Good-bye Bastet Achilles III

Most of my followers on Facebook and Instagram would already know the horrible news - on Monday, 4th May, Bastet was run over by a car.  One of my neighbours was reversing out and clocked him right in the head.  At least he died instantly.  I can still remember my other neighbour telling me what had happened, me ringing vets wondering if he was there, and finally finding his still-warm body in a box.  I've never been so devastated in my life.  Even when Morgan died, at least we knew he'd had a long, good life.  Bastet was four years old. I've played the "what-if" game to death, wishing I'd been home earlier instead of staying back at work, or wishing I hadn't made Bastet go outside that morning.  It was a horrible shock and I'm still trying to adjust to having only one cat.

You see, Cheynee and Bastet were two sides of a coin.  Having one without the other is hard.  While Cheynee likes to lick me to death, refuses to come when called, is exceptionally chatty, is very much an indoor-pet and is very much a cat.  Bastet used to come when called (unless outside), loved to explore, only opened his mouth to eat, yawn or whinge, loved to stop me from trying to get to work and was pretty much a dog in a cat suit.  One without the other was unthinkable until Boofy died suddenly.

So I guess all that's left is for a tribute to my beloved little big boy.  Seriously, Boof was a big cat. He loved to think of himself as a wild hunter, and my feet were usually his favourite prey.  When it actually came to hunting living things though, like insects, Cheynee usually had him beat.  Except for the friarbird.

You see, when I lived with my parents, I lived in the garage with my babies.  They had a little fenced-off area to play in just outside my window, called Catopia.  One Saturday morning I was trying to have a sleep-in, when I heard loud growling outside.  Irked, I went outside to see what was gong on.  Picture this: One small bird-of-prey glaring at Bastet.  Bastet glaring back with a native friarbird in his mouth.  Cheynee looking bemused.  Of course, once the bird-of-prey saw me it decided the bird wasn't worth the trouble.  Bastet immediately shot inside and under the bed, where I rescued the poor friarbird (which wasn't the least bit grateful) while Bastet fumed.

Another amusing story was Bastets first Christmas.  A picture paints a thousand words, so I'll share it.

We're still not sure who the guilty party was, but I'm willing to bet Bastet was involved.

I can still remember how he used to hate me leaving him for work.  He'd try to stop me brushing my hair, would sit on me, would cry, would do anything in his power to try and stop me.

Don't ask me how I could resist that face.

Although he was always willing to help with my shoelaces.

He was also a big fan of the outdoors and loved his Uncle Morgan (RIP).

Of course, we can't forget the time he injured his paw antagonising his sister.  He wasn't too thrilled about having it cleaned!

It was a horrible, horrible way to lose my fur-son, but hopefully he's at the Rainbow Bridge with his Uncle Morgan and Aunt Footsie, and hopefully it will be a long, long time until his sister joins him.

Mummy loves you Boofy, and Chinny misses you.  Good-bye.