Gone

He never spent much time here, returning mostly for food and sleep, curled about my head when the danger of toddlers had passed.

I never really knew where he went in his other, catty life, except it was a dusty place full of fleas, evidenced by the constant scratching and biting, necessitating expensive unguents placed on the back of his neck at frequent intervals which he loathed and made him even less willing to spend time in our company.

He’d come to us under false pretences. We had chosen a big, fat, gentle puss who claimed to love small children, preferring the indoor life, purring quietly upon my bed day-in, day-out.
Then he discovered an open door and the irresistible lure of a California springtime which seemed to trigger something primal in his small ancient brain, and from that point on he went feral.  Things were rarely the same again. We’d get glimpses of our sweet old boy from time to time – when he was tired, or I trapped him in for the night, afraid of coyotes, then he’d reluctantly submit to a caress and forget himself, arching his back with pleasure. But mostly he stood by the door miaowing, waiting until we let him out again into the wild night so he could go back to being who he really was.

I did not, on the whole, allow him out once it was dark. I know too many people who have lost precious pets to coyotes, and I did not want Bagpurrito to become one of them.
But since I went to England, quite possibly the night before I left, he exited the house and has not been seen since.

I fear the worst, I really do.

Husband put up some posters and asked the neigbours if they had seen him.

They hadn’t.

He rang the animal shelters. He hadn’t been brought in. Bagpurrito is microchipped so we would be called if he had been found. Six says she called him a few times but he didn’t come back. Even shaking the catfood didn’t work and that’s pretty much foolproof. I think he’s gone. In my heart I know he’s gone.

I feel terrible.

The worst of it is not because I miss him for himself because I don’t exactly. He wasn’t the best of pets – in fact he was fairly crap as far as pets go. But just the other day I was complaining to Husband that

“Burrito is a substandard cat”

and now look what’s happened! He’s probably been eaten by a coyote. I feel that this is obscurely my fault.

Six and Three are rather chillingly un-upset.

Six: “Oh, poor old Bagpuss. Can I choose the next kitten? I like Siamese kittens.”

Three: “Oh! Buwwito is been eaten! Mummy? I hungry. Pease I have a biscuit?”

Mind you, I say I don’t miss him for himself, but I found myself standing by the door last night calling him, a tear rolling down my face when he didn’t come.  I dreamt he had come home and woke up so very happy. And then I was not.
I went to the shelter this morning after I dropped the children at their various camps and nurseries to see if by chance he had been brought in and – cruel irony – there were at least six portly ginger cats all looking for a home.

But none of them was Bagpurrito, the double agent cat.

The shelter told me he might still come in. But probably he was coyote food.

They invited me to wait a bit, just in case he comes home (unlikely), and then come back and get another ginger cat. They always have a few.

I don’t think I can bear to.

Not for a while anyway.

Farewell, Burrito. You were loved.

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