We arrived here in Christchurch in 1997. Within two weeks of arriving, sadly, a childhood friend died in a climbing accident here in the city. He left three cats, all British Blue crosses. I rehomed the two girls, but kept his favourite, Motley. It was their habit that Motley used to sit on his shoulders while he typed as ran an outdoor web site; at his funeral, the picture used was a sketch drawing of the two of them together.
He took a while, but once he discovered the shoulders of my eldest son, and realised that our other cat was kind, he soon settled in. The two cats used to sleep together on a sheepskin, on top of the fridge, and until his premature death, Pickles used to wash Mot's face and ears.
Motley moved from town with us to five acres in late 1999. He relished the delights of country life, but has happily returned to live in town, by the lake, as the senior statesman of the home. He has been semi adopted, albeit as Molly, by the neighbours, who keep a special container of cat biscuits to celebrate his arrival. But despite their attempts, he still seemds to know that the chaotic and busy house we live in is his home and returns regularly.
He is an elegant, friendly cat. Of all of them, he is the one who comes to greet visitors, sit on their laps, weave round their legs, and at night, he likes to sleep on our feet.
His presence is never demanding, or pushy. He seems fine considering he must be about 14 now. A little thinner, even with the extra treats. One thing I am aware of is that his eventual death will leave a gap. Like many quiet, supportive people in our lives, one day we will just realise he is not there anymore and miss his quiet presence that I often feel we take for granted.