Wilted White Whiskers – Dead Deer

Picture: Malcolm, b. 1994 Kingston upon Hull d. 2009 Santa Tecla, here pictured in Lowestoft 1998

The old man lies now, would you believe, under a banana tree in a garden in Central America. What a life for a cankerous, wonderful old cat. He’d seen a bit of the world, had he, and he didn’t, if truth be told, think much of any of it.

Bad tempered and cold, certainly, haughty with other cats at best. His disdain for any non feline organisms put this deep into the shade, however. Yes he would often be seen waiting by a door merely to lash out at any passers-by. But he was amongst the truest and dearest friends I have ever had.

A black cat at heart he had been dipped in snow white fur much further than he may have wished. As his whiskers became greyer his white belly sagged and flopped as he walked increasingly. His broad black back had that unique white circle about two thirds of the way back, slightly to the left.

Those so, so, rare occasions where he would lower himself sufficiently to sit on a human would be golden. Despite his lack of tactile affection me and he were great mates and I would talk with him for hours. He would be up – always the higher the better, always searching for a loftier throne to look down at the world from, somewhere worthy of him – sitting on an open door, or a tall cupboard and watching with keen interest. In a species know for it’s knowingness he stood out for his intelligence and that look he would give you. “I see you. IĀ know you” he would be saying.

Well, I was lucky to know you, Malcolm, and still I miss you every day.

Today I wrote from 21:04 to 21:14. I was prompted by ideasĀ here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

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