A couple of years ago, I fell in love with an 11-year-old cat who had been waiting at the SPCA for a month. I couldn’t believe nobody had adopted him. He was so striking, with a gentle personality.
The big guy’s name was Mittens, but we rarely called him that. It never quite seemed to fit.
To us, he was Mitts. Big Mitts. King Mitts. Captain Mitts. Or, most affectionately, Mitty.
He was a colourful, impossibly handsome cat with the bearing of a storybook pirate captain. He had a swagger. With his enormous white ruff and magnificent whiskers, he looked like he should have been commanding a ship. He was jaunty. I always felt that was the perfect word.
If you draped a blanket over Mitts, he would wear it around the house proudly; seemingly taking some pains to avoid it falling off as he moved about. Because of this, I successfully got him into a sweater once or twice, but he genuinely seemed to prefer the blanket, worn cape-style.
Mittens liked company. Any new person could come to the house, pick him up and give him a hug. He was always pleased to allow someone to pet his luxurious coat. This cat pushed his body forcefully into your hand when you touched him.
He occasionally joined forces with Ozzy to become one of our infamous wild boys, tearing around the house and bouncing off the furniture. I think I might miss seeing that totally free side of him most of all.
I thought we’d have more time. He seemed so strong, so full of life, so completely and gloriously himself.
But kidney failure did what it does so often in cats.
His Highness was only with us a couple of years. I wish we’d had another five, another ten. I wish I could have watched that magnificent pirate grow even older.
But I’m grateful we found each other.
He got a home where he was adored, a little brother who desperately wanted to play with him, and a family who saw that he was an extraordinary creature.
And we got Captain Mitts. A most sophisticated house-tiger. I’ll miss your swagger, Sir.
