She was the smartest cat I ever knew. She was the first to figure out how to use the cat flap and she would burst through it, mewing and trotting over to wherever the action was. Serafine was smaller than most cats, but was nevertheless an accomplished hunter. In the first few months in the new house she brought me presents of a dead rat, a live mouse and she killed a snake before my eyes.
Serafine was about 4 months old when I first met her. She was sitting in the basket of my late husband’s bicycle. I didn’t want any more cats so I didn’t let her in. But she persisted in her determination to get adopted, and of course I relented pretty quickly because she was such a sweetie. That was 14 years ago. This past Wednesday I found her dead in the parking lot next to the house. She didn’t show obvious signs of having been run over, but I can’t think what else could have happened to her. I buried her, shrouded in a dark blue towel, in the garden next to the lavender.
I am heart-broken. Her favorite place in the house was, naturally, the kitchen. She would weave around my legs, meowing the whole time, whenever I wanted to cook even though I assured her it wasn’t for her. It drove me mad. Now I miss it and wish she would do it again just once more. She meowed a lot. I used to tell her that there were too many meows and that someday she would run out of them. I guess she has.
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