Sad to relate, this morning I had to have my orange cat Tiger put to sleep. He was a very good cat, with a gentle and equable temperament more than offsetting his gluttony and indolence, and was much loved by all who knew him.
I wrote a sonnet to him about three years ago, which I now reproduce below as my dedication to his memory. RIP Tiger Craven.
Sonnet 133
You, marmalade, by rightness represent
Dutch courage, distillate of ’88,
a Whiggishness, essentially decent;
what though it is your own singular fate
to be, for this phase of samsara, cat.
You should be turning the Kraut centre backs,
not - bravely, I’ll admit - murdering rats
(still anyway sectarian attacks).
Mostly you sleep, or indolently purr,
but rouse yourself betimes to stretch and yowl,
and shed on all soft furnishings your fur
and viscera of mice - gutsack and bowel.
Now, bestially, dream your other life
of Rev’rend Paisley, or of Johann Cruyff.
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