October 7th 2000 – April 5th 2011
Maggie didn’t mew. She squeaked. Like a little mouse.
She never scoffed her food like her brother. She would take a mouthful, turn her head away from her bowl, and nibble delicately.
When she walked, she wiggled.
When she ran, she bounced as if on air cushioned soles.
She was named after my aunt, even though my aunt is not a cat and has no idea that one was named after her.
She could leap onto high surfaces like a prima ballerina. Her grace was astonishing.
If you held your hand over her head, she would stand upright on her back legs and nuzzle your palm with her cheeks and whiskers.
She could hold her own against a brother twice her size.
Her favourite things were walking (illegally) on the kitchen surfaces and sitting (illegally) on the flat top of the oven, especially if it had just been on and was nice and warm and toastie. I asked her not to do this, but she decided to ignore me. As you can see, from the picture above.
She would climb onto your shoulder, grip your collar, and sit there like Long John Silver’s parrot, surveying the world below as you walked her around the room.
She could deliver a crushing look of disdain if the mood took her.
On her first day in her new home, she was straight out of the cat box exploring, whilst her big brother cowered behind her.
When play fighting she didn’t use her claws, just her soft pads.
She would sit by the window on the wireless router because it was warm, and she could see you when you got back from work.
She broke the router.
When she was curious or intrigued by something, her eyes would grow so wide in her tiny little head that SmallCat would call her Saucer Eyes.
She had a number of other names – Maggie, Mags, Madge, Marge, Magaluf, Margils, Margils of Society, Living on the Margils of Society, Little Lady. She answered to them all, obviously – she wouldn’t want to miss out on anything after all.
She liked eating flowers. I told her not to do this, but she decided to ignore me.
She became ill after christmas, and died just as the flowers started to blossom.
She is buried in the back garden, in the brown blanket she is kneading in the picture, which was taken the day before she died.
There are forget-me-nots and catmint where she lies, not that we would ever forget her, but the catmint might come in handy.
She was the gentlest, sweetest natured cat we have ever known.
We miss her.