Magnus
I was 7 when my family aquired its first cat. Jet black, with big, bright yellow eyes, name of Magnus. After Magnus Magnusson. Because he was so intelligent.

And he was a character. Only a few months old when we got him, but full of personality. The friendliest, softest cat you've ever met. Would greet you at the bottom of the stairs every morning - he knew he wasn't allowed upstairs, you see.

The biggest surprise was how my Dad took to him. My Dad has never been a cat person - I seem to remember he had to be pleaded with just to get a cat in the first place. But Magnus soon changed all that. It wasn't long before my Dad's nightly ritual involved sitting in front of the TV, alone, Magnus curled up fast asleep on his lap. He loved that little guy - they had a relationship that was all their own.

One day I came home from school. Magnus wasn't there. No-one had seen him since that morning. Unusual, but no real cause for alarm.

Until the knock on the door. We were sat around the table eating dinner (I remember this as if it happened last week). It was a neighbour at the door . . . she had "found something. Probably best not to talk in front of the children. I'm very sorry, but . . .", and there he was. Magnus. In a little cardboard box, eyes closed and still - oh so very still.

I was inconsolable. My brother, being a few years younger didn't really understand what was going on, but I did. It turns out that the neighbour had found Magnus tangled up in a bush. He was confused, and his legs were broken. He slipped away in front of her. Maybe a car ran over him, maybe he was sleeping under it and it pulled away without him realising. I don't know. But I'd like to think that as he died, alone and confused, he knew he had a family that loved him dearly.

My Dad buried him in the back garden that night. I'll never forget it. My Dad, a man not known for showing his feelings, a man who has never told me he loves me, a man who keeps his emotions bottled up inside him - he wept as he buried his little night-time companion.

I'll never forget how still Magnus was, lying in that box. I'll never forget how his fur was still so soft when I stroked him, and how peaceful he looked. I'll never forget any of that. Taught me a lot, that did. Death comes to us all - it's not pretty, and it hurts, but the hurt fades and the heart heals. But the pain and the loss and, most of all, the image of my Dad, my strong, silent, emotionless Dad, weeping uncontrolably as he placed his little friend into the ground - those things will never leave me.
(MrC. Having the most boring username on b3ta since 2004, Mon 3 Mar 2008, 18:46, 6 replies)

the poor dear
my family cat is buried in my dad's back yard too. The best gift I ever gave him was to have her portrait done by a local artist. When my parents' got divorced, there was no argument over dividing the assets......as long as dad got the portrait of the cat and the house where she was buried.
( flirting with badgers What? It sounded good at the time., Tue 4 Mar 2008, 0:50, closed)

beautifully put
poor Magnus
( zulu eh?, Tue 4 Mar 2008, 9:47, closed)

Yep
I've been there. The little critters manage to get right under your skin and I recall similar feelings when my much missed cat Leonard got run over.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Tue 4 Mar 2008, 10:18, closed)

Ouch
That stings
( DukeEuphoria Comes highly reccomended, Tue 4 Mar 2008, 13:30, closed)

BIG CLICK
Mine was called Mogador.
She was lazy, fat, killed too many birds and left fluff on every surface - I Loved her completely

Loved the last paragraph - big click!
( KISS.ME.WHERE.I.POO Signed the sex offenders register on, Tue 4 Mar 2008, 14:17, closed)

*click*
Made me tear up a little...
( snee held his breath since, Wed 5 Mar 2008, 15:12, closed)