Marmalade

Marmalade was a right little gentleman. Ginger through and through, with that lovely white bib and the tip of his tail dipped like he'd been painting. He came to me in the most peculiar way. Walked right through the garden gate one afternoon, bold as brass, tail high and whiskers twitching. Sat himself by the back door and meowed once, just once and that was it. We were companions from then on. He was fussy, mind you. Wouldn't touch the tinned food, not even the posh sort. It had to be grilled chicken or tuna in spring water. Not the cheap stuff. And he had a particular spot on the armchair, only that spot. If someone else sat there, he'd give them a look that could sour milk. But oh, he was affectionate when it suited him. Loved curling up in the sun patch on the carpet, then jumping into my lap with cold paws. Always cold paws. He had a way of purring that felt like a motorboat, bless him. As he got older, he slowed down. Slept more. Didn’t jump on the counters anymore (thankfully). One morning he didn’t come for breakfast. I found him by the radiator, curled up as if asleep. Peaceful. It’s strange, really. The house is still full, but it feels emptier without him. No soft footsteps in the hallway. No warm body curled at my feet while I knit. I miss him terribly. He wasn’t just a cat, he was company, comfort and character. My Marmalade.