We cats would all like to say the biggest thank you for all warm wishes sent from round the world to us, to Her, on the sad day. Now we are five again. We are sure to find Kiffer on times in the night when the moon is full and we gather at the well to sing songs to the moon.
We thought it best to let people know how we all are fairing.
Martha is old. 15 this year and skinny But good, for now.
I, Pixie, still have the sneezes, something like a poor imune system. We shall see.
Maurice seems well, though short of breath at times and She forgets to give him his tablets. He was chief carer for Her yesterday and odd times would jump into Her arms and put paws round Her neck to comfort.
Elmo is mischief and balance and fun and run and chase up a tree and bounce.
Max is quiet dark dignity lurking.
And Nadolig, the next door cat is now getting six dinners a day and looking good, if a bit ragged around the ears from fighting and dancing and living a high life of a wandering lothario.
We do not grieve for Kiffer because we know where he has gone, though his passing was too soon.
Oh, And She, well, She has a headache and feels sick but says it is only the menopaws and shruggs and scowls. Nothing to worry about.
And She wonders, how many cats have lived and died in this house, how many in this village? Mr Griffiths alone has had about 7. Here in Her lifetime are Comfrey and Arthur and Bird and Kiffer. How many mousers and fireside companions who curled round the necks of women and small children, who snoozed in warm sunshine and chased after rats, how many have lived here. She wonders. We know.