Many, many moons ago when I was eleven, one summer’s day I was riding my bike up by the old farmyard now the site of several boxy, gated executive homes, when I came across a scruffy, stray ginger tom cat. As I stopped to stroke this forlorn looking thing it suddenly leapt onto my shoulder, lodging itself like a furry parrot and stubbornly refused to budge. When my mum returned home she was horrified – and immediately resigned – to the fact that we now had a new family pet happily tucking into her tin of Carnation cream intended for strawberries and an afternoon watching Wimbledon. From thereon, Tiger became a focal point of the household for the next decade and more.
The day he finally passed away, I went into work after leaving him with the local vet, eyes swollen and in somewhat of a daze; the office girls wondered whether I was hungover again but this was far worse. No more would I witness his regular habit of free falling from my bedroom window ledge, a ginger blur whizzing past the dining room as I sat at the table. The old boy, whilst still having a head for heights, had become a bit unsteady on his feet in later life; fortunately, he always seemed to land on them. Having left home shortly after Tiger passed on it seemed only natural that I should get a cat too.
I have always found cats of all sizes fascinating creatures admiring their independence and self-sufficiency aligned to their grace and power. There was a compelling wildlife documentary I remember narrated by Sir David Attenborough, which chronicled the rise and fall of a once mighty lion. From being the undisputed king of the pride, having the first pick of the best mates – “the lion casually picks his conquest from the pack of willing suitors, the chosen one resists mildly before acquiescing to his desires and soon, pleasures granted, it is time for a sleep in the sun before dinner is served” – I so wanted that life. However, the closing scenes were of this old lion cast out on a hilltop to await his fate, having been usurped by a younger, stronger male and banished to the wilderness; there was surely something prophetic here.
My best mate Jane and I decided to go to the Cats’ Protection League and rescue some poor feline in need of a new home. I have no idea what first attracted me to this skinny black and white cat with piercing, manic green eyes but maybe it was the Proprietor’s assurances that he was a “house cat, very quiet, almost laid back”. She might as well have said “one careful owner, nice runner, bargain buy!” and stood there with a sheepskin coat and a pork pie hat. Jane was simply happy in that sisterly kind of way knowing that I now had “company” in my new found independence and she could stop worrying.
The trade was done and we returned with this seven month old moggie – fortunately with his “bits” removed – like new parents. Soon I was alone in my new home with my new cat and the stand off began. He simply refused to move from the top of the stairs and fixed those big eyes firmly on me. There would be only one winner in this staring contest and so I gave in and went to the pub, leaving him to sort out his own supper and scratch about in the newly acquired litter tray; I would need a stiff drink to come back to clean that out and a pattern had been set.
From very early on every time I returned home, my new found friend would head for the cat flap in search of some delicacy other than Whiskas; we were like passing ships in the night keeping entirely opposite hours. Of course I needed a name and was struggling so much that one day whilst out working I resigned myself to naming him after the next street name I drove past. It came to be then, that I named him Gladstone after a small row of terraces in Yeadon, just outside Leeds. It was not long before I shortened this to Glad and even then it was strange shouting out into the dark night air “Glad, Glad oh Gladdy!!!”
It became clear that this was no dumb feline and it was easy to see that Glad quickly had life well and truly sussed. He knew instantly that relying on a half drunken bachelor to feed him for the rest of his life was not a good plan and so he quickly became the darling of the neighbours and also an expert and brutally efficient hunter of all kinds of prey. Often I came home to the tell tale sounds of Glad wailing in cat lingo “I’ve caught something again and even though I’ve almost ripped its head off I thought you might want to look first”. They say that when a cat brings home a kill it’s really a gift which must have made Glad the most generous cat ever. He used to punch his prey around the house almost taunting them “I’m the greatest, you cant hit me, come on sucker…fight back!” And when boredom set in the game was over.
Sometimes the half eaten prey somehow managed to escape, albeit temporarily, as there were few survival options. One afternoon Glad was in my bedroom amongst a mass of feathers and bits of bird all over the room. He was howling up at the curtain pole “don’t think you can escape me up there, once he’s gone I’ll rip these shitty curtains down”! I honestly thought – and hoped – that the intended prey had actually escaped through the window with only a savage haircut to suffer. As I pulled the curtains back, suddenly a half eaten sparrow dropped onto my head, bounced off my shoulder and into the awaiting jaws of Glad who, I swear, winked, stuck up a paw for a high five and said “cheers mate!” It was the closest I came to having a heart attack in my twenties.
When I moved house the adjacent fields must have appeared like the plains of the Serengeti to Glad in terms of the array of new prey on offer. Sometimes the “gifts” were that big they obscured the magnet on his collar that gained him entrance through the cat flap. If I got advanced warning I would stop him on the doorstep only for him to say “okay then the dumb mouse gets it here!” and after a bit of show-boating the mechanical jaws got crunching again followed by a “can I come in now?” In he would stroll, take a sip of milk and retire to his chosen sleeping spot, a quick lick and a bit of preening and then a slow close of the eyes.
How on Earth he managed one night to bring home a rat almost as big as him, I will never know. I was watching television, laid out on the sofa when I heard the tell tale cries “I’m home, look what I’ve brought for you tonight…try this one for size!” For some reason I did not react immediately and then I heard a thud on the floorboards and, to my horror, he had dragged this massive – and fortunately dead – rat into the room. I went white as he just sat there assessing the prey and a week’s equivalent of Whiskas with that look on his face that said “pretty good, eh?” I just looked at this thing in horror and did the only thing a mate could do: took it down the road, placed it on the doorstep of some friends and awaited the screams the next morning as Big Al brought the milk in. May as well share the fear!
As I mentioned Glad was a supreme socialite and very soon he had been unofficially adopted by my new neighbours who were very keen on barbecues from early spring well into the late autumnal nights. It soon became clear to both Glad and I that the chances of a decent feed had improved markedly with Phil the Grill now in situ and his young wife Michelle’s love of boosting the local Marks and Spencer food hall sales. Cricket seasons now became more an anticipation of what would be on the grill when I eventually rolled home, safe in the knowledge that the neighbours and Glad would be snoozing under the gazebo, bellies full having had a good old feast leaving scraps to plunder and ruling out the Khyber in the village as a late night option.
Sometimes The Grill would place chunks of salmon so large on a plate for Glad I would fight him for the best bits but a swift claw and a “try it if you dare, remember I’ll get you when you’re sleeping son” soon re-established the boundaries. Inevitably Glad now began to use The Grill’s house as a holiday home and he and I were ever more passing ships in the night. He could though be territorial as one or two girlfriends commented. Indeed when I reminisced with one as to how we eventually parted she said “on good terms although Glad gave me one final claw on my leg and stuck a paw up as if to say ‘see ya, told you it wouldn’t last’ “
If I was planning a romantic night – sheets washed, Dyson out, new candles – he had an uncanny ability to limit my chances of replicating the old lion waiting until I vanished to the supermarket to pick up a slab of mince to cook yet more chilli, the only dish I knew. When I returned there would be yet more carnage all over the house and, to cap it all, he regularly did a muddy dance on my bed leaving paw prints making the duvet look like an African print. If I did make progress you could be sure that he would test the lady in question skilfully bringing in a mouse with some life left in it to finish the kill indoors. If all else failed he would simply jump on the bed with a “budge up then” and curl up alongside her.
There seemed to be a real possibility that the RSPCA may come visiting at some point given the drastic reduction in the numbers of mice and birds on the Idle Plains and whisk Glad away on charges of genocide. For me this clearly had its plus points as it saved me a fortune on cat food and, courtesy of The Grill, my diet was improving markedly too. Life was almost perfect and Glad seemed like he would live forever, almost as if he was invincible.
The end was slow, painfully sad and the most heart breaking thing I have ever witnessed in my entire life. The gifts started to dry up and his appetite did too; not even the best on offer from next door could turn the old hunter around and, like the lion in the documentary, Glad seemed fixed to a spot on my bed almost knowing his time had come. Mice came to the door and sparrows peered through the window with sad, teary faces knowing their chief tormentor was fading fast and the fun was almost over. I went to work for days on end hoping, in truth, to come home and find him peacefully at rest.
Despite being offered a variety of “possible” treatments by the vet which seemed only to guarantee a fat bill it was inescapable and I knew it was time. One bright Saturday morning, tears welling up (big boys don’t cry?) I put him into the basket he always hated only this time I lost no skin or blood as he slunk into a corner, with no more fight left in him. When the vet’s door opened I wanted to run out and see if he had just one last chance but soon he was on the table and he just looked at me almost saying “thanks mate, it’s been a blast…sorry about the rat”
The young vet’s assistant was extremely buxom, very pretty and most of all gentle with my old mate. As she cradled Glad it struck me that this was not a bad way to go in the comforting chest of a beautiful young woman. The fluid drained from the needle almost in unison with the glint from the old warrior’s eyes and in an instant Gladstone had gone. I went home, sat in the middle of my seemingly desolate living room and cried like a baby.
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