We went away to Wales for a few days, and now we have returned, and it is now 19 days since Iggy has been seen or heard. We have to accept that he is gone, and it is very hard indeed. He would have been 14 years old yesterday, 28th August, and just typing that has made me weep again.
Igor, to give him his proper name, came to us at the beginning of December 1998, the first of several Bengals we have had the honour to live with. The breeder said his stripes would turn into spots – they never did really, but we didn’t care a jot. He had a beautiful face, with wise eyes.
He was a clever cat, who could work out things like who was making the red laser dot dance across the floor, and how to open the microwave. He was also defined by his dignity, which he never, ever lost even under the most adverse of conditions, such as making an unorthodox descent from the fridge, or having his spotty tum scritched (which he loved). We always described him to people as a cat of gravitas and distinction, and he had a real presence.
Iggy loved warmth, and could be found following the sun round the house, and hogging all the heat from the woodburning stove, sitting so close to its glass door that his fur was actually touching it.
He did, of course, lead a life of tragedy, as evinced by his constant rowling, but he bore it with fortitude.
Pete and I have lived with many cats over the years, and have loved them all, but Iggy stole my heart the day I met him, and I find it so hard not to have been with him at the end. Go well, my beloved Igpuss – and good hunting, free of pain and restored to splendour.