Salt - R.I.P.
This morning, I got the awful news that one of my cats who still lives with my Mum had died. Salt, aged 13 or 14, passed away peacefully in his sleep, my Mum finding him curled up in his cat basket. He was an amazing little guy, and a link to my childhood that has now, sadly, gone. His brother, Vinegar, is still alive, and has appeared to be in better health for the last few years, despite only having three legs and no tail, having lost them to a fox attack when he was only about a year old.
At the end of his life, Salt was a rather strange little fellow. His fur had gone a bit scraggly towards the end of his body, he made very odd noises when he slept (not quite snoring, not quite sighing), and he drooled. A lot. ALL THE TIME.
But boy did I love him.
When we first got him and his brother, he was the 'grumpy' one, enjoying being stroked but not actively wanting to brush against anyone's leg or jump up on their lap. When the time came to have him neutered, however, that all changed overnight. I can remember bringing him home from the vet, letting him have soon food in the kitchen, and then watching him wander through to the living room and jump straight onto my Great Aunt's lap. After that, you couldn't keep him away (not that you'd want to). He would jump upon you at every opportunity, constantly pawing up and down on your stomach in the most annoying fashion, head butting you to get him to stroke you, and turning round to put his bottom in your face. I'm still yet to figure out the appeal of the latter of these movements, but I'm sure he had his reasons.
When he was about 3 years old, he was hit by a car. His pelvis was broken, and the vet gave us three options: Have him put down, have surgery to repair his pelvis, or let it heal naturally. No way in hell was I having that animal put down, and the vet couldn't guarantee that surgery would be any better than just letting it heal naturally, so we plumped for option 3. He had to stay isolated in a cage for a good number of months, which is not easy to do to an animal you care for, but eventually he was let out again, and made a full recovery.
His brother and he would playfight often on the living room rug in front of the fire during those early years. Mainly, he would tap Vinegar on the head several times, until Vinegar got annoyed and clocked him one back, before they'd wrestle around with fur flying everywhere, screeching at each other, and interrupting the riveting Hollyoaks storyline I'd be watching.
He also loved crisps. LOVED them. Any flavour. He'd knock them out of my hand if I wasn't quick enough. If I held several in my hand, putting them to my mouth one at a time, I needed constant vigilance if I wasn't going to be robbed by a furry little fellow.
I can't remember exactly when he started drooling, or making the strange noises in his sleep, or looking like he'd dragged his bottom half of fur through a shoe brush. All I know is that I can't think of him any other way, wiping half a litre of drool across my face as he greeted me with a friendly morning headbutt.
Though I wasn't there to find him, I can picture exactly how he must have looked when my Mum found him, curled up peacefully in his cat basket. That's exactly how I wanted him to go, settling down to sleep one minute, just as he would at any other time, and then being at peace. I wonder if he got an inkling at all of what was about to happen.
I wonder if he thought of me.
