Not really in the mood for blogging and chit-chatting this evening.
At lunchtime today Tifi, our darling old cat, died. She was 16 and a half years old, and had lived with us in Mauritius and South Africa and, for the last 10 years, here in Delhi. So, yes, she did indeed have a good, well-travelled, globe-trotting, long life, but that doesn’t make today any easier.
Tifi was fished out of a swamp in Mauritius on January 25th 1999, where, as a newly born kitten, she had been put (with her late brother Sooty) in a box with stones and left to sink into the mud and die. Such wanton cruelty. From that day onwards, when a friend rescued them and brought them home to us, dear Tifi was a larger than life institution.
She was nicknamed Garfield for many years, on account of her bulk, but boy, did she pack a mean punch.
She hated Rosie, our South African cat, with a passion and beat her up solidly for – gosh – 14 odd years. On a daily basis. And outlived her, after which she was queen bee, as it were.
She also bashed up poor old Yoko, our idiotic Golden, who despite her hissing and spitting at him, was always trying to be friends. He never got it.
Her favourite perch for the last few years was my desk, where she would lie next to me, and be my excuse for not working.
I mean, obviously, how could I write my novel when the cat kept playing with the mouse (literally) and lying on top of my keyboard?
She was out last pet link to Mauritius & Johannesburg, and so – yes – today does mark the end of an era.
I’ll miss her company every day on my desk.
And tomorrow, I’ll be less blue.