Our cat, Lexy (or, formally, “Lexy M. Catskill”) is a 23-pound mound of fatty fur. He will turn 16, all things being equal, in February. He sits around all day seeking warmth, food and a kitty-littered place (thank God) to excrete. That’s all he does. He’s a part of the furniture. No, wait, with his size, he is the furniture.
He was never what you would call a lap-cat. In fact, he’s the anti-lap-cat. He’s more like an attack-cat. He tolerates a bit of scritching on the head, but if anyone pats him below the shoulder-blades, watch out.
At his age, he’s noticeably winding down. He barely even bothers to bite us any more. When he swipes at Annabel, it’s hardly with the vigour he showed as a young feline on the prowl. It’s only a matter of time when the big beast goes to a better place, although, I can’t imagine what would be a better place than what he has here.
Even with his foibles, we will miss him when the time comes to say goodbye. He has an impressively thick, orangey coat. You might now know where this is going.
Would it be wrong to use his fur for a sporran? It’s a shame to waste such a thing, and, it seems to me, that wearing him as part of a resplendent Highland ensemble would be a great way by which to remember him. Re-use and recycle, after all.
Come to think of it, he’s large enough to make one of those antediluvian bass-drummer aprons from. You know, when the big guy in the middle used to don a bear- or leopard-skin back when such things were available and not abhorrent to sane people.
Has anyone ever heard of a kilt-wearer memorializing his or her past-pet in such a way?