Ower Annie

Lucy’s column for September 9th.
Catlo…1
For nigh-on nineteen years, she ruled out household. With eyes the colour of topaz, and plush grey fur as soft as chenille, she was beautiful. And she knew it. But last week, Ower Annie, the cat we have adored, and in turn, despaired of at times, gasped her last and shuffled off to that paradise of tinned salmon and squirty cream.
She was the last in a long line of family felines stretching back nearly 40 years. Our first, Georgina, lasted 21 years, and was the only one we’d chosen as a kitten, born in the boiler house at the old Manor Hospital. The rest – six in all – just sort of crept through the cat-flap when we weren’t looking, and before we knew it, had their paws under a groaning Whiskas and Felix-filled cat dish, and languid bodies stretched out on various sofas and beds.
At one time, we had three ensconced in Orgill Towers, when Spy – so named because, as a homeless hobo, he came in from the cold one November night – was later joined by Annie, and her sister Emily. Both had flitted from next door, home of our friends and neighbours, Nick and Colette Ball, never to return there. From the moment she perched herself on the kitchen chair nearest the radiator, Annie established herself as Top Cat. Spy, ever the gentleman, was a wuss in her presence. Emily, who eventually went to live with my late son Matthew and his fiancee Rose, trembled in her wake.
Visitors could be forgiven for thinking she was one of those posh, pedigree, Russian Blues, and indeed, she conducted herself as some sort of Tsarina – imperious, disdainful, picky, cold and snooty, choosing a satin cushion over a cosy knee any day, and a food-bowl faddy who refused to eat with the others.
But cop her lolling on a garden-lounger on a sunny day with the light behind her, and were signs of wrong-side-of-the-blanket ginger-tom parenthood among the bluey-grey. And when it came to the nitty-gritty of camouflaging herself as a branch as she sat in a tree waiting to pounce on some unsuspecting sparrow, or stalking a mouse through the garden undergrowth, she was wily, vicious, cruel, and just as yobbish, as her fellow-moggies. We’ve even seen her whack a few foxes around the face when they’ve dared invade her space.
But there was a loving side to her, signs which showed as she grew older, and the other cats croaked. A flick of the landing light switch, and she’d be down the bed before I could say "pyjamas". She greeted every visitor, and when they left, she’d join us at the garden gate to say goodbye. Off for a walk? Ower Annie would trot along beside us. And she is the only cat I’ve know to be barred from a bar. It became her absolute right to accompany us to the nearby Fairholme Club, where she’d tour the grounds before settling down on the settee. One night, though, a member complained because she was allergic to cats. Ever after, we had to sneak out for a drink, and trust she wouldn’t follow.
Like all old stagers, whether they’re aristocratic or common as muck, her quality of life suffered over the past year. Though she ventured out, would hurtle back in and do what she should have done outside, inside. In the end, the dreaded cancer got her, and thanks to the gentle and sympathetic hand of a vet and nurse from the Scarsdale Veterinary Clinic, was put to sleep, on my knee, on her beloved kitchen sofa.
All signs of her existence were gone in half-an-hour. The cat-flap is locked. Anybody turning up with a fluffy kitten will go away with a cat flea in their ear. Annie Orgill has left the building. And we miss her like mad.
end