Deep into Covid, my best friends convinced me it would improve my life immeasurably to adopt a cat. A few days later, a feline mugshot jumped out at me from the rescue website. A childhood love of Postman Pat had started a family tradition of black-and-white cats, and Oscar fitted the bill with his tuxedo markings. His tomcat cheeks, ear with a chunk missing and neck resembling an Elizabethan ruff sealed the deal.
After he arrived on the doorstep I followed the instructions to the letter. I kept him in one room to give him time to acclimatise, and didn’t crowd or fuss him. That lasted 30 seconds before he bellowed at the door to be released, then flopped down insouciantly on the landing. Twenty minutes later he wouldn’t budge from my lap. Neurotic, Osci was not. He was a beta-blocker in cat form – a quality that would soon become invaluable.
A month after I adopted Osci, my best friend died. It was sudden and unexplained. After getting the call, I staggered to a friend’s house and sat in her garden to observe social distancing. Back home, Osci was waiting. I scooped him up and sobbed into his ruff. He didn’t leave my side in the coming weeks. As I lay unmoving on the sofa, he would sleep on my chest with a paw resting on my face. His purr was the only thing that calmed my nervous system enough for me to sleep. Six weeks on, the funeral took place, with 20 of us sobbing into our masks.
Two days later, Osci went missing. His despisal of other cats got the better of him one night and he chased an intruder out of the garden, getting lost in the process. When I realised he had gone, it felt like something snapped inside my brain. I pounded the streets, knocked on doors, posted all over social media. I could not fathom how to get through this without my de facto therapy cat.
Thankfully, 36 hours later, I got a call from someone a few streets away who had seen my post. I sobbed into Osci’s ruff once again, this time from sheer relief. He was back at my side – with me when I had neither the energy nor the inclination to be around people, but being alone with my thoughts was equally untenable.
A few days before the anniversary of my friend’s death, on an otherwise mundane Sunday, Osci hopped off the sofa, made a horrible sound and began dragging his back legs. Panicking, I went to the emergency vet, where they told me there were massive blood clots blocking both femoral arteries. Apparently this is common in moggies. The only thing to do was to let him go. I’d had him for a year. He was seven.
Losing him felt like such a cruel twist of the knife. Looking back, though, I can see how incredible it was that he came into my life at the exact moment I needed him. He had the most wonderful final year, and he will always be my chunky, bellowing guardian angel.
