Yesterday the last of the original cat gang of 4 passed away. Peacefully in her sleep, in her favourite bed after a good lunch.
Pixie was Mums cat, she was a 15 year old blue/cream British Shorthair.
We got Pixie the year my Dad died. Mum was down in the dumps (one of her dachshunds had passed away earlier in the year as well). I thought she might like a kitten to cuddle and love and she was persuaded. We trogged down to Hastings and there she was. A bundle of blue/cream woolly fur with massive amber eyes. Her proper name was Petavon Violet....that should have been Violent. Re-named Pixie because she had a little pixie face, she was kitten evil personified. She was not cuddly or cute, she was a cat with attitude. Her and Mum had a relationship of sorts, but it was all on the cats terms and she often used cat language unbecoming for a lady.
Over the years Pixie, always standoffish to some extent, did come to be more affectionate. She'd come up and see me and rub her smelly little cat salami on any part of me she could reach. She'd rub, roll and dribble whilst exercising her rusty little purr but always on her terms, when enough was enough she'd depart and go back to treating humans as if they didn't exist.
She hated Buster, he spent many happy hours looking at her, I swear just because he knew it would piss her off, she'd swear, spit and quite often scratch the hell out of his pretty pink nose. She ignored Kodo (the Siamese) and he ignored her. She'd beat up on her bed mate Poppy. She was happiest when being grumpy.
The day I bought Lou-Lou home was the best. Lou-Lou was 11 weeks and spent a lot of this time with her best mate Trevor a Dalmatian loving, massive grey fluffy cat. She saw Pixie thought she was Trev, bounded up to play and got a rip in her ear-flap, that she still has today. The battle lines were drawn from that moment. Lou-Lou would bounce, bark and chase Pixie. Pixie would swear, spit and lash out - happy in her grumpy-ness. This continued right up until this week. And although Pixie (riddled with seized up joints and vertebrae) was old, she'd still swear and hiss, but she could no longer run away. Lou-Lou no longer chased her but the game was still on.
The last few weeks Pix staggered, her back legs had terminal understeer and she looked like an out of control supermarket trolley on her good days, on her bad her legs would give out, she'd sit and wait, gather her strength, jack herself up and hobble a few more steps. Was it cruel? The vet said "No" she had meds, she ate well, she'd still attempt a toddle in the garden, sniffing the flowers, chittering at the birdies. She swore at Lou-Lou, hissed at Conner - I think she was happy. She slept an awful lot and snored like an old tramp, passed out drunk under the pier.
Mum didn't have to make that tough, awful choice this time (like we did with Buster and Kodo and she did with Poppy). Pix went her own way, as she always did. I think that was best.
We've lost the entire gang of 4 in just over a year. They were all born in the same year. It's sad.
If there is a cat heaven - I'm sure Pixie and Buster are happy to take up where they left off and he probably already has a bloody nose to prove it!