The Last of the Hamletsons

Once there was a stray ginger tomcat. He’d seen better days, having a torn ear, one good eye and was rather saggy at the knees. We called him Hamlet as he looked like a picture of a cat with that name hanging on our wall. In the spring of 1998, he had his wicked way with our young queen, Bast. On midsummer’s night that year she had four kittens, Ptolemy, Isis, Hatshepsut and Cleo.

Of the litter, Cleo was the biggest, the strongest, the loudest and, frankly the one with the looks and temperament of her somewhat irascible father. During her early years, she was aloof and independent and spiky. Very spiky. It was only in her later years that she mellowed. This was caused by the arrival of a small white and tabby kitten who moved in unbidden and made himself at home. Louis put great effort into ingratiating himself into the affections of the resident cats – in particular, Cleo. She, surprisingly reciprocated and there developed a companionship that lasted to the end of her life.

When Hattie died a couple of weeks back, we suspected that Cleo at the same great age, would follow fairly shortly.  We didn’t expect it to be a matter of a couple of weeks though. Over the weekend, she stopped eating, so we expected her to drift off in a matter of hours as others have. But not Cleo. That spirit, that strength of will, the biggest, the loudest, the most defiant of the litter, raged against the dying of the light. Weak and failing, she was determined to go outside on the patio and drink from the puddles. I brought her in again afterwards. As we went to bed on Sunday night, she was, again, outside, sitting up staring into the night as if daring it to take her. If I had left her, it probably would have.

As it was, on Monday morning, with Cleo still fighting the inevitable and still not eating, we decided that she would have to be helped on her way. I would have rather she met the furry reaper at home, but we were left with no choice. This was a fight she was destined to lose, as are we all one day, but she wasn’t going easy. We owed it to her to ease her on her way as she could have lingered for several days gradually  starving to death.

I have wondered how Louis would react to losing his companion, but Louis, being Louis, has other companions to fall back on. He has an entourage that follow him as he followed Cleo. Yet, even in the last hours of her life, he was snuggling up to her and I will remember that as I look back on a life well lived and a life-force that fought to the very end.

Vale Cleo, the last of the Hamletsons.

_{Yes, yes, I know three of them were dottirs, but who’s splitting hairs here?}