The day after her 96th birthday, and three days before she died, my next-door neighbour told me she wanted Jimmy killed and put in her coffin with her. She knew then she hadn’t long to go. The only thing I could do for her, she said, was put fresh milk in Jimmy’s saucer, making sure that the milk was fresh. She was very anxious about this. She’d hate Jimmy to be offered milk that had gone off.
I was jubilant. Her wanting Jimmy put down was the best news I’d heard for ages. I’d have offered to do it myself with my bare hands if there was even half a chance she’d be amenable to the idea. From the moment he’d turned up on her doorstep, half-starved, his once fluffy grey hair a tangled mat, she’d taken in and served this cat as if he were her sovereign. This otherwise sensible, frugal, vegetarian woman, who survived mainly on chips, fed him chicken breasts, organically reared ones if possible, as many as he could eat, and otherwise devoted her life to catering for his every whim. Far from appearing grateful, however, or humbled by his unexpected good fortune, Jimmy went about the place with the air of a spoiled and sulky child, and showed her not the slightest affection. He understood now that she was dying, she said, because he was acting ‘huffily’ and was more ‘off’ with her than usual. ‘He knows, and he doesn’t want anything to do with me now, the rotten beggar,’ she panted.
On my way out, I noticed Jimmy glowering at me from the top of the stairs. He knew I detested him; that I was not impressed in the slightest by his regal bearing; that given half a chance I’d put a toe up his backside. And over the years he has paid me back handsomely for my disrespect. The ostentatious turd on the lawn. The trail of paw prints over the bonnet and windscreen of the car the day after I’d washed and polished it. The pitiful ring of blackbird feathers on the lawn marking the scene of a violent dismembering. He knew we cherished songbirds on our side of the wall. And he made sure that the sweeter the singer the more widespread the remains. An exuberant young thrush this year didn’t last five minutes. Jimmy has always fled from me whenever I’ve had cause to go next door. On that particular day, however, it was as if he’d heard and understood he was going in the box, and couldn’t contain his fury, and had to show it, albeit from the relative safety of the top of the stairs. As I passed beneath him, I looked up and waggled my eyebrows cheerfully at him.
After our next-door neighbour died, her instruction to have the cat put down and arranged in the coffin was passed on to the next of kin. I made sure of it. Any doubt, I said, and I was willing to swear to it on the Bible. Not only that, I said, but I would also gladly save the vet the trouble by doing the job myself.
The vet was the preferred option. He could have refused to be complicit in the business on ethical grounds, apparently. But under all that luxuriant fur Jimmy had a tumour the size of a walnut on his head, and he was 14 years old, so the vet agreed to drive out and administer a lethal injection. The funeral director said he was happy to accommodate a dead cat in the coffin, but for a substantially increased fee. When it was pointed out to him that there was hardly anything of the owner left by the time she died, and that there would be room to spare in the coffin for another person, let alone a cat, he didn’t press his case. It was agreed that he and the vet should come to the house at the same time, so that Jimmy would still be warm and more easily arranged in the coffin beside his faithful servant.
What a farce! Jimmy was dozing on a chair when the vet arrived. Either he recognised the sound of the vet’s car or divined its significance. Our next-door neighbour’s next of kin believes the latter. He woke instantly, flew upstairs, and resisted capture frantically, as if in full awareness that he was fighting for his life. A stealthier, better-armed attempt the next day failed before it had even begun, when Jimmy shot out through the door as the vet was let in.
On Friday our next-door neighbour’s body was committed to the ground without him. Currently, I am reminding the next of kin of her obligations and offering to drive Jimmy to the vet if he can be drugged and captured while asleep.
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