Things I’ll miss about Nigel
Posted on
It would be impossible to list everything about Nigel that I'm going to miss now he has passed. To provide an exhaustive list would be to write a biography of his life from the moment he was first handed to me as a kitten, leaving nothing out. There are things I simply can't recall on command while I'm writing that will hit me at random points, often when I'm least expecting it. With his passing still so recent, many of those things hit hard when they come. For now, the new normal is to look at the world through a kaleidoscope of tears.
There are, however, still some smiles to be had. Nigel always made me smile. His seemingly endless abundance of affection and naturally playful demeanour meant there was always something to smile about. He may be gone now, but however hard some recollections may be, there are others that still bring me cheer.
The morning routine
We fed the cats three times a day: breakfast, teatime and last thing at night. My partner almost always takes the former, while I almost always take the latter. The middle one goes to whoever finishes work soonest.
On weekdays, the alarm goes off at 6am. On weekends, when it didn't go off at all, Nigel would ensure his presence was known a little while after that. While he didn't always start the night on the bed, we'd usually wake up to find him there. Quite often he'd be lying next to me. If not curled in a ball under my chin, he'd be stretched out with his back running against my chest and stomach. I always sleep on my side—never my back or front. Whichever side I was lying on, he'd be in front of me in the same position. If I turned over in the night so we were back to back, he'd get up, climb over me and resume the position the other way. Whichever side I was on, I could sleep with my arm draped over him, or my hand resting gently on his shoulder. I loved him being there. Even in my sleepiest state, I'd usually find the ability to flex my fingers a few time to fuss him before I fell back to sleep. It always produced the sweetest of purrs, a gentle rumble that helped us both to doze off again.
Once we were up, he'd be super-keen to get fed. He knew the routine as well as us. The sooner I'd stumble into the bathroom, the sooner my partner would take him downstairs. As such, he'd nudge or lead us each on our respective paths, hurrying us along so he could get his breakfast.
By the time I got downstairs, he'd be done. There were two places he'd be: in the utility room, waiting for me to empty the litter tray (he always liked a clean bowl!), or in the living room, curled up in my usual spot on the sofa. If it was the former, it would very shortly afterwards become the latter—just as soon as I'd done my thing so that he could do his.
We had a thing we did. I have a routine that keeps me in the kitchen for a while first thing and, knowing that it doesn't really involve him (and given that his belly is now full), he took the opportunity to wait for me in the living room. It was one of the rare occasions during the day where we weren't in the same room for any length of time, both content that routine alone would see us together again soon afterwards. Sometimes, however, I couldn't wait to see him again. Whether while seeing my partner off when she left for work or just because I had an urge to see him (which may sound like a post-passing embellishment, but trust me, it happened more than you'd believe), I'd creep along the hallway to steal a glance. Rather than simply go into the room, I'd stand out of sight in the doorway and slowly peer around. He was rarely fully sleep. Even dosing, he knew I was there. His eyes would open just a crack and he'd whisper the softest chirrup of excitement; not quite a full meow, sometimes just a squeak, but a sound that went right to my heart.
I can still remember the last time we did it. It made me so happy I danced in the hallway. I didn't realise then that it wouldn't happen again. While writing this, I stupidly leaned around the doorway the way I used to and saw only an empty sofa. It broke my heart all over again.
Breakfast
Most days—especially weekends—I have breakfast much later after I wake up. My morning routine involves time for exercise; most notably a certain amount of walking, even if it's just around the kitchen table. We're lucky enough to have quite a large kitchen so I can cover a reasonable distance. I do it while I check social media or read a book, reasoning that it's slightly healthier than doing those things while just being sat still. When I'm done, I'll make my breakfast (cereal, usually supermarket brand 'wheat biscuits') and take it through to the living room.
Nigel would almost always be curled up in my spot on the sofa. Depending on how tired he was, one of two things would happen: either he'd jump down for me, then settle back in the same position on my lap or on the arm of the sofa, or he'd chirrup affectionately at me and stay where he was. I'd never move him. If he was there first, it was his spot. If there was room, I'd sit next to him. If not, I'd sit on the opposite sofa. In the past, I've even sat on the floor to avoid disturbing him. There is a lot you'll learn about my affection for animals—and especially around those I'm privileged enough to share my home with—and very little I wouldn't do to ensure their continued happiness.
I usually let my breakfast settle a little before I eat it. I take the time to do other things: look at my phone again, continue reading a book, start work if, since lockdown, it was a workday, or sometimes simply spend time with Nigel. I always make time for the cats. They live very different lives and have very different ways of spending their time, but I know them both well enough to know where they'll be so I can spend time with them, and they always know to expect it. Spending time with Nigel during breakfast varied depending on how awake he was, but either involved resting my hand on his shoulders and gently stroking my thumb back and forth while he purred himself back to sleep, or a full on face-smashing session where he'd affectionately grind his face and head against my hand to get 'the good stuff'.
After a while, I'd pick up my cereal to eat. He'd always be awake for that bit, even if he stayed curled up with his eyes closed. I could see his ears pivoting to follow the course of the spoon and occasionally his eyelids would part just a sliver to check on my progress. Milk can be problematic for cats, so I was always careful not to leave more than the tiniest drip in the bottom of the bowl, but there would at least be something he could taste. That aside, I'd scrape the bowl clean of wheat debris to ensure he could get straight to the bit he was interested in. With all the little bits, that scraping process usually took longer than it did for me to eat the rest of the cereal, but I did it every single morning especially for him. He knew it too. It was during that scraping that he roused fully, sitting up next to me and waiting patiently for me to finish, knowing what was coming. I'd offer him the bowl, tilted so that tiny drop was in the same spot every morning, and he'd lap it up gratefully in just a few licks, smacking his lips for several seconds afterwards while he cleaned them with his tongue.
The morning after he passed, I followed the same routine, and the morning after that. The last drop remained where I left it. It was completely unconscious. It's so much of a habit that I've yet to be able to break it. For now, the only thing that feels broken is me. Breakfast time is so hard now, it's a wonder I manage to eat it. Today, I sat alone on the sofa and cried my eyes out for the best part of half an hour. I know it'll get easier in time, but for now I wish I didn't need to eat breakfast at all. I miss him.
Tail hugs
This anecdote is much shorter. It didn't have a specific time of day. It could happen at any time.
Sometimes I'd be standing up in a room in the house, or occasionally in the garden, and Nigel would trot excitedly over to me. Occasionally, I'm sure, it was because he was checking if there had been any adjustment to the feeding routine that might reward his efforts. Usually, it was just to say hi. Other times, the situation would be reversed. I'd trot over to him, not because I thought he'd feed me, but just because he was there.
We'd greet each other in much the same way every time. If he'd snuck up on me, or if I was doing something that meant my hands weren't immediately free, he'd start by head butting my legs. Otherwise, I'd lean down to stroke him as one approached the other and my hand would cup over one side of his face while he closed his eyes and pushed into it before sweeping around so I could get the other side. I didn't need to move my hand with Nigel. He was so enthusiastic that I could just leave it in one place and he'd move his head around until I'd scratched it all over. And, when we were done, he'd hug me.
I'm sure he's not the only cat to do it. Steve, my other cat, has occasionally tried a vague approximation of it, though not quite as completely. Nigel would fully wrap his tail around whatever limb presented itself. If it was my leg, I'd get one full wrap of black and brown stripes halfway up my shin. If it was my arm, it would be one and a half. And he'd squeeze. It wasn't tight—I don't think cat tails are capable of that—but there would be pressure there. As if this was a gesture that was intended. It was never brief, never short enough to be an accident of dexterity. It was deliberate, and he'd pause long enough to prove it.
I was reminded of this on the way to the bathroom this morning. I always made time to greet both cats. Now there is just Steve—to be clear, no less wonderful than Nigel in his own way, and I'll be similarly broken when he eventually passes too, but he's certainly a very different cat. This morning, I greeted Steve with a customary face rub. As I finished, he stood and sent his tail up along my arm. It wasn't a full wrap. It never is with Steve, and chances are my full-wrap days are over forever now. But it was a lovely gesture, and it reminded me of all those special moments I had with Nigel.
Sandwiches
In many ways, Nigel was a lot like any other cat. He was a lot more affectionate and certainly kinder and more personable than any other I've met, but he could revert to type given the right stimulus.
This one will be familiar to anyone who has ever owned a cat, and possibly anyone who has ever owned a dog too.
Nigel knew sandwiches. He knew the rustle of the bread wrapper, the thud of the margarine tub being placed on the counter, and the pop and clatter of its lid being opened and set aside. What went into the sandwich always needed investigating.
For the most part, both cats have always been well-behaved at food time. During the day, they sometimes get onto the worktops so they can look out of the window. We live at the end of a cul de sac, on the very edge of a new build estate, where modern urban living gives way to beautiful countryside. We arguably got one of the best houses on the estate in that sense, and it was the view that sold it to me. While to one side, you can just see houses much like any other new build estate, to the other, you can see mostly green. As a nature-lover, I spend hours looking outside, and I am, or was, rarely alone. Nigel in particular was as keen to look out as I was and spent as much time or more sitting on the kitchen windowsill and gazing into the woods next to the house, often chirruping and bleating at the vast array of birds that flew past (then quickly running away if they came in close because he was all talk).
Food time was different. We had rules, and as much as it's possible for cats to care, they obeyed them in the hope that doing so might earn rewards. We rarely gave the cats treats, but it was clearly often enough that they thought it was worth the effort.
Even if he wasn't in the room at the time, the sound of the margarine tub lid opening was enough to summon him. You almost never heard him approach. The usual click of his claws on the vinyl seemed to disappear when we made sandwiches. Maybe that was deliberate. The first sign would be a presence. It would either be just behind and slightly to your right, or at your left hand side. He wouldn't make a sound. He'd just stare up at the worktop and wait. Sometimes, if he thought it might improve his chances, he'd move to my left (if he wasn't there already) and put his front paws on the units. In case you didn't already know he was there, it was unavoidable then. The fact he was so close meant he couldn't resist rubbing his face against my thigh. Typical cat behaviour aside, he was still Nigel and couldn't resist a show of affection. Usually I was strong enough to resist this cuteness, but at the very least I'd stop what I was doing and lower my hand to him. He'd accept the fuss as gratefully as any treat, even if he still wouldn't take his eyes off the prize.
Steve is more subtle. He waits on the corner of the table behind me, letting Nigel do most of the legwork. If one got a treat, they both did, so it was in his interests too to let Nigel do his thing. I'm waxing lyrical about Nigel at the moment because he was my best friend and I miss him terribly, but it would be wrong to suggest I love Steve any less. But life, and sandwiches, won't be the same without Nigel. Today, Steve watched alone from the table. There was nobody there to do the work for him. He still got a treat.
Chicken
It's fair to say I eat a lot of chicken. I apologise to any vegetarians reading this. I admire and even envy your dietary choices, but my palette is so fussy that my meal options are incredibly limited. I try and eat as well as I can from the few things that don't make me balk or feel unwell later. This is one of those things. You can skip this one if you like.
As with sandwiches, Nigel had a routine here too, though it was one that extends well beyond preparation.
The chicken I have most often is the pre-cooked kind that comes in a tub from Tesco. A pack of four chicken breasts is enough for two meals and on average I have it at least twice a week, if not more. Nigel knew the sound of the tub: from the noise it made on the shelf in the refrigerator to its placement on the worktop and the tearing of the film. Again, on the rare occasions he wasn't in the room, these are the sounds that would summon him.
As with sandwich-making, he occupied either of the same two spots and offered the same mannerisms. But with chicken, there was a slight difference: he was always hoping I was on the second portion. The second portion means an empty tub, and unlike treats from any other meal, he always got the tub. More often than not, it was completely empty, but for a tiny amount of residue in the bottom. Occasionally, a tiny piece will have come loose, and he'd home in on that as soon as he noticed it as a perk of the job. Either way, the next few minutes would be soundtracked by the rasping of his tongue on the plastic while he polished it to a perfect sheen.
Once it was ready, I'd take my meal into the living room. Even if it wasn't chicken, Nigel would lead the way, looking back over his shoulder to ensure I was following. Once I sat down on the sofa, he had a choice of places where he'd sit to watch me eat. Sometimes, he'd cheekily come over to inspect the plate. Unlike Steve, who stops at a sniff, Nigel would full-on lean in and try to take something. And he was so fluid with it. In the same movement as he'd lean in to sniff, he could have his teeth around a slice of bread and be gone with it as he withdrew. Once he made off with a whole piece of steak. If you were on your guard, however, he'd retreat to a safe distance to wait.
Since I eat the same meal so often, I've unconsciously developed a kind of routine to how I eat it. This routine wasn't unnoticed by Nigel, who had very consciously developed his own to work alongside it. I usually have two slices of bread with my meal. On the assumption Nigel hasn't stolen one (he only succeeded a few times, but he tried every time), I tend to have one halfway through the meal and the other at the end. When I lifted the first one, Nigel would creep closer. Whether he was on the opposite sofa, or on the floor in front of the DVD shelves, he'd move forward either to the floor in front of me, or onto the coffee table. His final approach would happen on cue the moment I picked up the second one. If he was on the floor, he'd jump up onto the sofa next to me. If he was on the coffee table, on which I have a bad habit of putting my feet (albeit on a coaster), he would walk the length of my legs. He would then proceed to clean my plate the same way he did the tub.
On the subject of the tub, it always went into the recycling when he was done (and not until). We have dedicated recycling bins in the utility room for the different kinds of waste, but some of them fill up fast. As such, there's an open-topped 'anything goes' tub to hold the overflow until we're ready to take it outside and sort it into the various containers Warwick District Council provide for its collection. On the occasions the chicken tub found its way into the open-topped recycling tub, you could guarantee that, at some point in the next twenty-four hours, it would be revisited. Sometimes he'd make a rare departure from my side to seek it out. Other times he'd wait until I went into the kitchen and take the opportunity to investigate while I was still nearby. Either way, you would always hear the clatter while he climbed into the recycling tub, moved any other items out of the way, then very thoroughly checked for even the vaguest hint of anything he might have missed the first time.
He had similar routines for every meal, but chicken seemed to be his favourite—perhaps for its frequency, perhaps for the tub, or perhaps just because I'm imagining it: in truth, he would have helped himself to almost any meal if he could. He'd do similar things with my partner too. She normally eats with her plate, or whatever she is eating from, on the arm of the sofa. Pretty much every time I'd see his little face pop up over the arm to see if she was done yet, and when she was, he'd jump up there to clean up the scraps. Conscious of keeping him healthy, we were both careful to make sure there was never anything left (okay, fine, usually never anything left), but just the routine of scouring away the last of the flavours was enough to satisfy him, and he always walked away exaggeratedly licking his face clean.
At the time of writing, it's been two days, and already meal times are amongst the most difficult times of day.
The bringing of the straws
When we first got Steve, we bought an array of cat toys with which to keep him amused. Some were ignored. Others were a hit. Among his favourites were some 'mice' made of coarse string wrapped around a rattle and a weird octopus-like thing on a length of elastic that dangled from a stick. With the former, he played an enthusiastic game of fetch. With the latter, he'd run laps of the coffee table until exhaustion kicked in.
When Nigel came along a couple of years later, Steve's interest in toys started to wane. He still shows the occasional interest even now, but his play time is definitely much-reduced since he's become an adult. Nigel, however, was a blur of energy—initially in short frantic bursts that ended when he fell asleep on the spot mid-stride until he was old enough to stay awake longer. Sadly, this manic energy quickly saw the end of Steve's favourite octopus toy; an act I'm certain he never forgave Nigel for.
With a new cat, came new toys. Among them were a selection of colourful straws made of woven plastic thread. We'd had some before Nigel came along, but, while interested, Steve seemed to much prefer his string-mice. Nigel, however, loved the straws. Come to think of it, he loved anything vaguely tubular: pens, pencils, paint brushes. I lost count of the number of times I heard my partner yell his name from upstairs while she was getting ready for work, only for him to trot through the living room moments later with a makeup brush in his mouth. The straws, however, were among his favourites.
The main benefit of the straws was that the way they were woven meant that you could compress them until they were short, then release them and have them fly across the room. For a cat like Nigel, this is one of the best things any object can do. The second it left your hand, he'd bound after it, trying to catch it before it landed, then pouncing on it when he failed. He wasn't quite as good as Steve at bringing things back, but he would sometimes manage to do so eventually, having first given it a tour of the ground floor in his mouth.
The best part was that they'd just keep appearing. Some of them you wouldn't see for weeks or months, then one day it would get delivered right to your feet. Other days I'd find one waiting for me outside the door when I came out of the bathroom, occasionally without a cat in sight. Sometimes I'd be in the kitchen making dinner when I'd hear a commotion under the table, only to have a previously lost straw skitter out from under one of the chairs to stop at my feet. Whenever and however one appeared, I knew there was a game afoot.
One of Nigel's favourite activities was to try and get a straw from somewhere he wouldn't ordinarily be able to reach. He loved a challenge. Sometimes I'd balance them on door handles or worktops, the backs of chairs or between the spindles of a balustrade in the hallway. On the rare occasions I was occupied, however, he'd make his own challenge. Several times, I saw him carry a straw to a box in his mouth, then drop it in before trying to get it out again. He'd frequently flick one under the sofa or a low-bottomed table or side unit only to then have to scrabble about on the floor to get it back out. Sometimes he could. When he did, he put it straight back under, but a little further back, and tried again. If he couldn't do it, he'd come and get me and I'd usually have to fetch it out with a stick. I'm convinced he did that on purpose just so I'd play with him. It worked.
There were other toys he liked too. There was a 'feathery thing on a stick' (like the octopus, but with feathers instead of weird dangly tentacles). This was kept in a drawer next to my seat on the sofa. Often when he came to see me, he'd paw at the drawer it was in (always the right drawer—never one of the others) in the hope I'd get it out and play with him. When I did, we'd have about a minute of frantic pouncing and athletic jumping, then he'd lay down exhausted and wouldn't bother again. He'd still look disappointed when I put it away—perhaps assuming I'd just swing it around idly so he could watch it instead. Sometimes I did. There were also laser pointers in another drawer. It was the same deal with those. In fact, I couldn't open either drawer without summoning him into the room (if he wasn't there already). He knew the sound each drawer made—and again, specifically those drawers—and always ran to the right one, even if I'd already closed it before he arrived. He was always hopeful that I'd indulge him. Again, sometimes I did.
There are still straws dotted around the house. Steve occasionally shows a passing interest, but I doubt most of them will be played with again. There's one in particular that I've been trying to find. He had a couple of favourites: a green one that looks like (and may even be) the first one he ever played with, and a dark purple one he had been playing with a fair bit in the last couple of months. The latter has been disappearing and reappearing for the last year. I last saw him playing with it about a month ago under the kitchen table. It's actually in the picture of him at the end of my last blog—taken at the end of June, which could well have been the last time I saw it. In a fit of grief-fuelled panic, I damn near tore the downstairs rooms apart this morning to try and find it before I managed to pull myself together. I didn't manage to. If I could, I'd like to keep it somewhere safe in his memory, though by the looks of it, he's already hidden it really well, perhaps in anticipation of another joint retrieval. It shouldn't bother me, but I wish I knew where he'd put it. I know the sadness will pass, but for now I'm clinging desperately for any keepsake I can find. In life, anything that was important to him was important to me. That's even more true now.
And many more
There are so many more things about Nigel that I'm going to miss. The above are just a handful that I wanted to get down. Today has been difficult. It's the first weekday where I'm home alone—just me and Steve—and it's been so incredibly hard. While I was preemptively aware of how much of my day in some way included him, there are still so many unconscious processes that seem to falter in Nigel's absence. Writing has always been therapeutic for me. Thinking about Nigel these last few days has made me cry more often than not. The time I've spent writing about him is about the only time I've been able to hold it together. If you're reading this, it's because I posted it to my blog, but I don't intend to share links on social media the way I would with anything else. This is just to help me process things. It's to try and find a way to capture these memories while they're still fresh and raw so that I need never worry about forgetting them. If I can get them down in writing, and especially if I can do so before I have to face the routine of some of them for the first time without him, my hope is that it will help me heal.
There are more memories I could share; more things I'll miss, some of which haven't even registered yet. If I need to write those down too later, I will. For now I'll leave this here. Nigel was such an important part of my life for the seven years he was with us. My routines were, in many ways, his routines, and vice versa. Untangling the two so that I can move on with my life is going take time.
Eventually, I will, knowing that to do so in no way dishonours his memory or takes away from his place in my life. It hurts so much that he was torn away so suddenly, and while still so young. I know that feeling that pain only reinforces the fact that I loved him so much. I miss every single thing about him. I always will.