Today I saw a ghost
Or so I thought for a couple of seconds.
Leaving the house this morning there he was; a sold black cat, fluffy tail, pointed face - and a glare baleful enough to curdle milk at 100 paces. I stared at him; he scowled mistrustfully back at me*. I approached him; he retreated.
It was, without a doubt, the Krumpdaddy.
For any who don't remember, I have previously and variously descricbed the Krumpdaddy as "not a pet but all Cat", "Basement's cat seedy uncle", "the gin and roses tom" and (some years back) "that hairy black git**". A manky black stray tom, painfully thin, he was the bane of my life as he continually sought to woo my ladycats with the feline equivlaent of a rose in one paw and a bottle of gin in the other. When they called, he sang along outside. He did laps of the house, and they followed him on the inside, continually begging me to go and hold his paw. On one memorable occasion, when I was distracted by one girl havng a miscarriage, another ladycat slyly escaped and made it known nine weeks later *exactly* what she had got up to with him. Four kittens popped out, all with expressions that could sour butter; there was no doubt about the identity of their daddy. (Watts Krump, Rosa Krump and Cookie Krump bring joy to their owners to this day. Nicodemus Krump is sadly now marking time at Rainbow Bridge.)
During the Big Freeze earlier this year, on a cold Friday evening, I finally caught the Krumpdaddy. I kept him in my spare room over the weekend; I'm not sure the resulting smell ever really faded. On the Monday morning he was taken to the vet and unceremoniously de-Krumped. I was shocked at his painfully thin state and resolved to look after him if I could, but was aware that he would have been unhappy kept a prisoner - so three days after the op, I let him go. Two weeks later he returned of his own free will and consented to live in my spare room. He made it known that I was very lucky to have him there, and that I'd better provide only the best food, or he might leave again. For three weeks we carried on in this way, and my happiest moment with him came on one relaxed evening when, rubbing his face and ears, I finally coaxed from him a reluctant rumble, the ghost of a purr. That was the first and last purr; less than a month after he moved in, I found him on the stairs looking very sad and droopy. I rushed him to the vet but he was in acute renal failure and had to be put to sleep. I've never really forgiven myself for the whole thing - I have vague, amorphous, "what if" guilts.
So, this morning, he reappeared. That baleful expression was unmistakeable. I thought for a minute that the weather and stress were playing tricks on my eyes; that I was literally seeing, through the early morning ice-fog, a ghost. Then, as I approached, I looked more closely and saw the differences. The fluffy tail, less like a sad fuzzy drooping bogbrush, and more like a tail should be, held high and filled with floof. The coat, not dull and matted, but shiny and thick. The ears untorn, the eyes bright. And the expression, giving life to the phrase "if looks could kill". This was no Krumpdaddy but another Krump; a half-sibling to Cookie Rosa and Watts, and the spit of his Daddy.
Had my life been a Disney movie, he would have approached me. There may have been a song. But he skittered off, too nervous to approach (possibly because I was emerging from the House of Many Giant Cats, where other neighbourhood cats get short shrift if they dare venture). Then a door opened and a woman emerged; he ran inside and she didn't stop him. No manky, unloved stray cat this then, but a cat living the life the Krumpdaddy should have had - with a family (presumably the owners of yet another ladycat who believed the Krumpdaddy's promises of eternal love, good for 3-5 days only). The Krumpdaddy's life always saddened me - he must have been a pet once, but his owners failed to neuter him, and at some point one of them abandoned the other. But now his lookalike son (or daughter) is living a happy life, one street over from where he lived. I have missed seeing him about the place; now I can see his offspring. This pleases me possibly more than it should :-).
*I may be getting a reputation among the local boys for winning their trust then nicking off to the vet to get their nadgers removed. Who knows. I'm getting good enough at it that it's tempting to try it out on the local teens who throw crisp packets in the garden.
**Language cleaned up somewhat
Leaving the house this morning there he was; a sold black cat, fluffy tail, pointed face - and a glare baleful enough to curdle milk at 100 paces. I stared at him; he scowled mistrustfully back at me*. I approached him; he retreated.
It was, without a doubt, the Krumpdaddy.
For any who don't remember, I have previously and variously descricbed the Krumpdaddy as "not a pet but all Cat", "Basement's cat seedy uncle", "the gin and roses tom" and (some years back) "that hairy black git**". A manky black stray tom, painfully thin, he was the bane of my life as he continually sought to woo my ladycats with the feline equivlaent of a rose in one paw and a bottle of gin in the other. When they called, he sang along outside. He did laps of the house, and they followed him on the inside, continually begging me to go and hold his paw. On one memorable occasion, when I was distracted by one girl havng a miscarriage, another ladycat slyly escaped and made it known nine weeks later *exactly* what she had got up to with him. Four kittens popped out, all with expressions that could sour butter; there was no doubt about the identity of their daddy. (Watts Krump, Rosa Krump and Cookie Krump bring joy to their owners to this day. Nicodemus Krump is sadly now marking time at Rainbow Bridge.)
During the Big Freeze earlier this year, on a cold Friday evening, I finally caught the Krumpdaddy. I kept him in my spare room over the weekend; I'm not sure the resulting smell ever really faded. On the Monday morning he was taken to the vet and unceremoniously de-Krumped. I was shocked at his painfully thin state and resolved to look after him if I could, but was aware that he would have been unhappy kept a prisoner - so three days after the op, I let him go. Two weeks later he returned of his own free will and consented to live in my spare room. He made it known that I was very lucky to have him there, and that I'd better provide only the best food, or he might leave again. For three weeks we carried on in this way, and my happiest moment with him came on one relaxed evening when, rubbing his face and ears, I finally coaxed from him a reluctant rumble, the ghost of a purr. That was the first and last purr; less than a month after he moved in, I found him on the stairs looking very sad and droopy. I rushed him to the vet but he was in acute renal failure and had to be put to sleep. I've never really forgiven myself for the whole thing - I have vague, amorphous, "what if" guilts.
So, this morning, he reappeared. That baleful expression was unmistakeable. I thought for a minute that the weather and stress were playing tricks on my eyes; that I was literally seeing, through the early morning ice-fog, a ghost. Then, as I approached, I looked more closely and saw the differences. The fluffy tail, less like a sad fuzzy drooping bogbrush, and more like a tail should be, held high and filled with floof. The coat, not dull and matted, but shiny and thick. The ears untorn, the eyes bright. And the expression, giving life to the phrase "if looks could kill". This was no Krumpdaddy but another Krump; a half-sibling to Cookie Rosa and Watts, and the spit of his Daddy.
Had my life been a Disney movie, he would have approached me. There may have been a song. But he skittered off, too nervous to approach (possibly because I was emerging from the House of Many Giant Cats, where other neighbourhood cats get short shrift if they dare venture). Then a door opened and a woman emerged; he ran inside and she didn't stop him. No manky, unloved stray cat this then, but a cat living the life the Krumpdaddy should have had - with a family (presumably the owners of yet another ladycat who believed the Krumpdaddy's promises of eternal love, good for 3-5 days only). The Krumpdaddy's life always saddened me - he must have been a pet once, but his owners failed to neuter him, and at some point one of them abandoned the other. But now his lookalike son (or daughter) is living a happy life, one street over from where he lived. I have missed seeing him about the place; now I can see his offspring. This pleases me possibly more than it should :-).
*I may be getting a reputation among the local boys for winning their trust then nicking off to the vet to get their nadgers removed. Who knows. I'm getting good enough at it that it's tempting to try it out on the local teens who throw crisp packets in the garden.
**Language cleaned up somewhat