Smiler's Funeral

 

In 1976 a cat walked into our basement flat in Hackney, ate all the food we gave her and proceeded to give birth in the wardrobe.  Pussy, as we creatively named her became our lifelong family pet and, when the kittens started to develop personalities, Smiler was the one who had to stay too.  Once we saw this photo, there was no question about his name.

Pussy and Smiler moved up to Manchester with us and oversaw the addition of two boys and a dog to the family.  Pussy eventually died, leaving Smiler to plough on into old age when I think he found life a bit too hectic in our house.  In his later years he spent a lot of time with two very old ladies, Gladys and May, who lived a few doors down and had devoted their lives to cats.

I hadn’t seen Smiler for a few days and, when I found him, he was obviously very unwell.  I’d already been warned by the vet that his kidneys were starting to fail.  It looked like Smiler had reached the end.

I went round to Gladys and May’s to let them know the worst.

‘I’m taking Smiler to the vet.  I’m afraid it doesn’t look good for him.’

‘Oh dear, that’s terrible.  You will bring him back, won’t you.’

‘No.  That’s what I mean.  I’m sorry but this time he won’t be coming back.’

This conversation continued at cross-purposes until I realised they meant, ‘bring the body back.’

‘But he must come home.  You can bury him in our garden with all the other cats we’ve loved.’   (Years later, a keen gardener who had moved into Gladys and May’s house said that he was always digging up cat skulls in the border.)

My heart sank when I realised that this wasn’t going to be straightforward.  I promised that I would return with Smiler.

The vet’s assistant gave me a cardboard box containing the body.

I was quite upset by this so, leaving the box at home, I went across the road to my friend Liz to seek some comfort and assistance.  Being very practical she suggested we went round to dig a grave, then get the cat and bury him.  We each got our spade and rang Gladys and May’s bell.   May answered the door and looked at us as if we were armed with pitchforks and revolutionary fervour.  The colour drained from her face as she turned and querulously called,

‘Gladys, they’ve come with spades!’

‘Sorry, we didn’t mean to shock you but you did say I should bury him in your garden.’

‘But he won’t be stiff or even cold.  You can’t bury him yet.’

‘Let him stay with us,’ said May, ’We’ll sit with him a bit.’

I agreed to bring Smiler round to them for an hour and we withdrew to make a plan.  Liz thoughtfully offered to find something to wrap around the body so it wouldn’t seem so stark if they looked in the box.  I went a bit weak at this point. Smiler had, after all, been our family pet for many years and I was also very squeamish. Much to my eternal gratitude Liz offered to do the undertaker stuff herself and took him off to her house. We then delivered the suitably shrouded cat.

 

It just didn’t seem right to start digging in their garden while Smiler was lying in state.  We decided to bury him in my front garden.  May and Gladys would still be able to see his grave when they walked past and, unlike in my back garden, it wouldn’t be subject to the unwanted attention of my constantly digging terrier. I bought an upmarket bottle of sherry which I felt was traditional funeral refreshment for the elderly and found a few photos of Smiler which I arranged in a small gilded frame.  (That explains the dearth of Smiler photographs in this story)  Liz and I dug a hole, big enough for the box and deep enough to deter foxes.  It was time.

Smiler expressing his love of music

Although distressed that we had arrived, the ladies were cheered by the gift of the photos and said that, as the body was now stiff, it could be buried.  

May showed us Smiler’s box, placed on a chair next to the piano where she had been playing Schubert for him.  Apparently he had always particularly enjoyed ‘Traumerei’.

The four of us processed solemnly from no. 16 to no. 24 where the congregation awaited.  This consisted of my two sons, aged seven and eleven who had been heavily drilled in funereal behaviour.  Smiler went into the hole, we filled it and topped it with a large piece of York stone.  I gave a short talk on what a delightful animal Smiler had been followed by the ‘better place’ sort of platitudes.

 

Gladys gazed up at the sky,

‘I hope he’s happy up there, looking down on us.  I worry now though, they’re sending all those rockets and spacemen up there.  It’s not right.’

Luckily this didn’t necessitate a reply as, at that minute, the ice cream van, knowing the exact location where each of the few children in our road lived, parked immediately next to us, loudly dinging its merry tune.  My kids, having maintained serious expressions up to now, broke out into screeches of, ‘Can we have an ice lolly?  Please? Please?’ and the funeral was over.

The ladies politely declined my offer of refreshments and made their way home.  The boys enjoyed their lollies and Liz and I tucked into the sherry. 

The funeral venue.  The flat stone on Smiler's grave 

can be seen on the left of the new path, under the hedge.