Goodbye Morse

I can't believe i missed out June altogether! I confess to having fallen into a sulk about the weather which has been even worse than usual for an English mid-summer. I was stoical at first and then ran out of steam.
   When i was a child, i would sometimes be chided for snivelling with the rather frightening phrase: 'I'll give you something to cry about if you don't stop!'. I was sharply reminded of this last week when i found our oldest cat in a strangely flattened position near the back door...
    I am sad to report that Morse [The Inspector] died last Wednesday. It was 8 o'clock when i found him prone. John and i brought him inside so he could rest on my wool basket, his place, but he struggled and made a horrible crying miaow which made us simultaneously burst into tears.
     There was a lot of panting and few more caterwauls over the next hour. Then his tail went limp, his pupils dilated and his breaths slowed to one every 50 seconds. It was all over by 11pm.

   Morse was 14 years old. He arrived at the old house from further down the street in 1999, aged 1. He was returned to his owners twice but clearly preferred our house, so his official move was awkwardly arranged. His original name was Starsky. Always an unpick-up-able loner, his main contribution to the household was his extreme beauty. He loved sunshine and spent his last day on the swingy-chair at the end of the garden which he'd made his own. The sun shone all that day.
   He is buried in the garden beside his great friend, Stevie, a fellow tabby.