As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. He’s been caught almost red-handed climbing the curtains.
Of course, he is all innocence, because the evidence is circumstantial. He was sitting on the window ledge looking out, thinking ‘if only I could get out there’.
Now he’s thinking how much trouble he’s in and whether it will be his least favorite cat food for dinner.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. He’s been caught almost red-handed climbing the curtains.
Of course, he is all innocence, because the evidence is circumstantial. He was sitting on the window ledge looking out, thinking ‘if only I could get out there’.
Now he’s thinking how much trouble he’s in and whether it will be his least favorite cat food for dinner.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. Back on the bed.
Another argument lost, another smug ‘I’ve got the better of you, again’ look.
Time to move on, pick a battle I think I can win.
Food. There’s the old wives tale, that cats love fish, and it’s true to a certain extent.
Chester doesn’t believe fish live in cans or plastic packets, despite how it’s dressed up. Fresh fish, he’s into it, but there always seems to be a measured reluctance to eat something out of a can.
I think he regards us humans with disdain when our food comes out of a can or packet.
He refuses to eat the leftovers!
Then there’s chicken, or its more expensive neighbor, turkey.
He loves turkey.
I’m sure he’d eat quail and spatchcock too, but no, he’s a cat, and cats have to get used to eating chicken. We’ve had this discussion, one too many times.
And just for good measure, I told him if he thinks he’s coming to Italy with us, he’d better get used to the idea of eating pasta.
Of course, always with the last word, he said, quite nonchalantly, ‘then you’d better call me Garfield’.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. Back on the bed.
Another argument lost, another smug ‘I’ve got the better of you, again’ look.
Time to move on, pick a battle I think I can win.
Food. There’s the old wives tale, that cats love fish, and it’s true to a certain extent.
Chester doesn’t believe fish live in cans or plastic packets, despite how it’s dressed up. Fresh fish, he’s into it, but there always seems to be a measured reluctance to eat something out of a can.
I think he regards us humans with disdain when our food comes out of a can or packet.
He refuses to eat the leftovers!
Then there’s chicken, or its more expensive neighbor, turkey.
He loves turkey.
I’m sure he’d eat quail and spatchcock too, but no, he’s a cat, and cats have to get used to eating chicken. We’ve had this discussion, one too many times.
And just for good measure, I told him if he thinks he’s coming to Italy with us, he’d better get used to the idea of eating pasta.
Of course, always with the last word, he said, quite nonchalantly, ‘then you’d better call me Garfield’.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. T for Tonkinese, capital T for trouble.
If you think you can win an argument with a Tonkinese you are sadly mistaken!
So, we got over the abandonment issues, and have moved onto the sleeping arrangements. There seems to be some misconceptions on Chester’s part.
He thinks the bed is his domain.
Right.
We have provided him with several very comfortable, warn, and inviting places about the house where is he quite welcome to sleep, or keep a watchful eye over his domain.
That’s right, I thought I owned the house.
He has his own bed in our room where he can stay when he feels lonely, but it seems he has to be near us.
When he’s not walking across the bed, and us, or ‘resting’ on our feet.
And if we move, you’d think we’d taken a big stick to him.
Come to think of it …
Just to show his displeasure at his bed, the blankets always seem to be on the floor, and when I ask what happened, it was, of course, Mr Nobody.
After I’ve picked them up six times in a day, I ask him what his last slave died of?
And there’s the Siamese coming out, a snarl, and then aloof dismissal.
There is banishment to the great outdoors, but that’s another story.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
Even now, I still believe he is here with us, in spirit, though sometimes I swear I hear him coming down the passage, or is sitting on the floor, behind me in the office, waiting to hear the next piece of writing and offer his often sage comments.
But, no. When I turn around he’s not there, and I stop, for a moment or two, and remember.
…
This was Chester.
For a few days, we have been monitoring Chester.
He hasn’t been talkative, in fact, I have been mistaking his usual taciturn nature in the mornings for what it really was.
A total lack of interest in anything.
He did not come down in the morning. OK, so, sometimes he cracks a hissy fit and totally ignores me.
But, this is different.
After a few days he returns and gives me the benefit of his wisdom.
Today, he hasn’t shown at all, so I went looking for him.
He was in his usual hiding spot, lying down. I give him a pat, he opes his eyes and looks at me. This is a cat who is not well.
I pick him up, and there’s no immediate fight back. He doesn’t normally like to be carried anywhere. Today, he’s putty in my hands.
I call the vet. She can fit him in now if I run. I’m running.
He goes into his carry basket without a fight. OK, now I know something is definitely wrong.
There’s not a sound between home and the clinic. Usually, he screams the place down, trying to get him into the carrier, and then makes as much noise as possible when driving.
Today there is nothing, not even a whimper.
The vet comes out. She has been seeing him for the last ten years and they are well acquainted.
We see her every six months. Without fail, for shots and stuff.
I take him out of the carrier and he lies down on the metal bench.
She looks at him, then picks him up.
She weighs him.
He’s lost two kilos, and that’s a lot for a cat.
I can see it’s bad news.
It is.
He’s 19 years old, long past the average life expectancy.
To keep him alive now would be inhumane. He has, apparently, reached the end of his life, and has lost the desire to eat or to do anything. There was nothing I could have done to prevent it.
She says, it just happens.
It will be quick and it will be painless.
I can see in his eyes that it’s what he wants.
I said goodbye, went outside and sat in the car, and cried.
There’s going to be a lot more tears before this day is out.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
Even now, I still believe he is here with us, in spirit, though sometimes I swear I hear him coming down the passage, or is sitting on the floor, behind me in the office, waiting to hear the next piece of writing and offer his often sage comments.
But, no. When I turn around he’s not there, and I stop, for a moment or two, and remember.
…
This was Chester.
For a few days, we have been monitoring Chester.
He hasn’t been talkative, in fact, I have been mistaking his usual taciturn nature in the mornings for what it really was.
A total lack of interest in anything.
He did not come down in the morning. OK, so, sometimes he cracks a hissy fit and totally ignores me.
But, this is different.
After a few days he returns and gives me the benefit of his wisdom.
Today, he hasn’t shown at all, so I went looking for him.
He was in his usual hiding spot, lying down. I give him a pat, he opes his eyes and looks at me. This is a cat who is not well.
I pick him up, and there’s no immediate fight back. He doesn’t normally like to be carried anywhere. Today, he’s putty in my hands.
I call the vet. She can fit him in now if I run. I’m running.
He goes into his carry basket without a fight. OK, now I know something is definitely wrong.
There’s not a sound between home and the clinic. Usually, he screams the place down, trying to get him into the carrier, and then makes as much noise as possible when driving.
Today there is nothing, not even a whimper.
The vet comes out. She has been seeing him for the last ten years and they are well acquainted.
We see her every six months. Without fail, for shots and stuff.
I take him out of the carrier and he lies down on the metal bench.
She looks at him, then picks him up.
She weighs him.
He’s lost two kilos, and that’s a lot for a cat.
I can see it’s bad news.
It is.
He’s 19 years old, long past the average life expectancy.
To keep him alive now would be inhumane. He has, apparently, reached the end of his life, and has lost the desire to eat or to do anything. There was nothing I could have done to prevent it.
She says, it just happens.
It will be quick and it will be painless.
I can see in his eyes that it’s what he wants.
I said goodbye, went outside and sat in the car, and cried.
There’s going to be a lot more tears before this day is out.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester.
Not everything is fine in la-la-land, as he now calls it.
Not happy that I didn’t tell him about the second week of child invasion.
He should consider himself lucky that the school week started on Tuesday, and only one was staying home to do schoolwork.
The other has been able to return to the classroom.
One less tormentor, I heard him mutter as he slinked past the room where the homeschooler was working.
But a more sinister problem had arisen.
He’s stopped eating his food. I first thought this was part of a two-week standoff, where he cuts his nose off to spite his face.
This is not the first time we’ve been through this.
So, just to see if it is a fit of pique, I get him his absolute favorite food. Fresh Atlantic Salmon cut into small pieces just the way he likes it.
Yes, the aroma reaches him in his hiding spot, along with the call-out that I’d bought him salmon, but when he goes to the bowl, he takes a sniff, or two, then wanders away.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 