Some time over the weekend, Jimmy died. I only found out this evening. He was 18 — not bad for a cat. I'd known he wouldn't make it through the winter — I'd seen how fast he was growing thin — but the news still took me by surprise. This might have been his last evening; when I photographed this the thought never crossed my mind that he might have been living through the last hours of his life.
I looked for a photograph of him to post here, but that was a bad idea. This is better.
Jimmy and Ming were both here when I arrived, and now both have gone. Now the farm is without cats. Now I'm without cats. He wasn't mine, although I was probably his. We got on pretty well.
I miss him.
All content © 2014 Pete McGregor
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6 comments:
I am so sorry. They wind their paws into our heart strings and take a piece of us with them when they leave.
(o)
I'm sorry. The loss of an old friend is hard.
But that picture looks like one of the wonderful Iron Age forts dotted around England, part fortification, part burial mound, part astrological calendar - mysterious, like death. A fitting tribute to a life no doubt richly lived.
Kia ora Pete,
Glad I got to meet Jimmy and "share" a lunch with him. He seemed very at home and no doubt he was. Condolences. If you find yourself needing a cat fix drop in and see Fred anytime. Must be getting near time for a dinner.
Robb
So sorry to read about Jimmy's passing. We lost our kitty cat Bonsai in February after spending almost 13 years with him. We still look for him at the back door to see if he wants to come in or go out. He was so much a part of our everyday-ness.
EC, thank you, and that's so true. Now I know what they're practising when they play with string ;^)
Thank you Zhoen.
RR, that's a good thought — mysterious like cats, too. He had a long life in a good environment. Despite the loss, I'm glad he didn't have to endure winter.
Kia ora Robb.I might just do that. Looking forward to catching up with you and John in the hills, too — hope that works out.
Robin, I find myself doing the same thing: expecting him to pop through the door, looking up at me, when I open it, or trotting around the corner of the house to intercept me on my way from the car to the back door late at night (he was always first through the door, too).
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