‘I’m sorry this happened to you,’ I say as I tentatively stroke the cat’s fur. He’s wet and stretched out as if in mid-bound, no sign of any trauma, other than the distinct lack of life.
‘What did you say?’
‘I told the cat I’m sorry he died,’ I say to the lady who has decided that I need her help in dealing with this but isn’t actually helping in anyway. She just wants to be part of this, without responsibility. ‘Can you watch him while I nip back to my house to get a blanket?’
‘What for?’
‘To wrap him in.’
‘No why do I need to watch him?’
I roll my eyes. If the cat was alive, we would be sharing a look right now.
‘I live just there,’ I gesture at my house two up from where we are. ‘I won’t be a second.’
I regret asking her to stay with the cat but she begrudgingly agrees. It isn’t like it’s going anywhere, but I don’t like the idea of it being there alone.
I grab a cleanish dog towel from the car and head back to the cat. I lift him gently onto the towel, again telling him I’m sorry. My reluctant helper frowns as I talk to the cat and takes a step back when I pick him up. I really don’t know why she stuck around. We part ways and I place the cat on my doorstep while I call the vet to see if they can check him for a microchip. To my surprise they ask if I can wait till the end of the day to avoid upsetting clients.
So now I need to store the cat somewhere. I glance at him in the muddy dog towel and realise I also need something better to wrap him in. I post a careful message about the cat on the neighbourhood Facebook group then go in search of a better shroud.
It’s hard. I don’t really have any old towels, they automatically become dog towels and are mud stained and smelly. So I go through my blankets, but this also isn’t easy. I don’t want to pick something to cheerful. What would the owners think if they should get in touch via Facebook and come to collect him before I take him to the vet. So, the dancing duck picnic blanket won’t do, and the cat taco fleece blanket is a definite no for obvious reasons.
I don’t want to use something that looks nice either in case the owners feel they must wash and return it, so the baby quilt is out. Finally, I remember a blue herringbone blanket of my mother’s, that I had only hung onto because it was hers. I know mum wouldn’t mind me using it for the cat, she was an animal lover.
I wrap the cat in the blanket, with some difficulty as he’s large and rigor mortis has set in. I can’t get both his tail and his face in the wrapping, so I settle on leaving his tail protruding as this is less distressing than his face with the wide staring eyes and lolling tongue.
I then ponder where to store him, I can’t leave him in the house, the dogs and my cat will be a little too interested in him. I also don’t want him in the car. I know he won’t start to smell between now and 17.00, but I still don’t want to risk it. So, he goes into the summerhouse on an old Lloyd loom which I have been meaning to fix-up.
By now my post on Facebook has gathered some comments, a few pictures of a lady’s missing cat who doesn’t look anything like the one in the summer house, I let her down gently. Helpful comments from people suggesting I go door to door as it must be a local pet. I imagine this scenario, me walking the streets ringing bells, asking people if they have a pet cat, do they know where it is, and could it possibly be the dead one in my summerhouse? No, I’m not doing that either.
Finally, 17.00 rolls round and I gather up the cat, but when I get to the car, I can’t juggle holding him and opening the door, so I have to place him on my general waste bin momentarily. My neighbour Hilary appears and hurries over, she has her phone showing a picture of a lovely tortoise shell cat.
‘Is this the cat?’
‘No, he’s a grey tabby,’ I gesture to the wrapped bundle on the bin. But it isn’t there. Its gone. Later that night I pour myself a generous glass of wine and toast my new motto – if at first you don’t succeed, hide all evidence that you ever tried. I spent a good while blocking everyone who commented on my dead cat Facebook post before deleting it. I don’t want to have to explain to a stranger that not only is their cat dead, but I’ve also lost its body.
Mind Burble
Its been more than a hot minute. I am working on a longer project at the moment and find it hard to create shorter pieces whilst doing this. I have also started the dreaded editing phase so am easily distracted …
A Year of Time 
Oh, my! This episode is so relatable and engagingly told. And as you often do, you’ve left us with a mystery! Here in North America, I’d suspect a coyote. Do you think it could’ve been a fox? (I’m assuming this is a true story.)
When my hub and I were still dating, he left me with his aging cat (whom I also loved) and went on a fishing trip way up to the wilderness of Northern British Columbia, Canada. He was far beyond cell service, so wouldn’t you know it, the beloved cat died, without veterinary assistance and with only me at her side. I didn’t know how he’d want her body handled, or if he’d want to see it to “say goodbye.” I didn’t feel it was my place to make those decisions. But he wasn’t going to be back for a good week or more. Fortunately for me, my fisherman owned a large chest freezer where he kept his catch, and — for longer than I care to admit — his cat.
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