Dad! You have to come and see this. Bennys brought his family home
Benedict was a classic tuxedo cat, as people in the neighbourhood liked to say: his back shimmered with a deep midnight blue, the same colour tipped his ears and his tail, and yet his chestcomplete with a fancy waistcoatand belly, paws and a smart white triangle on his forehead were all so bright, they seemed to sparkle. Coupled with the natural grace of a cat, it often made you think of the phrase, as elegant as a grand piano. His eyes, a thoughtful shade of green, were filled with a dignified air, fit for a feline bard serenading under the windowsills in the style of a country gentleman.
Benny was an exceptionally well-behaved cat. He never leapt onto the table, never shredded the sofa with his claws, and unlike some feline Isaac Newton, didnt send objects crashing off the bookshelf just to see how they fell. What hed been like as a kitten, one could only guess: perhaps climbing curtains, attacking the Christmas tree, or chasing ornaments. By the time he came to live with us, though, he was a fully-formed character and a proper cat in his own right. Hed not always been a housecat, either.
Before joining our family, Benedict had lived in a shed belonging to a fish co-operative on the other side of the River Thames. Then, one day, things changed: they got a new managera man passionate about dogs and rather hostile towards the local cats. That was the turning point in Bennys life. My brother-in-law, who worked there as a welder, brought him to us.
If he stays, the bosss terriers will tear him apart. Could you possibly take him in? my brother-in-law pleaded.
So, naturally, we did. Benny wasted no time at all establishing himself as the Don Juan of the area, taking it upon himself to enrich the local feline gene pool.
Now, please dont judge us for letting him roam at will or for the potential dangers involved. This was the late 1980s in rural England. Back then, hardly anyone thought about specialised vet care for cats, let alone neutering. If someone had tried to discuss the subject with the half-tipsy local farm vet, theyd have been thought utterly mad.
Despite his many travels in the name of love, none of the local she-cats truly captured his affections. Benny treated them all equally, never showing a preferenceuntil she appeared. Maisie.
That day, I arrived home after a night shift, cleaned up in the shower and collapsed into bed. It must have been close to midday when my daughter, fresh from school, gently woke me.
Dad, wake up, you really need to see this. Benny has brought home a family
I shuffled groggily into the hallway and peered into the kitchenthen stopped dead in my tracks. Benny was sitting there, adopting his most dignified pose: back arched, neat little paws folded, tail curled around his front, ears and whiskers pointed forward
And right in front of him, three kittens tumbled about on the floor. Their markings left no doubt whose offspring they were: those same dark backs, the identical white socks on their feet, smart shirt fronts, and the pale tips on their black tails. I took another step and fell silent again at what I saw next.
There, eating from Benedicts bowlno, not just eating but wolfing down fish mixed with buckwheatwas a bedraggled tabby cat: grey, striped, with notched ears and a nervous manner.
When she finally looked up at me, I froze completely: she had only one eye.
Id only just reached the door, my daughter explained hastily, and there they all were, the five of them bunched on the mat with Benny out in front. I was about to send them out, but then I saw her eyeshes in a bit of a state
Good job you let them in, I said sharply.
I tried to stroke her gently, but she immediately shrank back and hissed, tense as a drawn bowstring. It was clear: her trust in people was long goneunlike Benny, shed not met such kindness before. Heaven knows what mightve happened had the local terriers found her and the kittens, especially in such a wild corner of Kent. That shed survived with only one eye said plenty about her struggles.
So, we kept the whole family. And heres the unexpected twistBenny became the ideal housecat! Before, hed mix it up with other toms outside our little block of flats, fighting over the local queens. Now, his only interest in a scuffle was for territory, not for wooing a lady. Hed come home, battered and ruffled, but always straight to his one-eyed sweetheart.
Evenings found them curled up together in a cosy nesta great cardboard box under the kitchen table. There, Benny, all gentleness, would wash his battered Maisie, paying special attention to her injured eye.
Over time, I finally persuaded the local animal expert to treat her injury. It took some effortpulling him by the collar and bribing him with a bottle of brandy, scarcely found in those days of shortagesbut we got there.
The kittens quickly found new homesthe men back at the co-op, once they realised these were Bennys kittens, snapped them up as if they were the offspring of some champion breed. There was even a queue forming, knowing Maisie would likely have more.
And so it turned out: Maisie, Bennys grey tabby partner, had two more litters. But there came a day when she slipped out on one of her wanderings and never came back. We realised, in the end, her loyalty was never to one tom cat.
We searched for her for dayscalling from the windows, searching round the gardens, looking in old sheds and poking through the wild hedges up the hill. All in vain. At least the final litterkittens both like and unlike Bennyhad already grown enough to find new homes with those on the waiting list.
But Benny didnt take it well. Sometimes hed sit for hours on the windowsill, staring out as if waiting for someone. Other times hed prowl the garden, occasionally fighting with the local toms, but bringing home no new companionsnever again did he present a friend at our door.
The only signs of his earlier reputation were the tuxedo kittens whod appear each spring and autumnproof that old Benedict, even as the years crept on, had left a mark and hadnt quite lost his old touch.
By 1998, Benny was a fully retired gentleman. Hed given up his forays outdoors, sleeping vast stretches of the dayeighteen, sometimes nineteen hours at a go, and eating only little. His age showed not just in body but in spirit.
And then, in July 1999, something changed. Suddenly, he started mewling at the door, scratching at the threshold, eager to be let outside. I knew this wasnt his usual behaviour, so I went after him, anxious he might cross paths with a dog.
Benedict made his way down from our third-floor flat as if he were an old manstumbling on every step as if his legs barely obeyed him. Once outside, he circled the building, then headed for the steep bank at the edge of the common, maybe thirty yards from home. I tried to pick him up but he resisted with all his waning strength, clearly intent on going alone.
When he reached the top, he paused by a winding trench marked with burrows and hollows. He turned to look straight at mea look that felt as if he were saying goodbye. Those green eyes seemed to see right into your soul. Then, quicker than I expected, he slipped into a burrow beneath the hedge. And vanished into the darkness.
I waited, called, searched, listening for the slightest sound. I even crawled in after him a little, earning a splatter of muddy soil and my hands in something foul, but no sign of Benny. Eventually, I returned home.
Later, I went back with a torch and a bag of cat food, which by then you could buy in any corner shop, and called for him again. But Benedict never returned, never answered. I finally left, realising that might have been our last farewell.
He never did come home. Maybe its true, what people say: that old cats go off to die somewhere quiet and hidden. And perhaps that wild rose bush, with its crimson flowers, that grew at the edge of the bank come the next summer isnt just any plantbut Benedict himself, back in all his majestic new glory.
