The Philosophical Cat

It was towards the end of November when my wife and I first realised that Rupert the cat wasn't well. Instead of having a bit of food, wandering off and coming back for more, it seemed he'd been forgetting to return. And then he stopped eating altogether. His weight dropped dramatically. Even his purr withered away. Our fifteen-year-old feline friend wasn't just at death's door; he'd pushed open the cat flap in death's door and was preparing to jump through. Whilst his housemate Harry was in fine form - six fully-working mice brought into the house one weekend - dear old Rupert had stopped joining us on the sofa every evening and had started to hide under the hedge. We'd bring him in, he'd take himself back out.

Although Rupert seemed ready to give up on life, Mrs B and I weren't going to let him quit so easily. We tried to tempt him with his favourite foods - sliced ham, tinned sardines, buttery toast crumbs, a little bit of Victoria sponge - but without success. I even stocked the kitchen cupboard with luxury cat food. We took him to the vet, where he was injected with vitamins, steroids and an antibiotic. "He seemed a bit unhappy", the nurse told us when she handed him back. I thought he seemed fairly relaxed. We were the unhappy ones.

Unlike me, Rupert was very good at living 'in the moment'. He didn't care what other people thought about him. He wasn't raging against the unfairness of everything. He wasn't regretting a misspent youth of goldfish-eating and frog-hunting. Despite the apparent passing of his 'best before' date, he was happy with his lot. It felt like I was being given a valuable lesson about stoicism and the philosophy of not worrying about the future.

After the vet trip, we started keeping our increasingly frail cat indoors in case he became too ill to find his way home. The next morning, when I came downstairs, Rupert was lying on his side in the middle of the floor, looking more like a poorly-constructed papier-mache model than a genuine pet. He lifted his head wearily when he heard me. At least there was still hope, I thought. Perhaps he'd like some ham. He turned his head away apologetically. Didn't I understand anything?

I fed Harry, made a cup of tea and went for a shower. When I came downstairs again, Rupert stood and wobbled over to greet me. Was that a miaow? I cracked open the emergency tin of Waitrose 'luxurious and delicate' cat food that I'd bought in case his appetite returned. It had. He cleared the bowl and then looked at me optimistically. In fact, he gave the distinct impression he'd like something similar for breakfast tomorrow. I think it's his way of reminding me he's a cat, not a philosopher.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 112 January 2016