Last night I slept with a cat.

I don’t think I’ve done that since my childhood, when Henry a black and white bundle of tolerance would curl up on the foot of my bed. One night it would be my bed, another night my brother’s, another night another family member’s. No door in the house was shut to King Henry.

Tigger, my furry ginger companion last night, was, well, let’s say, more ‘interactive’ than curling up at the foot of the bed.

There was the expected climb over me to find his desired spot. And this was repeated a few times through the night. But then there was the sociable nudge in the face. Also repeated a few times through the night.

And a chewing on my hair, what little I still have of it. I think my response, an ‘Oi! Don’t do that!’ deterred him from any repetitive behaviour.

I didn’t though anticipate the nocturnal hijinks. Just on the edge of deep sleep I heard this scrape as something moved on my bedside table. Then a softer noise as the something was battered about on the carpet. I turned on my red-light torch and saw Tigger, channelling his inner Djokovic, batting my watch around on the carpet. I decided my watch could stay on my wrist that night.

Next, an hour or so later, it was a plasticky sound as a packet of throat lozenges got the same treatment. The lozenges went under my pillow.

Next, an hour or so later, it was a rolling rattling sound. He’d found a wee bottle. It too was getting the Djokovic treatment. And it too was relocated to under my pillow.

At 5.30 am his fluffiness decided it was time for breakfast. ‘C’mon, old man, get up, look lively, there’s places to go, things to see!’ I stared at him-who-will-sleep-most-of-the-day in disbelief. He stared back as if to say, ‘I’ll cut you a deal, you give me breakfast and I’ll forgive you for sleeping on my bed.’

Joking aside, it was a night to remember. And with St Francis Day approaching, probably good for my soul. Though I do wonder if Francis ever had a cat.

This month our family, including Tigger, said a sad adieu to Cleo. She, in her 16^th year, now rests in our memories and our hearts. Members of St Luke’s may remember that our family cats lived in my study for some weeks in 2015 as the then manse underwent repairs. Tigger used the church as a base to scour the neighbourhood. Cleo was the sociable one who delighted adults and children in the Community Centre and Kindergarten.

Here is a prayer of thanks for Cleo that I wrote:

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We give thanks for Cleo,

wild-born, to her own spirit true,

that little bundle of tortoise-shell,who came snuggling, delightfully,

into our lives 16 years ago,

full of fun, feistiness, and affection.

No Christmas tree was safe.

No opportunity for play passed up.

No warm lap overlooked.

Never was a call from her mother(her primary human) not heeded.

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We give thanks for Cleo’s mischievous streak,

her fearless spirit, her dab right paw that thought

nothing of batting a Rottweiler’s nose (poor Russ).

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We give thanks for Cleo,

friend of canine Goldie (usually),

mother of three, master of Tigger (her son),

ruler of the rumbustious room,

escape artist extraordinaire,

with the sweetest wee face,

vivacious and gregarious.

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She was always inquisitive,

always interested in visitors,

with no qualms about climbing onto anyone’s lap,

finding a needsome soul to smooch,

or winding her way into the church organ loft,

laying down amongst the warmest pipes,

and bending a few (on purpose?).

Patroness St Gertrude, she of 7^th century

Benedictine and feline fame,

would be proud of pious Cleo,

one scratch away from purr-fection,

a cat with attitude in spades.

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May Cleo’s spirit rest in peace,

rise when she wants and is ready,

and spend eternity warming the world,

snuggling love, contentment, and attitude,

wherever it is most needed.

Furry blessings,

Glynn