A LONE fairy light placed at the bottom of a damaged tree flashed on, off, on...off.
A bouquet of flowers nearby suggested it had been placed in memory of someone for whom Christmas last year was never meant to be.
I thought of my little cat, Belle, who had passed away the previous night – December 19 - at the grand old age of 18 (and two thirds) and I remembered her arrival at home as a five-week-old kitten.
It wasn’t the best of starts – she hissed and spat as we attempted to free her and her smaller, at that time weaker, brother Sebastian from the transporter in which we had brought them home. It was clear she was spirited though. A fighter.
Within minutes she had pulled herself up a flight of stairs, each step at least twice her size, and was busy mapping out the house, her watery kitten eyes checking out her new surroundings, her new life.
Sebastian was a cat in the proper sense. She was the dominant one, the brains of the two. She knew what she wanted and how to get it. She would stare at you, sometimes with one eye cutely closed, until you acknowledged her and would then roll around knowing she had made a connection, kicking the air with all four paws before asking for whatever it was she desired.
Belle taught me that a cat could express itself through the look in its eyes; occasional sadness, disappointment, sometimes concern, but mostly contentment, playfulness and a quest for attention which she always got.
Often Seb would be asleep on a chair by the radiator and she would simply stand right in front of him until he clambered down ready for a confrontation she would simply ignore, walking past him and taking position exactly where he had been moments before. She always got away with that. He only knew A to B and the aim was to get there ASAP. Belle gave the impression that she understood the inbetweens – what happens when you make your way from beginning to end.
She was a lazy cat, one that appreciated the comforts in life, spending as much time as possible on the bed – often almost pushing me out during the night.
In later years she developed an obsession with milk (lactose free!) and a certain brand of treat which I had to deliver minutes after the alarm went off in the morning. Often she was the alarm – miaowing loudly, which made up for the fact she rarely purred (more snuffled) until she was about 15, though could sound like a duck or seagull - clambering all over you and tapping you on the face at almost exactly the time it was due to go off.
She even knew – obviously not taking into account the odd trip to the shop, pub visit and gym session – when I was due to arrive home from work, waiting behind the door ready to impolitely request her second pot of milk and pawful of treats.
The demanding miaows got louder after Seb died and she asserted herself, following me about, settling on my lap whenever I sat down. I always gave in to whatever she asked for and I’m glad that I did.
She was a beautiful, confident cat and the last thing I said to her was that I loved her “more than the world, billions of pounds”. She knew that anyway. I told her every day.
As I glanced over at the tree the morning after her last evening, the light twinkled on, off, on, off… but when I turned back for one last look it flashed back on. I didn’t check again. Didn’t want to. Didn’t need to.