Ginger, an obituary

It is often said that the loss of a pet can be as affecting as that of a close family relative. They are, after all, an enduring presence of a home, a feature of a life so constant and reliable that their sudden disappearance means a rapid reconfiguration of quotidian existence. And although there are naysayers and cynics, the closeness, unconditional love and inherent vulnerability of a loving animal in a person’s life is an irrefutable benefit to anyone.

For me, cats in particular have such varied personalities and traits that their presence in homes forge relationships akin to human ones. They have their likes, their dislikes, the things they take offence at, the things they love. They socialise on their own terms and take their own company when they need it. They can more or less look after themselves – in short, they do not need their custodian humans. Rather, they choose to remain; and their continued presence is a gift. Neighbours with a soft touch will feed them if their owners are neglectful; their resourcefulness knows no limit. Indeed, the word “owners” is not just a little patronising, it’s outright incorrect. They are housemates who are afforded special privileges (such as being fed) in order that they continue to share their indefatigable feline wisdom with us.

This week past, on the 1st October, our ancient family cat, Ginger, was put down after losing nearly all of his renal function, and it was a heavy blow. As he got older, his various eccentricities became the topic of regular and hilarious conversation. Aside from the benefits of his physical presence, his personality helped bring our family closer together vicariously. In this, he was a sage whom I like to think knew of what he did, sitting at the top of the stairs, gazing down upon his quiet kingdom.

I learned much from Ginger, more of which I would do to well to put into practice in my daily life. I learned patience and the reservation of judgement from the way he would consider situations extensively before deciding to become involved. But I also learned that impulsivity can reap great rewards, and that everyone likes the pleasant surprise of a sudden, unequivocal offering of love. Perhaps I won’t rub my back up against my partner’s legs, but I would do well to remember that affection does not go unnoticed, even in the hardiest people.

I learned tolerance, from the way (in his younger years), my sister and I would manhandle him in the hope of expressing our love for him in a manner that he quite plainly did not enjoy. Rarely did he complain, although it was quite clear that he would not have invited such molestation. On some level, he recognised what we did as an act of love rather than an act of cruelty and understood that it was important that we were not shut down or dispossessed of our inclination toward amity and warmth.

I learned opportunism; that if you want something, you must ask for it, and sometimes ask persistently. You may not receive it (although it certainly doesn’t hurt your chances), but at least you exhausted yourself trying.

I learned, very young, the wordlessness of true friendship. I learned that sometimes all it takes to let someone know you love them is to sit with them, quietly, uninvited, without imposition, and simply share each other’s presence.

I learned the benefits of leisure time and the ills of too much of it. Even in his final weeks and days, Ginger was spritely and active. He would not scramble his way to the top of an apple tree that he couldn’t get down from, as he once did, but he would still run up and down the full height of our large, Victorian house and spring onto his favourite chair for a nap. Such a level of flexibility (despite a somewhat humorous and sad arthritis in the hind-quarters) does disappear if one is too sedentary. And, as I generally make all of my money from writing – i.e. remaining stationary for protracted periods of time – this is an important lesson for me.

But it is nonetheless important to be able to sit by oneself, with oneself, without distraction, contentedly – and I am convinced that this is a lost art.

I believe that Ginger, and cats more broadly, are not the dumb beasts that some would have them be. Throughout his life, Ginger did not once behave in an emotionally inappropriate way. His perspicacity was astonishing. As he came into the family when I was eight (I’m now 27) and we have always lived as a family in the same house, he was witness to a great many emotional episodes of mine.

I have always felt things deeply, whether the situation asked for such a response or not, and oftentimes this was mere indulgence. But on the occasions when I have been truly, deeply hurt, or ashamed, or riddled with anxiety, Ginger would always slink into my room to find me curled up and in tears. And on these occasions, he would jump onto my bed and sit quietly, waiting for me to talk to him in my own time.

Invariably I would talk, whether he sought me out to offer succour in my room or whether I went to find him out at one of his rotating spots beneath radiators or on patches of floor run underneath by hot water pipes. And talk I would, at length. A mere beast would not have recognised the import of what I was saying and wandered off to do more interesting things than listen to my confessional, but Ginger did not. He would remain, looking at me, listening and, on some level, understanding.

I have told Ginger things that I have not told anyone else. In fact, I’ve probably told him everything – always being careful not to overburden him or worry him too much. Countless studies have shown that simply unloading what is on one’s mind, even without taking direct action to do anything about it, is an amazingly healing activity. And in this, Ginger was the best therapist and healer I have known.

It is no exaggeration to say that Ginger was my best friend. I even wrote a poem around the age of twenty-one entitled ‘Guard Cat’, where I confessed it was strange but wonderful that the love of my life was an elderly, frail, eccentric red-haired man. And I feel the loss of him appropriately; as losing a best friend should make me feel.

I’ve never verified this, but I deeply suspect that Ginger performed this role for the whole family on an individual basis. Although he was, technically, my sister’s cat, after she and I moved away, he had an increasingly close relationship with my parents and my father in particular. And whether he cares to admit it or not, I am confident dad would have a few heart-to-hearts with this old man of leisure.

I say he was “technically” my sister’s cat because he was, technically. But in reality, he was never owned. He was his own cat. I’ve often said that I think he thought he was human, but this would be a disservice to him. He wasn’t, he was a cat; and did more service to our family as a cat than any human could have done. He was a unifying, indelible and beautiful member of the household, and I hope that he takes a lifetime of love and fond memories on his next big adventure.

It is for these reasons that I cannot abide people who dismiss the value of pets, particularly when they are lost, to humans. We are made better by our animal friends. We are made more human. And, perhaps, I have been made more feline; which is no bad thing. The loss I have felt acutely is not that of some plaything, some toy or even some cherished possession, but the loss of a dear and equal friend whose advice and counsel I will take with me for the rest of my life, until perhaps we meet again.

And it is for these reasons that I don’t think it odd but, in fact, entirely appropriate, to dedicate a heartfelt message of love to a cat.

Due to his long life (he was 93 by the best estimate of cat years), he knew a great many people, and had a great many friends; my friends, my sister’s friends, my parents’ friends. And I’m sure he’ll be missed by them all. And he had a great life, a truly splendid adventure, fitting for a cat of such discerning taste and distinction. I hope my friend – our friend – is as happy now as he has always been.

He is survived by his beloved staff, Suzanne and Julian, and their children, Jonathan and Charlotte.