Goodbye Stripey

When we first got him, I christened him Tasslehoff Purrfoot.

However, the more sensible name of Stripey seemed to stick.

A big stripy cat we got from the parents of my old friend Brian, Stripey was the only animal who'd followed the family (after a fact) all the way from Hampshire, to Devon, to Cornwall and then, finally, to France.

On the way from St Malo to St Maixent, he'd ridden in the back of my parent's car sitting on the parrot's cage, rather than suffer the indignity of a cat-box.

He was the most cuddly cat I've ever known. When he was just a kitten, our elegant dachshund Basil mistook Tasslehoff for a chew toy and Stripey nearly breathed his last. My brother nursed him back to life and since that date, he'd had a trust and love of humans far beyond what most cats do.

You could swing him upside down, throw him upside down or squish him under one arm and all you'd hear would be happy purrs the entire time.

After sixteen years, dear Stripey finally passed away. He was a big cat and he left a big hole. Certainly, unlike Ava, Stripes had been given a good innings by the furry Boss upstairs. But it's still very sad.

We all loved you Stripey. There's a tear in my eye as I write this.

Goodbye.