Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [74]
Whatever, today the tortoiseshell cat was showing even more interest in the garden than ever. Maybe it was just those leaves swirling around out there or perhaps she did want to escape. To date, I hadn’t let her out. There hadn’t seemed much point when she could hardly move. But maybe no harm could come from now letting her out on to the patio. Let it be a test run – or rather a test hobble.
‘Come on then, little one. We’ll give it a try.’ I opened one of the doors and she stiffly got to her feet and slowly limped on to the patio where she flopped down again in a pool of sunshine.
It was then I spotted the cat in the shrubbery – the broad head of a tom. A large, black tom with saucer-shaped, mint-green eyes … eyes that were fixed intently on the tortoiseshell cat. After a few minutes, he slipped from the bushes and padded up to her, his tail straight as a flag pole. He circled her, clearly puzzled as to why she didn’t get up to greet this fine gentleman who was paying his respects. But he behaved with impeccable manners and backed off to sit a few feet away and give his whiskers a perfunctory wash.
Having seen the tortoiseshell cat’s disdain of our three cats, I was surprised when she suddenly struggled to her feet and limped slowly over to him. Courteous to a fault, he stopped his ablutions and stood up. She drew nearer, their noses touched. A friendship was struck.
From that moment on, the little tortoiseshell improved mentally and physically. She showed much more interest in life. Whereas before, I had to go and find her, and entice her to eat, she now walked stiffly into the kitchen, rubbed herself against my legs and demanded her breakfast with a loud purr. She began to move about more easily, always eager to be let out, weather permitting, and was soon able to negotiate the steps from the patio on to the lawn.
The black cat continued to visit, his broad, beaming face suddenly appearing in the lower right-hand pane of the French windows where the little tortoiseshell began to wait for him, eager for his companionship.
By now, she’d gained as much use of her hind legs as she was likely to, the wasted muscles of her right leg the only sign of permanent damage. It meant she couldn’t jump on to my lap like she used to when she first visited Willow Wren; but now, even if I lifted her up, she never stayed long. She spent most of her time by the French windows as if biding her time until she was fit enough to leave us altogether. So the day she vanished came as no real surprise.
‘Just hope she’s OK,’ I said to Lucy, staring out at the blanket of soggy leaves which now covered the patio and lawn.
‘Don’t fret,’ replied Lucy. ‘She’s an independent sort. She wasn’t going to stay for ever.’ I was waiting for her to add ‘like me’, for there were echoes of Lucy in that cat’s character. I just prayed that she wouldn’t get it into her head to leave me as well.
The next day, I did begin to fret. The weather had turned atrocious. Heavy, black clouds scudded across a dismal, lowering, grey sky. Rain lashed down, pelting against the windows. Surely the little tortoiseshell would have been happier indoors, stretched out in front of the fire, enjoying the warmth, enjoying the regular meals – even if she didn’t have the black cat for company.
The black cat. It suddenly struck me, he hadn’t been seen for the last few days – ever since the tortoiseshell had gone missing. Yes, that black tom … I pictured him at the French window. Then another image came to mind: another black cat framed in a pane of glass. The cat in Major Fitzherbert