|Audrey on the lookout for wood mice.|
It's six years this summer since Wizzy died - my Jack Russell constant companion. Lucy, an eccentric small tabby cat, died just over a year ago. And now the last of them, Audrey, named after Ms Hepburn in her little black dress, has gone. I took her to the vet on Saturday and my friend Mac came round and buried her yesterday. She's by the hedge, near the spot where she'd sit for hours, waiting for wood mice to pop out of the undergrowth. They're safe now.
It seems strange, not having to worry about where I put my coffee mug, as there's no cat to knock it over. I don't have to leave the sitting room door open, so she can come and go and she pleases. I'm not followed up and down the garden by a black cat with her tail up in the air, telling me a story that I don't understand. There's no bedtime ritual, a cat sitting on my chest, purring like crazy, having a fuss before she retires to the foot of the bed. I can't hear the cat flap clatter or the bells on her collar when she comes in from the garden, and I won't hear the cries that mean "Where have you been?" when I've been out for a few hours.
How can such a small animal leave such a big space? My friend Don, who was fond of Audrey and brought her treats every Sunday when he came for tea, isn't very tactful. When told she'd died, he said, "Well, you won't get another one, will you? If you did, it would probably outlive you," and then he laughed. He has a tendency to laugh inappropriately. He laughs every time someone's murdered in Midsomer Murders. I didn't respond but cut the conversation short. Silly man. Doesn't he know about adopting an older cat? Or cats...