“Can I get my own cat,” asked Domino.
“No,” I said.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because we already have two cats, Batman and Gloria”
“Can I get a cat when Batman dies?”
“Domino!” I said shocked.
Batman, although a fairly unpredictable grumpy sod had been with us for years, he was a part of our story. Well, clearly not Domino’s.
David and I had found him as a tiny kitten, about fifteen years ago, we can’t really remember the exact year. He was black with a tiny attempt of white. Felix, our first born, also quite an unpredictable grumpy sod, was about 3 years old and named him Batman.
Recently Batman had slowed down. He lost a little weight and only rarely did he torture the lizards. He lay on the warm flag stones in our courtyard in the daytime and would still sleep at the foot of our bed at night. Much to Banger’s disgust.
Returning home from another trip, David turned his phone on as we touched down. He read a message and handed it over to me. Top Banana had written to say Batman was dead. Shocked, as it had seemed so unexpected, I sobbed too loudly. Domino beside me asked what had happened. I am relieved to say she too burst into tears.
Batman was buried alongside the others. And another chapter of our island life closed. The complexities of death seem to give life its uniquely rich texture.