MISSING YOU
Prompt - Missing You : Write about someone you miss dearly
A few days ago my wife received some sad news. Her daughter tearfully informed her that Lulu, the family labrador, had had to be put down. They, were devastated. The dog was always there, always trying to get more food, always ready for walk and play. My wife was upset too, having visited often enough that Lulu felt like one of her grandchildren. I had hardly ever met the pooch, so the emotional impact was lesser for me, and I was able to listen and try to console as best I could. But, perhaps inevitably, our conversation drifted back to our own sad memories.
The prompt says I should write about 'someone' I miss. Many people, those who haven't had pets, would say that 'someone' should be a human person, not an animal. Personal experience tells me otherwise.
From the end of the nineties onwards we seemed to have a death of someone close to us at the rate of around one per year. First off it was my mother in law. Then my dad, followed by Barbara's brother and, a year later, his widow. The year after that it was my mum. It ended in 2006 with the death of Rummy, our ginger cat. And that proved the hardest one to take.
I'd had Rummy since before we lived together. He'd been a bit of a lifesaver for me at a bad time in my life, the one creature in my life that asked for no more than food and affection. I'd got him form the RSPCA, at about ten months old, and he had a very independent nature even then. Gangly and awkward looking, he matured into a real beauty, with clean white chest and amber eyes.
He developed quite personality. Smart and adventurous, he loved to be outside and patrolling his domain, but had his ways of getting what he wanted inside as well. When he first arrived there was another cat in the house, a Siamese belonging to my first wife. The latter tried to terrorise the newcomer at first, but after a few months she could see who was top cat in this relationship and kept her distance. She had a liking for a bit of buttered toast, and my then wife would give her a bit at breakfast time. The Siamese would sit at her feet, crying out for the morsel, waiting for it to be taken to her feeding mat. Rummy would be curled up on a stool, looking half asleep, but with one eye keeping a lookout. By the time the toast hit the floor her was always the first one there.
Then there was the time he brought a chicken home. Not a live one - a fresh roast. A neighbour must have left it by the window to cool, unattended, and... He was reluctant to give it up at first, but he got fed on it for three days. I didn't dare go round the doors nearby asking!
When Barbara first met him I was nervous. If they didn't take to one another what would I do? I really didn't want to have to do without either! Fortunately it was a mutual love-in. And while he was always very much 'my' cat, she got her share of his affection - and demands.
There would be another cat, Millie, to join him later, but she was small and timid and tried to emulate her new friend. He would tolerate her, use her as a pillow, and sometimes snap at her if she got a bit too clingy. But we frequently found them asleep together in one radiator hammock, it's fellow alongside left empty.
Rummy didn't bring home any more roasts, but there were a few wild birds, alive or dead. And a homing pigeon, much to the disgust of the man a few doors down who turned up to collect our cat's prize. What did he expect - for a cat not to be a cat?
He was such a major part of our daily lives, and not just at mealtimes. When he wanted atention I'd get head buted in the chin until I did as he wished. He liked to lie on top of me, claws going in-out in-out. Old sweaters were de rigueur at home. On nice days he'd be let out in the morning and when we got home, especially if it was later than usual, he'd be there, coming up the path mouthing off at us for being late with his dinner. Or, if he'd had to stay in all day, opening the front door a fraction would unleash a ginger missile that whizzed by our legs and out for a bit of fresh air. (Though he might be back in seconds if the rain was heavy!)
The decline in his health was rapid, and the decision to have him put down an obvious one. We stayed with him as the lethal drugs too effect, watching his final breath and that little pink tongue protruding - I can never forget the tongue. We went home tearfully, and were upset for a few days. Talking it over we realised that he was the greatest of all the those losses we'd had. Parents and siblings we saw infrequently. But take away a being that's such a major part of the daily routine and it's like removing a piece of yourself. It was only when he was gone that we fully realised how much our lives were geared around his needs and wants. Poor Millie looked bereft for days, always seemed to be looking for the one she looked up to.
Months later we were on the M6, the sun was shining, and a sad song came on. I Will Remember You. And suddenly I could hardly see the road ahead, as the tears flowed and my chest heaved. A sudden reminder of how much I still missed that ginger athlete. I still can't hear that song without thinking of him, without my eyes going a bit moist. He meant that much.
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