Hopeless

As a family, we had our first pet when I was around ten, I think. He was a goldfish called Golem that we inherited from a friend who was, I guess, returning to England. Perhaps the quarantine requirements around goldfish were too stringent but for whatever reason, Golem came to live with us. Later, my mum revealed to us that he had once had a tank-mate, whom he had eaten. Looking back on it, this seems unlikely to me but it might be another reason why his former owners chose to abandon him.

That was it for me and pets for a few years until my girlfriend acquired a hamster called Smartie. Somehow, I ended up with the hamster, though, and I can't imagine why. I can't say we had much of a relationship (me and the hamster, that is); I would clean his cage once the smell became too overpowering and I would let him out to run most days while I listened to music, always keeping back a little bit of food to make it easier to capture him when it was time for him to go to bed.

It would be untrue to say that I was grief stricken when he shuffled off to the big running wheel in the sky - I had moved on to university by then - so my failure to acquire a new pet was down to indifference not anxiety, and I remained happily pet free until I married and we decided to get a pair of kittens. I bought them in Lytham St Annes, where I was working at the time, and only a few minutes into the journey home they escaped from their cardboard box. By then, though, I was on the M55 and unable to do anything except carry on driving whilst feeling slightly nervous that at any minute a small set of teeth or claws would grab my neck. 

When we moved, the kittens, Big Business and Hedge, stayed in the flat with our new tenants who happened to be friends of ours and also of the cats. Perhaps eighteen months later, though, my wife bought be a kitten for my birthday. I christened him Hopeful but almost immediately he was known as Hopeless. I always wondered what people thought when I called for him at night: perhaps that I was giving vent to some existential angst.

Hopeless was a fine cat, though, and probably the only pet I have ever truly loved. He was surly and prone to half-heartedly swiping at toddlers when they ambled innocently past him as he snoozed. In the spring and summer months, he dined mostly on rabbits which he would go out and kill, and he was also a keen ratter. He once bought home a queen rat he had killed, which is quite an accomplishment. 

Inadvisedly, we bought the girls a hamster during Hopeless's reign and - omitting the gory details - this led to a funeral in the back garden. Izzy, who was, I guess, around three years old, decided to say a prayer in which she asked God to ensure that the hamster remained dead, while we all cried silent tears of mirth.

The last time I saw Hopeless was after we divorced and I was driving along a lane to pick up the girls for the weekend. He was strolling insouciantly along, no doubt keeping a watchful eye out for any murderous opportunity that might present itself. I stopped and called him, and he came over and allowed me to pet him for a while before he went back on his way. I still miss him.

The cat in today's photo is called Flea, who joined our family along with her brother, Tux, about ten years ago. They are my little housemates, with whom I chat when no one is around and who join me on the sofa during the day (Tux) or on my bed at night (Flea). I can't say I really love them, although I am fond of them. It seems there was only ever room in my heart for Hopeless.