December 21st 2005: The day Muffin died

Kate Smart

Yes, this is about my late cat. Part of me feels I should apologise for that, because there was a time when I was the kind of person who would roll their eyes at stories about cats, especially dead ones. 'Oh my God - how ghastly does THIS sound - might be worth a laugh in a looking-down-my-nose, sneery kind of way though - at a push.' But not any more. Muffin changed my life, because she changed me.

Before you ask - no, I wasn't a very nice person before. Probably I'm little better now. But even if it is just a little, I'd say I definitely am, better. And yes, it was me who christened her Muffin. A sickly, pathetic kind of name, some would say. An embarrassment to any self-respecting feline. 'I feel sorry for cats who get called Muffin,' said a rather uncharming vet, when we took her along for her vaccination.

But when we took Muffin home from the cat shelter that first day, and she daintily stepped out of her carrier for the first time, and flexed her little paws on the carpet as if it was the most fabulous, luxurious carpet in Christendom, and looked hopefully at me with her enormous green eyes I knew immediately, intuitively, that she was Muffin and could be nothing else.

We kept her indoors for a while, then let her out for the first time. I was afraid that she would run, and not come back, and I waited anxiously at the door to see what would happen. It was dark, so I couldn't see her at all. Stupid, how stupid, I thought, to let her out when it was dark. Then I called her name, and within a minute or two her little white face appeared out of the darkness and she was running for home. Home, towards me! Trust had been established, and from there nothing could go wrong. And it didn't.

We lived happily together for fifteen years. Muffin was petted and indulged with every possible titbit and she was quite the gourmet, showing her appreciation for every tasty morsel. Her favourite food was chicken skin, and her second, kippers.

We probably indulged her tastes far too much, because after a summer spent happily catching rabbits, she suddenly became ill and her health deteriorated rapidly.

There followed several distressing visits to the vet. Opinion there was divided as to whether she was 'just old' or very very sick. But I knew that things were bad. We didn't want her to suffer, but neither did we want her to end her days prematurely. It was a terrible decision to contemplate.

Putting it off, I spent as much time with her as I could. She was as affectionate as ever, and loved to sit on my knee being stroked. I felt our relationship deepening through those dark days.

It was approaching midwinter, and as the year declined Muffin's health sank further and we knew we'd have to take the awful step of arranging for the vet to come out and end it. It was going to be expensive, but I wouldn't put her through the trauma of going on a final journey in the hated cat carrier.

On the morning of the winter Solstice I went into the kitchen as usual to put the kettle on and see how Muffin was. I don't know if it was just because it was the Solstice, but I had a very strong feeling that it was going to be Muffin's last day. I didn't think I was going to have to phone the vet after all. I sat with her while the tea brewed, and silently communicated my thoughts to her. Sounds silly, I know, but it's something I did often, and I know she understood. 'Muffin, do what you need to do. Do what's easiest for you.' I could feel the life draining out of her as she lay on my lap. Outside it was cold, dank, silent, with the sun creeping along the horizon like a snail. Suddenly, Muffin leapt to her feet as a scratching sound came from the skirting board. It was extraordinary - she found the strength to race towards the source of the sound, which stopped abruptly at her approach, and has not been heard since. It was her final, heroic act. With almost her dying breath, she saved our house from being invaded by rats.

After that, she collapsed, and I won't describe her final moments, but it was quick. We laid her to rest in the garden, and planted some daffodils on her grave. They still bloom every Spring.

As for me, what did I learn? I learned the inestimable value of gaining the love and trust of a vulnerable being, and of giving love and trust in return. In many ways, I think that Muffin helped me to grow up. Like many animals - though she was special - she was a wise, wise creature, and I'm proud to have known her and learned from her. So, yes - a story about a dead cat. And no, I won't apologise.