My Cat Died

Grandmother cat, she was. We stopped naming our cats after the first four or so; they were all toms who’d eventually wander off and get run over on the road that bisects the campus, or get killed by stray dogs, or some such.

Grandmother cat was the first female we took in. I don’t recall who we got her from; I think she was Nebu’s cat Speedy’s sibling. I remember her cowering under the fridge the day we got her; frightened to death of these giant legs who kept trying to rub her on the head.

Her personality changed the day we got her spayed by the Blue Cross, after two sets of litters (which produced Mother Cat, Big Fat, Wee One, and all the other siblings). Those fucking bastards took out her ovaries as well, which was needless and mean. I swear to Lucifer her personality changed after that. She became far more reticent and aloof. Eventually we shifted house and she refused to shift with us. She adopted another house instead; the Balraj’s. They fed her well, and she’d hang around their garden when she wasn’t off doing her own thing.

And it was in their garden that she died yesterday. Died painfully. Ripped apart by two stray dogs in her own home. Fucking dogs. Fucking dog-lovers. I hate them. I hate you. Have you ever heard of a pack of cats hunting down and killing a dog? They don’t need to. They don’t need to prove anything to anyone. Not like a horny, salivating, smelly, drooling, leg-raising mutt. Thoo! I remember when Dhurgoose lost one of his kittens (Salt, or was it Pepper?) to a pack of dogs as well. Bloody mongrels. Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent, as Salvor Hardin used to say.

Dr B buried the mangled remains of Grandmother C in his garden at 11 last night.

I never used to understand why before, but don’t make fun of people who get upset when their pets die.