It was a girl and a temporary bout of insanity that led to me owning a cat – and until that happened, I never understood how adults could become so attached to these tiny fur-covered psychopaths. Quite frankly, I thought it a sign of emotional, if not mental, deficiency.
And yet … I began to change.
At first I simply wanted to be a decent cat owner: I patted it, fed it, tried to do the right thing. But over time it grew on me: it even stopped becoming an it and became a he. And although his hobbies including slashing the soles of my feet as I slept and drawing blood from all my friends (and it isn’t like I had that many to start with), I began to regard him as more than just a pet – in fact, as readers of this site know, I became quite enamoured of him.
Everyone who met him thought he was a demon from hell. I’ve seen battle-hardened vets tremble in his presence and an ex-bouncer flee when my cat went for the jugular – but I saw my cat’s softer side. I alone knew how he looked when he’d curl in a ball after a long day of swiping at me, and I cherished the 15 minutes a day when he’d call a truce, leap into my lap and purr coquettishly as I patted him. Quite frankly, that’s still more than most of my ex-girlfriends ever allowed me to do to them.
In short, I adored that fat fiendish feline more than any grown man should ever admit to in public – and so I’m heartbroken to report that my muse, friend, bully and flatmate has passed away.
So to send him off in style in my last ever cat post, here is a photographic celebration of the sweetest vicious cat to ever inspire a bar blog: