Farewell to Miss Cat


Well, it ended today. You will have gathered from the last post but one that all was not well. Final diagnosis was lymphosarcoma of the spinal cord. She was in quite good spirits last night, but when she found in the morning she was unable to stand, you could see she had had enough. We went to the vet’s, where she was on a drip anyway, so they just put something else in the drip, and she faded away very discreetly, her eyes moony with morphine. The transition from druggy doze to oblivion was absolutely imperceptible She is buried in a clearing in the wood, her personal hunting ground, and the rest of us, of course, suffer the inevitable downside of falling in love with small animals, which is just as awful as it always is. But it has to be said, Miss Cat had an extraordinarily happy life as tiger by day, soft toy by night, and the process of decline was mercifully rapid, at least from her point of view, only a week really; there hasn’t been a long, horrible interlude of drips and catheters, which she would have hated, and she was only into the vet’s three times. All of you who have been keeping in touch by email – sorry, I can’t face writing the same thing over and over again. Thanks for your concern – sorry about these horrible clichés but it’s the best I can do.

7 Responses to “Farewell to Miss Cat”

  1. The other German Guest Says:

    Jane, Peter, I am somewhat speechless, certainly did not see this coming after the last entry. My thoughts are with you - and Miss Cat.

  2. Arnold Says:

    I am so sorry.

  3. Eleanor Says:

    Lovely picture. Bless good old Miss Cat.

  4. Arnold Says:

    ‘Cat Logic’ (by Gavin Ewart)

    Cat sentimentality is a human thing. Cats
    are indifferent, their minds can’t comprehend
    the concept ‘I shall die’, they just go on living.
    Death is more foreign to their thought than
    to us the idea of a lime-green lobster. That’s
    why holding these warm containers of purring fur
    is poignant, that they just don’t know.
    Life is in them, like the brandy in the bottle.

    One morning a cat wakes up, and doesn’t feel
    disposed to eat or wash or walk. It doesn’t panic
    or scream: ‘My last hour has come!’ It
    simply fades. Cats never go grey at the edges
    like us, they don’t even look old. Peter Pans,
    insouciant. No wonder people identify with cats.

  5. The Canadian Professor Says:

    High noon & by myself when I opened the post for Miss Cat. OOH aloud to the photo & recollections of her, dealing with Dido with a paw, fetching up in the middle of the night on my bed on her rounds.

  6. Lula Mae Says:

    I accidentally came across this blog post today, and I was quite shocked to read it. I was looking for something about Gavin Ewart’s works and I when I started reading, I just couldn’t stop… My dog died that very same day! It suddenly came everything all over again, and I felt a connection with your sorrow, even if it’s been 6 months already…
    Sorry, somehow I felt I should say…

  7. site admin Says:

    Yes, I found your message doing the blog’s ‘housekeeping’, and looked back. I was quite desolate; I still miss her hugely. There is a splendidly inventive and impudent kitten now, of whom I am fond, but I mourn my wise & discreet companion. Miss Kit will be a fine cat too, one day. But thinking back to still earlier cats — Miss Cat’s predecessor, and the one before that, the memories now are of unalloyed happiness, the peculiar flavours of their respective personalities, the things they did, the ways they related to me. In this area of human life, time does mend matters. You can just be happy about having had them.

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