Thursday, 13 September 2012
She was a matter of 8 weeks old when my father walked across the road to his neighbour and friend and collected the tiny, blue-eyed white bundle.
Minute though she was, when he brought her in to their conservatory and placed her on the floor beside his chair with food and water next to her, she made a tiny not quite miaow sound and leapt a prodigious great leap, onto his lap.
Uncertain until then how he felt about taking her on that clinched it, he was hers, completely under her tiny paw until the day she died.
My mother, less keen initially, fell also under her spell very
quickly and pretty soon Polly's squeak was law.
She loved listening to music, but when my father sang he would pick her up and she would put a firm paw over his mouth. (A cat of taste and discernment).
Less so, where her sense of smell was concerned.
As I've said before, and illustrated by the pictures above (top two), she was addicted to sniffing my father's slipper.
She was a great climber and loved to climb on the rose arches in the garden and swipe at the hair or my father's hat as he passed.
Sadly she was injured (we think by a car) and her beautiful tail had to be amputated quite early in her life, and her balance was never quite as good again.
Her favourite place was in the greenhouse where she would curl up in the warmth for hours. The third picture shows her 'hatching' the tomato seedlings under their cover of netting.
She was friendly with Sextus the feral from the farm until he took too much of my father's attention, then she would attack him and chase him back over the road.
She developed cancer at the age of about 15 and was finally taken for her last visit to the vet by my grieving parents who never really got over her loss.
They played host to many more cats from the farm over the years, but never gave a permanent home to any other cat but Polly.
Posted by Ray Barnes at 9:04:00 pm