On Missing Mr Pussy
In these dreamy days of high summer, I often think of my old cat Mr Pussy
While Londoners luxuriate in the warmth of summer, I miss Mr Pussy who endured the hindrance of a fur coat, spending his languorous days stretched out upon the floor in a heat-induced stupor.
As the sun reached its zenith, his activity declined and he sought the deep shadow, the cooling breeze and the bare wooden floor to stretch out and fall into a deep trance that could transport him far away to the loss of his physical being. Mr Pussy’s refined nature was such that even these testing conditions provided an opportunity for him to show grace, transcending dreamy resignation to explore an area of meditation of which he was the supreme proponent.
In the early morning and late afternoon, you would see him on the first floor window sill here in Spitalfields, taking advantage of the draught of air through the house. With his aristocratic attitude, Mr Pussy took amusement in watching the passersby from his high vantage point on the street frontage and enjoyed lapping water from his dish on the kitchen window sill at the back of the house, where in the evenings he also liked to look down upon the foxes gambolling in the yard.
Whereas in winter it was Mr Pussy’s custom to curl up in a ball to exclude drafts, in these balmy days he preferred to stretch out to maximize the air flow around his body. There was a familiar sequence to his actions, as particular as stages in yoga. Finding a sympathetic location with the advantage of cross currents and shade from direct light, at first Mr Pussy sat to consider the suitability of the circumstance before rolling onto his side and releasing the muscles in his limbs, revealing that he was irrevocably set upon the path of total relaxation.
Delighting in the sensuous moment, Mr Pussy stretched out to his maximum length of over three feet long, curling his spine and splaying his legs at angles, creating an impression of the frozen moment of a leap, just like those wooden horses on fairground rides. Extending every muscle and toe, his glinting claws unsheathed and his eyes widened gleaming gold, until the stretch reached it full extent and subsided in the manner of a wave upon the ocean, as Mr Pussy slackened his limbs to lie peacefully with heavy lids descending.
In this position that resembled a carcass on the floor, Mr Pussy could undertake his journey into dreams, apparent by his twitching eyelids and limbs as he ran through the dark forest of his feline unconscious where prey were to be found in abundance. Vulnerable as an infant, sometimes Mr Pussy cried to himself in his dream, an internal murmur of indeterminate emotion, evoking a mysterious fantasy that I could never be party to. It was somewhere beyond thought or language. I could only wonder if his arcadia was like that in Paolo Uccello’s “Hunt in the Forest” or whether Mr Pussy’s dreamscape resembled the watermeadows of the River Exe, the location of his youthful safaris.
There was another stage, beyond dreams, signalled when Mr Pussy rolled onto his back with his front paws distended like a child in the womb, almost in prayer. His back legs splayed to either side, his head tilted back, his jaw loosened and his mouth opened a little, just sufficient to release his shallow breath – and Mr Pussy was gone. Silent and inanimate, he looked like a baby and yet very old at the same time. The heat relaxed Mr Pussy’s connection to the world and he fell, he let himself go far away on a spiritual odyssey. It was somewhere deep and somewhere cool, he was out of his body, released from the fur coat at last.
Startled upon awakening from his trance, like a deep-sea diver ascending too quickly, Mr Pussy squinted at me as he recovered recognition, giving his brains a good shake, once the heat of the day had subsided. Lolloping down the stairs, still loose-limbed, he strolled out of the house into the garden and took a dust bath under a tree, spending the next hour washing it out and thereby cleansing the sticky perspiration from his fur.
Regrettably the climatic conditions that subdued Mr Pussy by day, also enlivened him by night. At first light, when the dawn chorus commenced, he stood on the floor at my bedside, scratched a little and called to me. I woke to discover two golden eyes filling my field of vision. I rolled over at my peril, because this provoked Mr Pussy to walk to the end of the bed and scratch my toes sticking out under the sheet, causing me to wake again with a cry of pain. I miss having no choice but to rise, accepting his forceful invitation to appreciate the manifold joys of early morning in summer in Spitalfields, because it was not an entirely unwelcome obligation.
You may also like to read
Mr Pussy Gives his First Interview
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I share your loss, Gentle Author.
There are times remembrances of Caesar come back and hit me so hard I cry. Times I am lying with Diana’s head in my lap that I am reminded of Ramses, which is unfair to her but not enough for him. I cradle her at night and think of Caesar and Ramses and think about the time to come when she will be an memory too and my arms will be empty.
Cats live longer than dogs but it’s still not long enough. If there is a God, the one mistake he made creating this world was to limit the lifespans of our cat and dog companions. While that allows us to love more of them in our lifetimes, it also burdens us with the loss of our so special ones who leave us much too soon.
Oh for the love and comforting innocence of a favourite cat! I have your book about Mr Pussy on my bedroom windowsill – just where Mr Pussy would be I suppose if he came to visit. I can’t have a cat at the moment as my terrier is anti-cat and the little book about Mr Pussy is often called upon to bring a bit of cat comfort into my life.
What a fan base Mr Pussy had! He had the best of his nine lives living with you in Spitalfields and obviously luxuriated in every minute. Memories are the connecting tissue to his spirit now – he has never left you.
Stay well Gentle Author
Paddy
Mr Pussy is much missed!
Lovely to read about Mr Pussy again (I hope Schrodinger doesn’t mind!)
My black cat looks spookily like Mr Pussy, although he has recently started growing one white whisker of which he is very proud! He is also not looking his best at the moment as he has had two recent blood tests for hyperthyroidism and thus has two bare patches on his throat and leg.
I suspect I will now be facing a constant stream of vet’s bills to pay for medicine for the rest of his life but he is worth every penny, and has been a constant source of comfort and joy during lockdown.
I feel sorry for anyone who doesn’t experience a special relationship with cats.
Beautiful ❤️
Such accuracy of perception, one of your best
Beautiful cat, beautiful words
How I understand this feeling. My last cat was a gorgeous tortoiseshell we adopted as a stray who’d been found by a work colleague of my husband. We got her about 8 months after another old boy had to be put to sleep. When we moved to Scotland she went with us. I was very attached to her and during a long period of serious illness she rarely left my bed, it was such a comfort. We eventually had to say goodbye when she was 15 as she’d developed feline leukemia and was very ill herself. I’ve never wanted to have another since, now I live in an apartment and don’t think it would be fair for a kitty to be kept indoors so I donate to the local animal shelter instead.
I sometimes dream about her, she miaows to let me know she’s ok ?
Oh, yes, yes: I miss my neighbour’s cat CHICO so much too…. He knew his way around my flat like no other and had his favourite places here. His new home is a farm far away. The summer of 2017 was very enjoyable…
Love & Peace
ACHIM
Your memories of Mr Pussy book is one of my favourite reads. I wish I could write so eloquently about my own beautiful tabby.
A beautiful piece of writing and like all the best writing about the natural world based on precise observation.Dear Mr Pussy.
Greetings from Boston,
GA, what a beautiful reflection on Mr. Pussy’s accommodations to the “dog days” of summer. I recall the enormous response you received when you announced his final passing a few years back. Mr. Pussy, RIP.
You took the words right out of my mouth!
Pumpkin, my current amour, behaves likewise in this current, horrible
mini -heatwave.
Oh to be a cat! I think I’ll go and have a good stretch and a nap!
What a wonderful piece, I can see Mr Pussy in my minds eye going through all of his ‘poses’ I have the book and read it in one sitting 🙂
Your eloquence in describing Mr Pussy has lengthened his life way beyond feline capabilities, of which it sounds like he had many, and given him space to live in the hearts and minds of your readers, also. A great gift to a much-loved and missed companion.
I’m so sorry for your loss. These 4 legged characters work their way into our homes and then our hearts. They really do become family. RIP Mr. Pussy.