Queen Of Her Savannah

The cat, Plum, died three weeks ago today.

We should all go that way. On Wednesday morning she showed the first signs of illness. By two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon her back legs would not move, her tail was limp, and my son took her to the vet, where she was immediately anaesthetised for x-rays. At four o’clock, while she was still asleep, the vet rang to inform us exploratory surgery was needed. At half past four, she rang to say Plum was riddled with cancer and her spinal column had to all intents and purposes failed. While my daughter howled and my son stared into space with unseeing eyes, I agreed that Plum should be allowed to sleep for ever. She was buried in the back garden, in a box marked ‘Urgent Educational Materials’.

Plum left a twin sister, Pudding. They were rescue cats, so we didn’t really know how old they were, but the vet reckoned about thirteen or fourteen. They came to us five years ago, the first time we had had cats, or anything bigger than a hamster. We were lucky.

In her youth, Plum had evidently been a beautiful cat. She had a lovely basic shape, an elegant tail, long, delicately curved whiskers, and deep, perfectly shaped eyes. By the time she came to us the basic shape was sagging a bit in places. Being inexperienced in the ways of cats, I believed the food tins when they said these animals were self regulating eaters, and I dutifully doled out generous portions, on the assumption that I could soon gauge the exact amount needed by the amount she left. By the end of the month you could have played football with her. She was completely spherical, and I learned a few home truths about the nonsense on food tins.

Pudding was - and still is - the runt of the litter to end all runts of the litter. She has stumpy little legs, a half sized tail (naturally so, the vet says, it hasn’t been intentionally or accidentally docked) and a face that looks as if it’s been pressed up against the window far too long. Until recently she never miaowed ; the only time we ever heard Pudding emit anything like a miaow was when they had both rolled in something foul and we tried to bath them. However, Pudding’s miaow was as nothing compared to the noise I made as she clawed her way up my arm in a desperate attempt to evade the water.

Plum was my cat. The ever kittenish Pudding belonged more to the children, but Plum was mine. Two old bags together, as my son would say. She had lost most of her teeth in her old age, and her tortoiseshell was fading a little, but she insisted on her dignity, sometimes looking with despair as her sister lolled disgracefully on her back waiting for a tummy tickle. If Plum required attention, she placed herself in front of you and demanded, imperiously, with her eyes. Nothing as degraded as a tummy tickle, thank you, but a scratch under the chin would do nicely, and when I first sat down after coming in from work, she would always treat me to a series of head rubs under my chin, to return the favour. She adored being brushed, would sit on her old blue towel like Victoria on a throne, and again return the favour by vigorously licking my hand and arm.

When we first got them, they would both go stalking birds in the back garden. In the first few years Plum, to my horror, caught quite a number, and I learned to listen for that distinctive, primeval caterwaul that indicated success, from her point of view. Pudding only ever caught one bird, and seemed to have no idea what to do with it once she had. Butterflies were more her thing, and I would catch Plum looking at her with an expression of utter disgust, as if poor Pudding were a disgrace to the entire feline race.

When we first saw them at the RSPCA Animal Home, Plum and Pudding were curled up together in a basket, and the Home told us that they had to be taken as a package. That suited us; we had been looking for two cats, albeit a boy and a girl aged about 12 months. We fell in love with our two then middle aged ladies, though. And we soon learned that, however fond they became of us, nothing compared to their bond with each other.

We put two baskets by the French windows overlooking the garden, but they only ever occupied one. At night they would play hide and seek round the doors, and chase each other up and down stairs. They would curl up together on the settee and Plum would groom Pudding - it was rarely the other way round. Plum, the larger and more imperious, seemed in charge, but it was Pudding who really called the tune. If Plum was out at night without her, Pudding would keep watch by the back door for a while, go off and have a snooze, come back and have another look, and go and sit by the fire and wait. If Pudding was out on her own, Plum would go out onto the patio and look for her. If she didn’t show up, Plum would sit by the back door, staring steadily out. If Pudding had still not returned, Plum would come and weave around me, mewing insistently, before going back to the door, pacing up and down the kitchen, and mentally rehearsing the bollocking she was going to give her dirty stop out sister when she got home. When Pudding did eventually return, Plum would give her a cold stare for several moments, then turn her back and stalk into the sitting room, taking up position by the fire and waiting to be mollified. Pudding never seemed bothered. She would have her tea, wander round, say hello to us, and finally go and see her furious sister. Much arching of back, raising of hackles and growling would ensue from Plum. Pudding by and large ignored it, but if she was that way out she would respond, and they would have a major row, with spitting and hissing and the occasional claw. Plum would then retreat into a sulk, with Pudding putting on an air of complete insouciance and reporting for tummy tickle time.

Plum could never hold out. Eventually she would make a more or less dignified hop onto the settee, she and Pudding would eye each other for a moment, and then settle down for a snuggle and a groom. The only time they were ever apart was when one had to go to the vet for dental treatment.

After a few years Plum gave up catching birds, though not stalking them. We are not always the most conscientious of gardeners, and our lawn is not always fully manicured. When it got long enough to provide a bit of cover, there would be Plum, hunkering down to observe some perfectly aware magpie or pigeon, stealthily creeping forward, her tail swishing and her ears pricked, until the bird got tired of the game and flew away. At which point she would sit up and pretend she’d just been out for a stroll. Eventually the only catch the caterwaul indicated was her bedraggled fluffy pink mouse, which she insisted on hunting and bringing proudly to our feet, even when most of the fluff had gone and new toys lay unregarded by the scratching post. One of her nicknames was ‘Queen of the Savannah’.

We sometimes talked about what one would do if anything happened to the other. It was something we could not imagine. They were two halves of a whole. One without the other was unthinkable.

Until three weeks ago.

On the first night, Pudding did the routine of looking for Plum at the back door, then going to sit by the fire and waiting. When I came down the next morning she was sitting by the door staring intently through the glass. When I opened it she shot out onto the patio, and looked round the garden. Then she looked back at me and came back in.

When she first felt ill, Plum went to their bolt hole, under my daughter’s bed. Pudding spent some time with her there. My son swears something passed between them then, that Pudding knew this was something extraordinary. Certainly when we brought Plum home from the vet in her travelling box, Pudding did not rush to see her as she usually did when Plum came home after losing yet more teeth. She too went under the bed, and did not come out until after Plum was in her grave, with her pink mouse.

Pudding sleeps for most of the day, while we are out of the house, as she has done for the last couple of years. As soon as we are back she comes to greet us, and rarely leaves our side. She snuggles up to us, nudging our hands with her head if she feels ignored. She is eating well and does not seem actively unhappy. She has even miaowed, quietly and a little hoarsely, now that there is no-one to do her miaowing for her. She no longer looks for Plum, and we too have returned to normal. I have not cried once, writing this, but have smiled several times at the memories. I have even been able to get cross with Pudding for scratching the furniture again.

In our garden, there is a little circle of stones. We are waiting for the right weather to plant the shrub we have chosen. And in the middle of the circle is a small plaque: Plum. Beloved Sister and Queen Of Her Savannah.

No, I lied. Here come the tears.