I don’t believe in ghosts. They don’t exist. I know that for certain because if they did there would be a ghost cat curled up on my wife’s feet as I type. There isn’t.
Achilles (or as he was known to our neighbours before we moved in: David Meow) first came into our lives when we moved into Snatts Hill in 2013. We noticed a scruffy black and white cat hanging around in the garden and suspected he was a stray even before we found him sleeping regularly in our derelict summer house.
We already had three cats. Apollo and Athena who we had taken as rescue kittens and then Artemis their mother (mummacat) who we had gone back for after we had heard the rescue centre were struggling to find her a furrever home. We hadn’t let them out yet which meant he still had the run of our garden. So this scruffy boy would come and sit close to the washing line as Buffy was hanging clothes out to dry and “talk” to her. Gradually over the summer he got closer and closer until eventually he trusted her enough to let her stroke him. We’ve always said that he chose us and not the other way round.
As summer turned to autumn we discussed his options. We decided we couldn’t let him stay outside as the weather continued to get colder and resolved to catch him and get him into a rescue centre. He was now eating from our back steps on a daily basis so we started leaving the back door open to see if he would come in of his own accord. Sure enough he started creeping a few feet into the house but inevitably he would run as soon as either of us appeared in the kitchen.
One evening, remembering my training reading Famous Five books as a child, I locked our three cats away, put food out as bait, tied a piece of string around the door handle and hid behind the kitchen island. Minutes passed and slowly he crept into the kitchen smelling the food and feeling the warmth. I held my breath as he inched towards the bowl as wary and nervous as ever. Deciding this was as good as it was going to get I yanked the string and the door slammed shut, trapping him by a matter of inches. He turned panicking, looked at me and then bolted into the house. We found him hiding under our bed where he had stuffed himself into a shoebox. He didn’t come out for several hours and as soon as he saw me went straight back under again.
We flyered the whole area and posted photos of him on social media to try and find if he had an owner and was simply lost. We also took him to see our local vet who confirmed he was an unneutered tom cat, roughly 3-7 years old, who didn’t have a microchip and was in need of a good feed, flea treatment and a ton of booster shots.
Of course him moving in was only temporary: We would look after him until a furrever home could be found we said, three cats was more than enough and we didn’t need a fourth. All bollocks of course, from the moment he moved in he was never going anywhere else.
It wasn’t easy. He would get spooked by something, plastic bags or men’s voices were the usual culprits, and stay out at night sleeping back in his falling down shelter in the garden. The number of times I have crawled on my hands and knees through bits of dead pigeon and cat piss to bring him in to the warm house at all hours of the night are simply too many to count. Bloody cat I’d grumble as I rubbed my knees and tried to wash the grime and smell off my hands. Moments later he’d be snuggled up as my wife’s little spoon purring like mad and, as my heart thawed, I knew it was worth it.
After we “decided” to keep him we got him snipped to hopefully prevent him fighting and at the very least prevent any more litters of kittens appearing in the local area. This was only partially successful as he was too used to being a tough little scrapper. The number of times that we had to clean him up after one of his many territorial battles was ludicrous. But he was so trusting, he literally knew we were helping him so he’d sit patiently on the towel as we cleaned cuts, bites and abscesses with salt water and cotton buds patching him up to go straight back out and do the same thing all over again.
I remember returning home to be approached quietly by an unsteady Achilles who was covered in blood from several bite wounds and numerous scratches. In his wounded state he had immediately come home and waited on the bed for Buffy and I to get home. This was a little beyond our abilities to help so we took him in to see the vet who also noted that he had lost two of his canine teeth. We can only assume he left them buried in some other unlucky tom cat.
Achilles mellowed dramatically in the last few years of his life. He would allow a select group of others, Alex, mum, the Kidds and even Marion to stroke him and would even sit or snuggle next to some of them. It was wonderful to see such a scared ball of fur finally comfortable in his own home and able to trust humans again. Had our wary scrapper finally succumbed to being a house cat?
He bonded closely with Ares, a fifth cat we had taken in during 2020. Like a doting elder relative he would allow him to snuggle against him and would often patiently clean the youngster before giving him a little nip to remind him who the boss was.
When Buffy had a sub-arachnoid haemorrhage in January this year and spent almost three weeks in St George’s ICU recovering from a near death experience he wouldn’t leave my side whenever I was home. Every single night he would curl up with me on the bed chirruping, giving head bumps and purring to make both of us feel a little better. When Buffy got home Achilles wouldn’t leave her side. He slept next to her on the bed or sofa and followed her around the house wherever she went. If he couldn’t see her he would call for her until he got a response. I think it is fair to say he had missed her and was delighted she was home.
Whilst we were worrying about Buffy and her recovery we didn’t really notice that his already stiff wobbly back legs were getting worse no matter how often the vets gave him an injection. The truth is that Achilles was an old boy now; at least 15 and probably more like 17 or 18. He had also not had an easy life: we are sure his back legs had been damaged by a car or a kick before we took him in and that combined with his age meant that he was in his twilight years. He was sleeping a lot more: more often than not on the heated blanket on Buffy’s legs as she dozed recovering. I honestly believe that he lived longer because he would not be parted from Buffy. As Buffy recovered unbeknownst to us he was fading. Buffy, in tears later, remarked that it felt like he had given her the last of his nine lives. This in other circumstances would sound fanciful and far fetched but I am not so sure it isn’t true. Certainly if that were possible there is no doubt in my mind that he would have done so.
At around 2200 on Thursday 18th April our boy became very suddenly distressed and although we rushed him to the 24hr emergency vets in Caterham there was nothing they could do. Our boy fought until the end. Hissing and yowling at his unseen attacker even as we stroked him and told him how much we loved him. He knew, he always had.
Heart broken we drove home with an empty cat carrier and a silent car.
Achilles was the product of an awful start in life and of patient kindness and love that allowed him to learn to trust humans again. I think he was a child of nurture more than of nature. He was deeply soulful and shared a connection with Buffy that I have not seen before: She referred to him as her Daemon and I think that is exactly what he was.
He was vocal. He was loyal. He was loving. He was brave. He was playful. He was protective. He was unique. He was, he was, he was.
He was our boy.
We miss him every day.
Deano's World 