit older he chose to no longer take the window route to the outside world. Instead, he would pop up to the bedroom and very politely ask me if I wouldn't mind getting up at some ungodly hour to stroll downstairs with him, chatting all the way, waiting while he had a quick snack and a drink then opening the door so that he could step outside to terrorise the local wildlife for a few hours before returning home for a light breakfast and a day's sleep.
He was a handsome cat. He attracted compliments from friends and passers by and he was normally commented on very warmly by the vets when he went for a visit. He was generally pleasant although he didn't like men and he was usually shy of company. Give him time, though and he would come and sit on you. He didn't mind if you were dressed up or if you hated cats: he was good like that.
A quiet creature, he was best when simply being next to us, which is perhaps why cats are always better than dogs. Dogs jump and shout and pant and lick and insist on attention, while cats will either engage in relaxed conversation, demand food or ingress/egress or otherwise will simply not give a damn about you. They take life at a sensible pace.
He was generally good company. I must admit I never warmed to him fully - we had a cat before him with whom I got on famously and I could never quite let that go - but we communed and had good times. He'd come for walks with us, which was lovely. If we walked over to the playing field or down the nearby lane he would follow us, meandering in and out of fields and doing his very best lion impression, all the time insisting loudly that we did not go too far ahead. That was a nice thing about Lola: he sought out our society.
One memorable evening I was up late with him next to me and, my music critic family safely a-bed, I got out my son's suitcase record player and put on a bit of jazz - Miles Davis's 'A Kind of Blue'. As the strains of 'So What' started, Lola got up and went over to the record player, pouring himself into one of those improbable feline outlines in front of the speakers and resting there for both sides of the album. That was the moment we became friends: he was a true jazz cat, as surely all cats are.
As his health worsened he would make a point of coming to be with us more and more. He might just sleep outside the airing cupboard where the pipes kept him warm but he would also join us on the sofa or the bed, just wanting to be nearby. His later habit of lying at the top of the stairs was perhaps not one of his better ideas. One late night visit to the loo resulted in my shuffling form giving the patient a rather vehement kick to the midriff - for which I apologised profusely I might add.
Taking him to the vet for the last visit, I was conscious of what he meant to us and to me. I made a point of having a quiet afternoon and the thought of that final appointment weighed heavily on me. Resting my hand gently on his head as the vet put him to sleep was difficult but important. He was a mate.
We came home in silence and there has been an air of passive aggresivity around the house since which I take to reflect our individual coming to terms with his departure from our lives. A death affects you deeply, even if it is 'just a pet'. It isn't ever 'just' a pet, is it?
As I put the bins out this evening it was a clear night and I looked up at the stars. I started down the path of some nonsense about him being up there looking down but I quickly realised that this was so much nonsense. I thought about what a cat would really do if it went to feline heaven.
Letting my mind run wild I imagined a barren steppe backed by snow-topped mountains and an eerie silence pervading the unearthly surroundings. Slowly, a low rumbling could be discerned from the far distance, together with a soft haze which gradually became a cloud of dust growing to fill the sky. As my mind's eye watched, I stood rooted to the spot as over the horizon came a flood of terrified tiny creatures, all fleeing for their lives from some unseen horror. All too soon the cause of their flight became apparent, for in their wake a horde of now deceased pet cats released from a life of bored, pampered domesticity were once again able to embrace their true nature, hunting as a mighty army like the furry warriors they were. This mile wide wall of bewhiskered avengers, only broken up in places by one or two stopping to groom themselves rather too graphically, investigate a hole or throw up in that convulsive way that cats have, came charging towards me and at the head, naturally, was a very handsome tabby, now back to his full healthy size, shape and sheen, his former vigour returned as his spirit had been released from its mortal prison. As they closed on me he looked over, mewled one final ecstatic meow and then carried on to pussycat heaven, forever forgetting kibble mix, Miles Davis, the airing cupboard and me.
It's utter nonsense but it's a lovely way to think about the little sod - our little sod. Wherever he is, I hope he's got a warm blanket. And his balls - so cruelly snatched from him when still a nipper.
Farewell Lola. Until we meet one day in Ashgabat!
Or some such place anyway...
He was called Lola not because we have an obsession with the Kinks but because kittens are apparently difficult to sex. He'd come to live with us as a little girl but, as he one day indulged in a clearly very lovely kitten dream, it became apparent that he was indeed a boy. By this stage he was Lola and Lola he remained.
He stayed with us for 12 eventful years and became part of the family, building all his quirks into our lives just as any human family member does. From leaping out of the first floor window in the middle of the night to assaulting any feet left outside the duvet, our lives intermingled with his over time.
As he got a bit older he chose to no longer take the window route to the outside world. Instead, he would pop up to the bedroom and very politely ask me if I wouldn't mind getting up at some ungodly hour to stroll downstairs with him, chatting all the way, waiting while he had a quick snack and a drink then opening the door so that he could step outside to terrorise the local wildlife for a few hours before returning home for a light breakfast and a day's sleep.
He was a handsome cat. He attracted compliments from friends and passers by and he was normally commented on very warmly by the vets when he went for a visit. He was generally pleasant although he didn't like men and he was usually shy of company. Give him time, though and he would come and sit on you. He didn't mind if you were dressed up or if you hated cats: he was good like that.
A quiet creature, he was best when simply being next to us, which is perhaps why cats are always better than dogs. Dogs jump and shout and pant and lick and insist on attention, while cats will either engage in relaxed conversation, demand food or ingress/egress or otherwise will simply not give a damn about you. They take life at a sensible pace.
He was generally good company. I must admit I never warmed to him fully - we had a cat before him with whom I got on famously and I could never quite let that go - but we communed and had good times. He'd come for walks with us, which was lovely. If we walked over to the playing field or down the nearby lane he would follow us, meandering in and out of fields and doing his very best lion impression, all the time insisting loudly that we did not go too far ahead. That was a nice thing about Lola: he sought out our society.
One memorable evening I was up late with him next to me and, my music critic family safely a-bed, I got out my son's suitcase record player and put on a bit of jazz - Miles Davis's 'A Kind of Blue'. As the strains of 'So What' started, Lola got up and went over to the record player, pouring himself into one of those improbable feline outlines in front of the speakers and resting there for both sides of the album. That was the moment we became friends: he was a true jazz cat, as surely all cats are.
As his health worsened he would make a point of coming to be with us more and more. He might just sleep outside the airing cupboard where the pipes kept him warm but he would also join us on the sofa or the bed, just wanting to be nearby. His later habit of lying at the top of the stairs was perhaps not one of his better ideas. One late night visit to the loo resulted in my shuffling form giving the patient a rather vehement kick to the midriff - for which I apologised profusely I might add.
Taking him to the vet for the last visit, I was conscious of what he meant to us and to me. I made a point of having a quiet afternoon and the thought of that final appointment weighed heavily on me. Resting my hand gently on his head as the vet put him to sleep was difficult but important. He was a mate.
We came home in silence and there has been an air of passive aggresivity around the house since which I take to reflect our individual coming to terms with his departure from our lives. A death affects you deeply, even if it is 'just a pet'. It isn't ever 'just' a pet, is it?
As I put the bins out this evening it was a clear night and I looked up at the stars. I started down the path of some nonsense about him being up there looking down but I quickly realised that this was so much nonsense. I thought about what a cat would really do if it went to feline heaven.
Letting my mind run wild I imagined a barren steppe backed by snow-topped mountains and an eerie silence pervading the unearthly surroundings. Slowly, a low rumbling could be discerned from the far distance, together with a soft haze which gradually became a cloud of dust growing to fill the sky. As my mind's eye watched, I stood rooted to the spot as over the horizon came a flood of terrified tiny creatures, all fleeing for their lives from some unseen horror. All too soon the cause of their flight became apparent, for in their wake a horde of now deceased pet cats released from a life of bored, pampered domesticity were once again able to embrace their true nature, hunting as a mighty army like the furry warriors they were. This mile wide wall of bewhiskered avengers, only broken up in places by one or two stopping to groom themselves rather too graphically, investigate a hole or throw up in that convulsive way that cats have, came charging towards me and at the head, naturally, was a very handsome tabby, now back to his full healthy size, shape and sheen, his former vigour returned as his spirit had been released from its mortal prison. As they closed on me he looked over, mewled one final ecstatic meow and then carried on to pussycat heaven, forever forgetting kibble mix, Miles Davis, the airing cupboard and me.
It's utter nonsense but it's a lovely way to think about the little sod - our little sod. Wherever he is, I hope he's got a warm blanket. And his balls - so cruelly snatched from him when still a nipper.
Farewell Lola. Until we meet one day in Ashgabat!
Or some such place anyway...
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