The prognosis was not good.
Prince’s liver was failing him and he was anaemic. His teeth were bad. The vet had suggested we help him along because it might otherwise be a life of constant medication and control, neither of which Prince has ever tolerated.
I have loved him like a best friend. A companion and a patient. A naughty boy and a belligerent uncle. I cared for him and I think he cared for me. His life in the bush has been a liberating one. Formally he’d been a skittish city cat, he was always a little bit on edge. He loved having his face brushed, and being patted and loved on his terms only. He would follow me where other cats feared to tread – he ‘owned’ this 500 acres as if it were all under his control, following me to houses with bouncing dogs and loud owners. Yet gone are the days since we’d shared roasted chicken (Saturday afternoons, his favourite lunch with me)… and he loved nothing more than lounging in the sunshine under 2 or 3 favourite trees and sunny spots. And drinking water from running taps.
I remember those earliest days of getting to know him (about 7 years ago) and his daily visits and watching him negotiate the neighbourhood. I asked the neighbours if he had an owner and they insisted ‘he’ was a ‘she’ named Princess. ‘Are you sure?’ I asked, ‘Because that looks like a male cat to me.’ Turns out… I was right. When I decided to move out, I took him to Lort Smith Animal Hospital to determine whether he was an ‘owned’ cat, just to discover that despite his having been desexed and microchipped, the people on that linked phone number denied all responsibility.
I visited him every other day at Lort Smith and hoped I could keep him. This beautiful cat became ‘Prince’ in my care (and thanks to Lort Smith investigation into his genitalia). After 8 days we belonged to each other legally and by choice, for the term of his remaining natural life.
Rest in peace my friend. I can’t believe you’re gone…
Darling Prince,
I once took you to a privately-owned cattery for a ‘holiday’ while I went on holiday to Brisbane. The owner was initially snooty and suspicious of me (typical cat-person) until she took you in and judged me entirely differently because of how lovely she thought you were. You single-paw-edly changed her attitude.
I hope I gave you a better life than what you had. You once lived on that Brunswick street and several neighbours fed you until you moved into my unit, and kept me company. For 6 months you knocked on my door, i let you in, and you slept on my bed and then told me when you wanted to go out again. You were smart, loving and funny. You were selective and particularly loathed other cats. I’m sorry we recently brought in two young cats to the house. That really pissed you off.
Once you had an altercation with the neighbours’ dog who chased you and had you in his jaws while I was holding my baby. My children’s father stepped in and flogged that dog with a big stick and you survived; angry; yet you didn’t hold a grudge. Since then, that dog would come and sniff you and never again tried to bite you and you lived. You survived a dog attack and from that time you owned that damn dog. You walked past her countless times and she stayed away. You were brave and fearless.
You moved house with me four times, and some of those times were really stressful. You managed to ‘cope’ with two babies and seemed to like them despite their obvious inferiority.
I like to think you finally found happiness here, in the bush. (At least, after the dog attack everything settled down and no-ne ever tried to hurt you again).
You hated the vet more than you hated the cats and now I understand why.
Love you buddy. I miss you already. I still have to drive to collect your permanently asleep body from the vets. I told the children she was putting you to sleep. I thought that sounded better than death.
Always yours.
10 ways to fuck up a job interview 