Farewell Colonel...

It has been a rough last couple of days: on Monday we took Withnail, our portly and furry cat, to the vet after he had been seriously lethargic and had refused to eat for a day. The lethargy was nothing new for he was a fairly large chap and had over the years acquired the demeanour of a crusty old colonel, but the loss of appetite was worrying.

Despite all this, Withnail was still bright-eyed and showed no obvious signs of dehydration; his exaggerated slouch however suggested that he might have been suffering from some sort of joint problem. The vet seemed to agree, but suggested he have a blood test just in case. The injection he was given to relieve the joint pain didn't seem to have much of an effect, but we thought nothing of it until we got a call back later in the day with the news that the blood test had revealed serious abnormalities with his kidneys. Although this was a shock after the initial spot-check diagnosis, we were able to mentally prepare ourselves with the idea of him being put on a special long-term diet after coming home.

The Old Colonel as we will always remember him... Slouching about in the garden.

Withnail was an animal that always defied convention and was something of an unique character. He'd always announce himself with his distinctive chirrup when walking into the living room, would purr loudly in anticipation of being given a cuddle or a morsel of food, and would give us his own unique warning when he walked in soaked by the rain. He even treated the small creatures he caught differently from most other cats: rather than toy with them until they dropped dead of sheer exhaustion, he'd perform what could best be described as extensive surgery - with the mouse or rat looking like one of those cleanly-prepared specimens you'd see sitting on a desk in a biology class. His defying convention at every turn also bamboozled the vets - despite the fact that he would have been in obvious pain, he continued to not show the obvious signs of deterioration.

I am guessing that Withnail was either a doctor or biology teacher in a previous life...

It took an ultrasound scan to confirm what was actually wrong: one of his kidneys had clearly packed up, and what might have been months or even years of living like this had clearly overworked the other one. Most mammals can get by happily with the one kidney, and cats in particular are very good at not showing outward signs of distress until it becomes acute; these factors led to what was in the end a very rapid deterioration. Having been informed of the situation, the vets - and Caroline and I - concluded that there could be only one practical solution.

So we drove to the hospital in Richmond late on the Tuesday night, braving the horrendous London roads and a maniacal search for a petrol station that was still open, to say our final farewell. It was utterly gut-wrenching as Withnail still looked his same old self, purring gently as we both spoke to him. In spite of the vet telling us that we might witness convulsions when that moment came, the old colonel remained calm to the last and passed away quietly.

A striking shot of the Colonel, sitting proudly like a tiger in the long grass.

We buried the old chap yesterday in the garden; it was so sudden that I am still half-expecting him to come blundering in through the cat flap either in search of a drop of tuna juice or carrying half a dead pigeon for our perusal. I am convinced that should any other cat head towards the nearby plants to do its business, they will get that uncompromising glare and protracted hiss.

RIP Colonel.