Dad, come and see the spectacle. Bennys brought his whole family home
Benjamin, known affectionately as Benny, sported a classic tuxedo pattern all local cat enthusiasts call Marquis: his back shimmered in deep navy, the same shade colouring his ears and tail, while his chest, bib, cheeks, dainty socks on his paws, tummy, the tip of his tail, and a triangular patch on his forehead were sparkling white. This, paired with a feline grace that could rival a grand piano in motion, made him almost musical in his movements. His eyes were green and thoughtfulthe sort of gaze befitting a master of midnight serenades, performed under windows in the finest style of cat-country ballads.
Benny had the manners of a true gentleman. He wouldnt jump onto the table, shred the furniture, nor did he indulge in Newtonian experiments by shoving objects off the sideboard to test gravity. What he was like as a kitten remains a mysteryperhaps scaling curtains, knocking over Christmas trees, chasing baubles. But we met him as a fully formed adult, already a self-assured cat personality. And hed never even lived in a flat before.
Before joining us, Benny had been resident in the garage of a fishery across the Thames. Alas, fate intervened: the head of the garage retired, and his replacement was a rabid dog-lover and, simultaneously, a staunch anti-cat crusader. This set Bennys path in motion. My brother-in-law, who worked there as a welder, was the one who carried him across the river to us.
Hell end up a chew toy for the bosss Labradors if he stays, he pleaded. Can you take him in?
And so, we agreed. Benny, like a sprightly young Romeo, swiftly embarked on enhancing feline genetics among all the neighbourhood cats.
I beg you not to throw slippers at me for letting him roam; this was the late 80s, not London but somewhere in the wilds of Kentvet care for cats, let alone talk of neutering, was unheard of. If anyone dared mention such things to the local half-sozzled vet from the farm, hed stare as though youd proposed sending livestock to the moon.
Despite Bennys romantic pursuits, not a single lady cat became his significant other. He treated them all equally, never favouring one. This was the status quo until she arrived Maisie.
That day, I returned from the night shift, showered, and was halfway into a glorious sleep when my daughter, just back from school, nudged me awake.
Dad, get up, you need to see this. Bennys brought the whole family home
I shuffled down the hallway, rounded into the kitchenand stopped dead. Benny sat in perfect feline pose: back arched, paws neatly tucked, tail curled, ears and whiskers pointing forward.
Right in front, three kittens wriggled about the floor. Their looks screamed pedigree: dark backs, white socks, bibs, and the telltale white-tipped tails. I stepped forward, only to freeze againthis next sight deserved its own shock.
From Bennys bowl, not merely eating but inhaling food (fish mixed with buckwheat, if you please), was a thin, battered tabby lady: grey stripes, bitten ears, an anxious look.
And when she raised her head and stared at me, I was utterly gobsmackedshe had only one eye.
I was just heading to the door, my daughter explained sheepishly, and there they all were, five of them, huddled on the mat by the entrance, Benny leading the way. I wanted to shoo them out, then noticed the poor things eye
You did right to let them in! I snapped.
I tried to gently stroke the tabby, but she tensed, shrank back and hissed. Clearly, trusting people was long behind her. Shed not been as lucky with humans as Benny had been with us. The thought of those local Labradors finding her and her babies was terrifyingthose were rugged, wild hunting dogs. Her solitary eye spoke volumes about her tough past.
We ended up keeping the whole gang. And, plot twist: Benny became utterly domesticated! Once, hed fight other cats in the blocks courtyard for pretty lady cats; now his focus had shifted. He might brawl for territorial reasons but never over the ladies. After each scruffy battle, hed always return home to his one-eyed companion.
In the evenings, theyd curl up together in their communal nesta large cardboard box under the kitchen table. There Benny would meticulously groom Maisie, especially around her injured eye.
Eventually, I managed to persuade the local animal expert to give Maisie some treatmenta minor miracle. It involved collar-grabbing and bribing him with a cheeky bottle of whisky, not an easy task thanks to that years dry spell.
We found homes for the kittens quickly; the blokes at the fishery, upon hearing of their illustrious father, snatched them up like exclusive breed pups. The others queued, sure Maisie would provide more kittens in due course.
And in time, she didMaisie had two more litters. One day, she slipped out and didnt return. Loyalty wasnt her thing, we learned.
We searched for her for days: called at windows, explored the courtyard, investigated abandoned sheds and the thickets atop the nearby rise. No luck. Thankfully, the last kittenseach somehow Benny-like and yet notwere already grown and soon all found their new homes.
Benny, however, grew morose. Sometimes, hed sit on the windowsill for hours, eyes fixed on the street as if waiting. Or hed prowl the yard, occasionally diving into fierce scraps with other cats. Yet new girlfriends brought him no joynever again did he lead one to our door.
The only sign of his old Don Juan days were the kittens that appeared around spring and autumn, sporting that signature marquis tuxedo pattern. Like living proof: old Benjamin still held his standards and hadnt lost every spark of his former glory.
Benny settled fully into retirement about 1998. No more outdoor adventures, hed sleep for 1819 hours straight, eat little. You could see he was ageingnot just in body but in spirit.
Then, in July 1999, the unexpected happened: he began making plaintive calls at the door, scratching the threshold, begging insistently to go outside. Knowing Benny wouldnt make such a fuss for nothing, I followedeven as I inwardly worried hed meet some untimely dog-related end.
Benny struggled down from our third storey as if he had all the woes of the world on his back; every step looked like a battle with his own legs. He circled the house, took a determined path to the steep hill rising thirty yards away. I tried to help him, but Benny protested furiously, as if to say: Dont you dareI must do this myself.
Finally, he reached the top, paused at a winding ravine filled with little dens and hollows. He turned to look at mea long, searching gaze, as if trying to say something, or to imprint my face forever. His green eyes seemed to peer right into me. Then, with sudden energy unexpected in his frail age, he darted into one of the tunnels under the bank. And vanished.
I called, waited, shouted his name, strained to hear any sound. I tried crawling after himonly got a faceful of wet earth and hands squelching in some sort of animal muck. Unable to reach him, I gave up and went home.
Once there, I cleaned up, grabbed a torch and a bag of cat food (now readily available from the shops), and returned. I called again, but Benny never reappeared, nor ever answered. I had to leave, finally realising I might have just seen him for the last time.
He never came back. Perhaps that old saying about senior cats seeking a faraway place to go is more truth than fancy. All we were left with was hopeand a gentle, quiet certaintythat the wild rose bush with crimson blossoms, which grew next summer by the southern edge of the ravine, was more than just a plant. Perhaps it was Benny himself, in his new, magnificent incarnation.
