The funny thing was, she wasn’t even supposed to be my cat. She wasn’t anyway of course – Chilli wasn’t the type to be owned. Perhaps I should say, I wasn’t supposed to be her human. Ding chose Chilli, and I chose Feelix. However, Feelix chose Ding, and Chilli chose me. I think it snuck up on us both, both enjoying the garden, ending up years later living in the flat together, still sharing a garden. I’m so grateful I had that time with her. One of my greatest regrets with Feelix was that I couldn’t remember the last time I spent any time with her, I couldn’t remember the last time we spoke before she got ill, whereas I think Mum and Ding had such memories and Dad doesn’t think like that. With Chilli, I spent a lot of time with her, especially recently, driven in part by my regrets over Fee. The grief of losing Chill is a selfish grief, not one of regret and missed opportunities. I miss Chilli so much, and I wish she was here, but I miss her for my sake, not hers, and I don’t regret. She was happy, and she died without knowing anything other than contentment. All I wish is that I’d said goodnight properly last night. But being Chill, I know she bears no grudge. Forgiven in an instant, as always.
The month or so when we lived together, she used to wait until I leaned over to turn off the alarm in the morning and would steal my pillow, purring and shedding manky scurfy fur over my pillow, the minx. She’d then want to lick as I gently maneuvered her off my pillow, which is rarely attractive from a mouth that hadn’t seen a toothbrush in 14 years. Despite that her most endearing habit was returning a kiss – I’d kiss her on the forehead, and she’d do the same to me. Call her name and she would stare at you intently, waiting apparently, to see if you are going to put anything on the end of the word. In younger years, she chased a fox away from the guinea pig run (albeit the fox merely nipped around the other side of the run, outfoxing the brave yet not incredibly bright cat) giving me time to get there and protect them, yet if she caught a mouse she’d swear and curse at you before running off to some bush with the poor creature. Fee used to give them as live unharmed gifts, Chill had no intentions of sharing her new toy.
Although I’ve alluded to her lack of intelligence – she had nothing on Fee on IQ – she wasn’t stupid by any stretch. She was clever and cunning and ever so mischievous. She could open sliding doors, knew the fridge was the source of food (even when at the vets she shuffled hopefully forward as the vet got a vaccine out of the fridge) and in common sense she had no equal. She knew her place in the world and how we all fit in.
Forgiving, unflappable huntress, stalwart companion, and very dearest friend.
My darling Chill.
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