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R.I.P., Tom, our Beloved Puss

Almost seventeen years ago, a lady from the RSPCA arrived at our home with a pair of ‘hard to place’ kittens, offspring of a feral mother. It had never occurred to me before that black was the least favourite colour for would be adopters to request. Why? Goodness knows. Superstition about witches and their familiars, perhaps?

Given the chance to name one of them, our younger son immediately decided on Tom. Not the most imaginative name for a tom cat, I suppose, but it stuck. He was Thomas on formal occasions and his subsequent paperwork for the vet. His sister became Tabitha, Tab for short.

They were so shy that we hardly saw them for the first few weeks and kept accusing each other of leaving exterior doors open. The food we left out for them always disappeared overnight, though. Tab was much warier, but Tom gradually gained enough confidence to jump up onto the sofa beside me and allow himself to be stroked. Eventually, his sister followed suit, although not before opening up my right arm from wrist to elbow with her tiny claws the first time I attempted to pick her up. I still have the scars to prove it!

Tom and Tab squabbled as siblings will and he often elbowed her out of the way when treats or a warm lap were on offer, but they were always together. Will she miss him as much as we do? It’s hard to tell with cats, but she must wonder where he is now. Unfortunately Tom, always the larger and bolder of the two, began to deteriorate last year. His back legs lost all their strength and he started to waste away. Towards the end, he was on three different types of medication, but the vet told us that there was no hope of improvement. 

We console ourselves with the knowledge that he had a comfortable life far in excess of what might have been expected when he was born. Farewell, old chap. You’ll never be forgotten.


16 March, 2018 - Make the first comment on this story

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