Koshka - the Russian for cat - was born in Kew on or around 1 April 1997. Her mother came from a farm in North Wales, her unknown father was a local Kew boy. She probably inherited her love of being hugged from her parents.
Introduced into the family by Claire who read her interesting snippets of her Latin A level revision, she soon came to dominate the family. One member complained that she was indeed black and white but was not actually a rabbit.
At the age of six she was in for a rude surprise: a 300 mile journey in a car to a new temporary home in Cornwall. She took exception to this and, on arrival, escaped into the undergrowth. Eventually re-captured, she settled down to a peripatetic life for a year or so where she discovered new joys: field mice and shrews.
Her arrival in Trevellan Road was a delight. Here was an overgrown garden and she saw it as her special mission to rid it of all vermin: a task she took to with gusto.
Life became less comfortable when she the house was re-built around her. To preserve her territory she had her own cat flap into the garage where she was fed. This was not a good place to sleep: unheated and noisy. Eventually, she discovered where we were living and settled down in our porch, an altogether warmer home. She spent much time next door, keeping a close eye on the builders and their lunch bags, inspecting their work at the end of the day with us and reminding us where her food should be served.
Eventually we returned to the re-built house where she settled back into the routine of catching mice and shrews and presenting them to us in the kitchen. She explored different spaces for ten days at a time: anything in her way was rudely pushed to one side so that she could stretch her ample body out at full length.
These were happy times for her. The nervous cat which would run from the house the moment a stranger appeared was relaxed around strangers and was almost friendly to some of them.
Spring 2009 was an interesting time for her. She went off her food occasionally which we put down to boredom with Whiskas. Her appetite came and went but she seemed to have a good coat of fur and was actually losing a bit of weight: no bad thing, some might say.
On Sunday 12 May, quite uncharacteristically, she came and sat with us on the new bench under the merry hedge, rolling over on the grass and settling down to enjoy a spring evening in the late afternoon sun, stretched out on her back with her white tummy showing. That was the last we saw of the happy cat we knew so well.
She did not report for breakfast or supper on Monday and by Tuesday we searched the neighbouring gardens, finally finding her lying in the long grass of our garden, pretty immobile. We took her her into the house overnight and to the vet on Wednesday morning who diagnosed a liver tumour. She died that day, aged twelve, and we buried her next to the bench where we had last seen her so relaxed.
The house feels very empty without her.
