A hell-cat in heaven

Over the weekend I officiated at a funeral. Earlier in the morning there had been lowering rain clouds, but by the time we dug the grave there were blue skies to salute Albert’s passing. He deserved them. It was also appropriate that he died just before the anniversary of Jutland, for this was a feline dreadnought. Black as the darkest night and a prodigious slaughterer of vermin, he also ranged well beyond his owners’ policies in search of tabby-cats on heat or toms up for a fight. No one knew exactly how old he was. He had arrived 20 years ago as a young stray, to a family who were not sure whether they liked cats — always an irresistible challenge to any self-respecting moggin — and set about earning his keep by massacring rats and mice.

There were regular bewailings over the inevitable songbirds; Albert was un-bellable. Nor was he an effusively affectionate cat.