Dad, come and see Broom has brought his family home
Benedict, as he was called, bore the classic marquis colouring, well-known amongst the locals: his back shimmered a deep navy, with matching shades on his ears and tail. His chest, bib, cheeks, neat socks, belly, the tip of his tail, and a white triangle on his forehead gleamed strikingly bright. His feline flexibility and elegance often inspired folks to remark, as graceful as a grand piano. Benedicts eyes were a thoughtful green, befitting a seasoned performer of moonlit cat ballads beneath cottage windows in true country-cat style.
He possessed a rare politeness for his kind. He never ventured onto the dining table, nor did he scratch the furniture with his claws, and he certainly refrained from shoving things off the dresser in imitation of Isaac Newton, testing gravitys pull. What sort of kitten he once was remained a mysteryperhaps he climbed curtains, toppled Christmas trees, chased toys. However, when he joined our household, he was a fully grown cat with a settled character, already shaped by life. His previous home had not been a house at all.
Before joining us, Benedict resided in the storeroom of a small fishery across the river. But change was afoot: a new manager took charge, one with a passionate fondness for dogs and an equal disdain for cats. That settled Benedicts fate, and my brother-in-law, who worked there as a welder, brought him to us.
If he stays, the managers hounds will tear him apart. Could you take him in? he pleaded.
We agreed, and Benedict a handsome young fellow quickly set about improving feline genetics among the neighbourhoods cats.
Now, please forgive me if talk of free ranging brings you to indignation. This was the late 80s, in rural Devon veterinary care for cats, let alone talk of neutering, was hardly common knowledge. Should anyone have raised the matter with the farms half-tipsy vet, he would likely have responded with bafflement, if not derision.
Despite Benedicts active romantic pursuits, none of the local felines ever became special to him. He remained indifferent, favouring no one above the rest. Everything changed, however, when she appeared… Molly.
That day, I had returned home after a night shift, showered, and was drifting into sleep. Towards midday, my daughter, just returned from school, gently woke me.
Dad, you must see this! Broom has brought his family home!
I shuffled down the corridor to the kitchen and halted as if struck silent. Benedict sat there in dignified feline stance: back arched, paws neatly tucked under, tail curled around the front, ears and whiskers forward.
Before him, three kittens squirmed on the floor, their appearance bold testament to origin: the same dark backs, white socks, bibs, and pale tip markings on the ends of their black tails. I took another step and was taken aback there, eating greedily from Benedicts dish, was a scruffy tabby cat: grey-striped, with tattered ears, thin and wild-eyed.
When she looked up at me, I stopped cold: she had only one eye.
I came to the door, my daughter explained, and all five were huddled on the doormat, Broom in front. I wanted to chase them out, but then saw her poor eye
You did the right thing letting them in! I replied sharply.
I tried to gently touch the tabby, but she tensed, recoiled, and hissed. It was clear: she had long since lost trust in people. Unlike Benedict, who had fortune on his side, she had never found kind souls. It was sobering to consider what dangers awaited her and her kittens had they met the local houndsharsh, semi-wild working dogs. Her missing eye was testament enough to the hardships she endured.
In the end, we kept the whole family. And, as it turned out, this marked a turning point: our marquis became the model domestic cat! Gone were his skirmishes with other males over feline beauties; now, he only defended his patch. Whenever he returned home battered and scruffy from a territorial clash, hed head straight to his one-eyed companion.
Each evening, they settled together in their shared retreata large box beneath the kitchen tablewhere Benedict carefully groomed his now-recovering Molly, giving tender attention to her injured eye.
Though local veterinary care was scarce and skilful, I eventually persuaded the village animal man to tend to Molly. Not easily, mind you; I had to tug at his coat and offer a bottle of whisky, which, amid those prohibition days, was no simple task.
The kittens found homes quicklythe men from the fishery, upon hearing they were Benedicts offspring, snapped them up as if they were purebred. Others queued for the day Molly would undoubtedly bear more.
Time passed; the grey Molly brought forth two further litters. One day, she wandered off again and never returned. Loyalty was never her strong suit, as we learned.
We searched for her for days: calling beneath windows, wandering the yard, checking abandoned sheds and hawthorn thickets. In vain. Thankfully the last kittensbearing and not bearing Benedicts colouring alikehad grown enough to be rehomed. Every neighbour whod reserved one took theirs gladly.
Yet Benedict grew despondent. Hed sit for hours on the windowsill, eyes fixed on the street, as though waiting for someone. Sometimes hed wander the garden, getting into fierce scraps with rivals, but the new company brought him no joy. No more did he lead a companion to our door.
The only signs of his past renown were the occasional young cats with that signature marquis coat, appearing each spring and autumn. Living reminders that old Benedict retained his legacy, energy lingering through the years.
His real retirement began around 1998. Benedict finally ceased his outings, slept long hourseighteen, nineteen at a timeate little, and aged visibly, body and soul.
Then, in July 1999, something odd happened: he whimpered at the door, scratching insistently, begging to go out. Knowing he did not complain in vain, I followed, though fretting over lurking dogs.
Benedict descended carefully from our third floor, as if a weary old man, stumbling at every step. He circled the house, then made for the steep hill rising thirty metres behind our cottage. I sought to help him, but he fiercely resisted: Dont dareI must do this alone, his manner seemed to say.
When he reached the plateau of the mound, near a winding gully littered with small hollows, Benedict turned to meet my gaze, as if to say something or to remember forever. His green eyes seemed to reach right into my heart. Then, suddenly, he darted like a youth into one of the burrows at the ravines edge. And vanished into the darkness.
I waited, called for him, listened to every rustle. I tried to crawl after him, but only succeeded in covering myself with muddy clumps and stumbling into animal droppings. Unable to reach him, I returned.
At home, I cleaned up, grabbed a torch and a bag of cat food, which by then was found easily in shops. I returned, called again, but Benedict neither answered nor emerged. I reluctantly went back, realising perhaps Id seen him for the last time.
He never came back. Seems there is truth in those old tales, that aged cats wander off to die far from home. All that remains is to believeor quietly hopethat the wild rose bush, blooming with purplish flowers the following summer beside the ravine, was not just a plant, but Benedict himself, reborn in magnificent new form.
